improv

Yesterday the idea came up that when you are creating art it is an act of love to create something genuine and true and that it pays off, when improv-ing, to play complete attention to the other person, respond to them, sacrifice yourself and any preconceinved notion or premeditated idea that you have of how to act, move, or respond. Put the other completely before yourself. Anyway, when doing such monotonous tasks as vacuuming up Christmas tree needles, there were many times when I wanted to stop. There were so many needles. And I kept thinking to myself “well I’ve vacuumed enough and that’s probably good enough.” And with the tires; “well I’ve moved enough and organized them relatively well, so that’s good enough.” But good enough is not good enough. It’s not loving. It’s mediocre. And little monotonous tasks like vacuuming up Christmas tree needles or moving tires can teach you a thing or two about yourself. When good enough becomes good enough then it becomes a lifestyle. 

I brushed my hand over the carpet after going over the same spot with the vacuum again and again. There were still needles stuck in the rug, even after I had taken the larger part of the vacuum off the hose and got down on the floor to vacuum with the hose. I could have left them there, but someone else might have stepped on them and felt discomfort. Someone other than me.

My laughter has changed over the years. My voice has changed, too. Not because of puberty or anything, but because of interactions with others that have taught me a thing or two about how volume, pitch, intonations, and other variables that define how your voice sounds affect the way your voiced thoughts and ideas are received by others. I remember when I took acid, the day after I had an “acid laugh.” I’ve had a jolly laugh, a loud laugh, a quite giggle. You see people and listen to people and love people and sometimes you want to imitate what you love. And then eventually, after all of the imitations are gone and you’ve found something that is you, or maybe a culmination of all of the experiments in imitation you’ve done, you’ve got a laugh that’s yours.

The great thing about improv anything is that you're job is to highlight the other other person. Great improv comedy happens when each troupe member someone makes the other troupe members funnier. You are only funny if the people around you laugh. You're only loved if the people around you support you by loving you. 

vacuuming and moving tires

I spend a lot of time alone. How that happened, I'm not quite sure. I won't say that I much prefer it, but most of the time, I much prefer it.

A long, long time ago I spent a great many hours moving a bunch of tires from one side of my house to the other. It was no small task for a number of reasons; First, tires are heavy and there were a lot of them so I had to move them one by one. Second, the path from one side of my house to the other,  to their final destination, which was next to an old in-ground swimming pool that is empty with no water in it, just a big hole where we once put an in-ground trampoline, was laden with obstacles. The route involved traveling between narrow rows of old cars, ducking beneath low-hanging branches, and walking over precariously perched slabs of concrete sidewalk that would sway and tip menacingly to one side when you stepped on them. Thirdly, the tires had to be ordered nicely, stacked on top of one another in rows, which involved hoisting the tires above my head at times. All this moving tires involved ample strategy. So it was a physically demanding task (heavy tires), mentally demanding (lots of obstacles), and spiritually demanding task (monotonous, externally unrewarding). Looking at the tires, I thought that tit would take forever and be a very tiresome, monotnous, boring task. And it’s funny, it started off that way. But hours in, I realized that I loved it. For some reason, I grew to love moving those tires, making the long trip from one side of the porch to the other side of the yard, through cars, under trees, over wobbly sidewalks. Hours in, I wanted to do nothing else but move tires forever. 

Yesterday, I vacuumed up the remaining needles that had fallen off my Christmas tree when we chopped it up and took it outside after the holiday season had passed. There were so many needles. They would stick in my feet when I walked over them so I had to wear shoes when I vacuumed. They were also stuck in the rug. My carpet is  made of little curls of fabric, matted down over the years by feet and furniture, so it is easy for needles to get stuck deep in its curls. There are also two carpets in my living room where the needles fell. One is old and brown. The other is rainbow colored with rectangles that gradually spirial in, getting gradually smaller and smaller until they envelope a single pink line in the middle. Actually, admittedly, I thought that the carpet was made a rectangles that gradually got smaller in diameter, but upon closer inspection, I see that this description is wrong. The carpet is actually made up of lines of varying colors, widths, textures, and lengths, some of which run into one another. So it spirals in, but not in any immediately discernable pattern.
        It’s funny the perspective you have when you spend a lot of time looking down, upside down, lying down. Those with lack of confidence have a good perspective on things below. They can tell you a thing or two about carpets and floors.
      Anyway, the same thing happened when I was vaccuuming up the needles. The vaccuum didnt work well so I had to get down on my hands and knees and work that way. There were so many needles and I had to go over the same spot multiple times. And eventually, the same thing happened here as happened with the tires; hours in, I realized that I was in love with this activity. For some reason, I grew to love moving vacuuming those needles, making sure each one was cleaned meticulously, going over the same spot multiple times. Hours in, I wanted to do nothing else but vacuum needles forever.

Total immersion in something. This is what makes me happy and I miss it dearly when it is not there.