Check out this video on YouTube:
"Buddy, can you spare a time?"
"Buddy, can you spare a time?"
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Hello Music Biz, Entertainment, and Social Justice Activist Pals!
Hello Music Biz, Entertainment, and Social Justice Activist Pals!
I ask your indulgence, once again, to take a brief moment to direct your presence to some heros in need. Lyon-Martin is a trailblazer and a leader in affordable and nonjudgmental community health care for lesbians and bisexual, women of colour, transgender, people below 200% of the national poverty level, and the homeless in San Francisco.
The economy is tough on all business right now--particularly brutal for non-profits whose funding is down. We can not, MUST NOT, allow another gem to shutter in our extraordinary city, a city legendary for its heart and its love.
I'd like explore the potential for pulling together VERY QUICKLY, a benefit of big named women's talent to save this VITAL resource. To be clear, this is not a done deal nor even a sanctioned idea by Lyon-Martin. I'm running a little renegade here, as I would like to present a more filled out sketch of what we potentially could do to assist Lyon-Martin in these challenging times so that the folks at the organization can decide for themselves if it might be in line with their values and help in their struggle to stay afloat..
I would be dead if not for SF's compassionate service organizations, like Lyon-Martin. I don't think in a truly compassionate and equitable society, economics should figure into one's ability to stay alive.
Looking for anyone with connections to female activist artists a la Joni Mitchell, Stevie Nicks, Heart, Indigo Girls, Exene, Gwen Stefani, PJ Harvey, Bonnie Raitt, Ani DiFranco, Phranc, Tracy Chapman, Lucinda Williams, Shery Crow, Rickie Lee Jones, Sarah Silverman, Margaret Cho, Ellen DeGeneres, Rosie O'Donnell, Kathy Griffin.
Perhaps a blessing with the 13 Grandmothers, or hug-a-thon darshan with Ammachi. Also, it does NOT need to be a strictly women's event. I remember an incredibly cool 'Rock Against Rape' event that Kurt Cobain played at. Any artist, event peeps that would want donate services, talents, venues and hearts--BRING IT ON!
We are obligated to grow our hearts outward, past apathy, past pain, past gender, past skin colour, past petty differences--to celebrate the extraordinary similarities and magnificence of which we are ALL equal partners.
All Are One.
Be You-Spectacular, powerful you.
Let's channel our extraordinary ability to create a world of fantastic impossibilities. One which includes a healthy, supported and well loved organization like Lyon-Martin Health Services.
Please feel free to forward this to any appropriate folks. I thanks you for attention and your heart.
Namaste.
Craig Hermes
Friday, January 28, 2011
Affiliation, Love Like It' sWartime, Love In The Trenches. AKA Dancing in the Flames
Few experiences are as bonding as seasonal jobs and theatre. When by design or br nature, one is forced to operate at 150% with little-to-no saftey net, a unique cameraderie develops. When I was doing theatre at the Barn Theatre in 1990, we had 16 hour ish days sometimes--building sets, rehearsing, crashing vans(my unique job duty), dry cleaning costumes with Lysol, rehearsing the after show cabaret, picking up cigarette butts in the lawn parking, performing, then doing the ateshow cabaret while stealing as mant Snak-Ens as one could cram in one's mouth--THEN--finding the time for after responsibilities for drinking, skinny dipping and imagining and creating crushy drama of one's own... Well, you survive that, and you have bonded along the lines of those who've done the Sioux sundance.
We weren't so often twisting in the sights of the Great Spirit as we were twisting in the tornado lousy winds of Michigan. Plunked down halfway between Battle Creek and Kalamazoo, it was beautiful, rural territory. The community LOVED us, though I was kind of dubious the first time we went to a local tavern,
"Great. The fags and whores are back..."
That was not so much a hate slur as it was a Lower Michigan bear hug, an earthy "Welcome home!"
I look back at this exhausting, magickal time through Golden Glasses of Nostalgia and am struck by how many folks I am still in touch with. I remember Will, one of our set design and constrction geniuses say, "Two most bonding human experiences are war and theatre..."
I think it's true! I might add large scale multiday event production and building a brand nationally. Most of my not genetic family comes from these worlds and I am most grateful.
I had a friend say to me, "Can't you just let Virgin go?" It made me pause. Then it struck me.
Virgin, like theatre before, and then events, served as more than a temporary means to an end of income. My coworkers, through shared blood, sweat and tears, had become a huge part of the family that I had lost in the wham bam 6 year period of losing a Mom, Dad, Great Aunt, Grandmother and Father, and dog who'd been my best friend for 13 years of awkward adolesence.
What made these jobs so profound was the very nature of their being temporary. The brilliance comes, and ithe brilliance goes, and the flash of magick fades to gray. Like the Tibetan butter sculptures and sand mandalas, they are most excellent teachers of beautiful impermanence.
I, for better or worse, tend to develop heart conection with folks, so the pull away post sparkle is another little death. Some things I play Frankenstein with, and I constantly revive. My choice and no one, no thing is required to ressurect if it is not an organic choice for them.
Here is a piece I wrote for my fellow cast members in "All's Well That Ends Well" at Hartford Stage. It could have as easily been written for my AIDSRide, Virgin, Sports Basement cohorts.
Theatre wears different masks for each of its players
It may be a friend, a ife, a way to knowledge-
a job, a release, a means of explortion.
Theatre, for me, is all of these
most importantly, it is family
it is intense, it is laughter, it is fear
both excitement and patience--
I thank each of you
from the core of my being
for being my family, for helping me learn
for letting me know you and letting me know myself-
I will not forget this moment of brilliance
this sparkle and flash in the dark
that is the magick that we've made.
I love YOU with a big , gay, gratitude- filled heart.
Namaste..
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Are you sure...
... that a floor can’t also be a ceiling? --MC Escher
"Buddy, can you spare a time?"
Milarepa, Magick, Tea and Empathy. Make Love With Your Demons.
Into the demon’s mouth…
Milarepa, who lived in the eleventh century, is one of the heroes of Tibetan Buddhism, one of the brave ones. He was also a rather unusual fellow. He was a loner who lived in caves by himself and meditated whole heartedly for years. He was extremely stubborn and determined. If he couldn’t find anything to eat for a couple of years, he just ate nettles and turned green, but he would never stop practicing.
The story goes that one evening Milarepa returned to his cave after gathering firewood, only to find it filled with demons. They were cooking his food, reading his books, sleeping in his bed. They had taken over the joint. He knew about the teaching of the nonduality between self and other, but he still didn’t quite know how to get these guys out of his cave. Even though he had the sense that they were a projection of his own mind- all the unwanted parts of himself- he didn’t know how to get rid of them.
So first he taught them the dharma. He sat on this seat that was higher than they were and said things to them about how we all are one. He talked about compassion and emptiness and other key Buddhist teachings. Nothing happened. The demons were still there. Then he lost his patience and got angry and ran at them. They just laughed at him. Finally he gave up and just sat down on the floor saying, “I’m not going away and it looks like you’re not either, so let’s just live here together.”
At that point, all of them left except one. Milarepa said “This one is particularly vicious.” (We all know that one. Sometimes we have lots of them like that. Sometimes we feel that’s all we’ve got.) He didn’t know what to do, so he surrendered himself even further. He walked over and put himself right into the mouth of the demon and said, “Just eat me up if you want to.” Then that demon left too. The moral of the story is, when the resistance is gone, so are the demons.
~ The Pocket Pema Chodron
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Just Lovely. For You. Exene at Amoeba...
, ...thanks for fearlessly sharing your talent and heart with us.
Gratitude.
"Buddy, Can You Spare a Time..."
Gratitude.
"Buddy, Can You Spare a Time..."
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Archetypes & Archegripes aka EDD, You Kill Me...
According to our friends at Wilkipedia:
The trickster deity breaks the rules of the gods or nature, sometimes maliciously (for example, Loki) but usually, albeit unintentionally, with ultimately positive effects. Often, the bending/breaking of rules takes the form of tricks (e.g. Eris) or thievery. Tricksters can be cunning or foolish or both; they are often funny even when considered sacred or performing important cultural tasks. An example of this is the sacred Iktomi, whose role is to play tricks and games and by doing so raises awareness and acts as an equalizer.[citation needed]
In many cultures, (as may be seen in Greek, Norse, or Slavic folktales, along with Native American/First Nations lore), the trickster and the culture hero are often combined. To illustrate: Prometheus, in Greek mythology, stole fire from the gods to give to humans. He is more of a culture hero than a trickster. In many Native American and First Nations mythologies, the coyote (Southwestern United States) or raven (Pacific Northwest, coastal British Columbia, Alaska and Russian Far East) stole fire from the gods (stars, moon, and/or sun) and are more tricksters than culture heroes. This is primarily because of other stories involving these spirits: Prometheus was a Titan, whereas the Coyote spirit and Raven spirit are usually seen as jokesters and pranksters. Examples of Tricksters in the world mythologies are given by Hansen (2001), who lists Mercurius in Roman mythology, Hermes in Greek mythology, Eshu in Yoruba mythology and Wakdjunga in Winnebago mythology as examples of the Trickster archetype. Hansen makes the interesting observation that the Trickster is nearly always a male figure.
Frequently the Trickster figure exhibits gender and form variability, changing gender roles and even occasionally engaging in same-sex practices. Such figures appear in Native American and First Nations mythologies, where they are said to have a two-spirit nature. Loki, the Norse trickster, also exhibits gender variability, in one case even becoming pregnant; interestingly, he shares the ability to change genders with Odin, the chief Norse deity who also possesses many characteristics of the Trickster. In the case of Loki's pregnancy, he was forced by the Gods to stop a giant from erecting a wall for them before 7 days passed; he solved the problem by transforming into a mare and drawing the giant's magical horse away from its work. He returned some time later with a child he had given birth to—the eight-legged horse Sleipnir, who served as Odin's steed.
Other famous Tricksters who make us learn things we don't want to are Brer Rabbit, Bugs Bunny, The Tramp (Chaplin), Pippi Longstocking, and perhaps the most feared and powerful Trickster, yes, Sarah Silverman.
So, why the unsolicited lesson on these rapscallions?
I am among their hordes, both as Hermes and as well, me, the Charlie Brown Everyman who seems to have what could go wrong go wrong. Believe me, I have Creatively Visualized, I have Secretly wished, I have intentioned, dreamagined, willed--and --- nothing. Shooting blanks here.
Maybe the most compassionate and beneficial gift we can be given is in the form of seemingly unanswered prayers. Ganesha removes obstacles, but who's to say the things we think are obstacles are on the same page as Ganesha and that we'll like the form in which the removal takes place.
I've learned an enormous amount about how our system is completely fucked up, broken at every turn.
I am an honest guy who plays by the rules of actually possessing a moral compass--seems that's none-too-common these days. Though I have helped raise in excess of $100 million for AIDS service organizations either through direct fundraising, or event production, I am ineligible for services.
Though I am entitled to to be on unemployment as I transition from disability, EDD has fought me at every turn. I should have been receiving benefits from 12/17/11.
I just received notice--today--that I am eligible for an appeal. GREAT!!! When will that happen?
In 10 weeks.
Bravo, fed gov and CA. I could be dead from your expeditious and compassionate handling of what should be an open and shut case.
So? Trust and gratitude move to the fore. Because I haven't allowed the possibilities of death and homelessness to become real, I, somehow am still homed, still somewhat well. But there are limits.
My immune system is taking a HUGE hit--I can tell by the warts that are starting to sprout on my eyelids. Sexy, I know. T-Cell, hold on...
So, while I do not apologize for voicing my situation, AGAIN, in public forum, I hope you will indulge these missives of chaos and frustration.
I, Hermes, hold up a mirror crackd to a very broken system, hoping to incite some empathic reaction, not toward my personal situation, but toward the inner Don Quixote in you... tilt at some windmills with me? Nobility demands!
Onward, upward--with an honest, connected heart and an unreasonable demand for impossible dreams.
It's The Way God Made Me. To Quote Gail McNeil from 3rd Grade. "God Don't Make Junk."
I'd like to thank my pal, Paul V. for building an idea that creates hope, inclusion and inspiration for all. Check out his site at borngaybornthisway.blogspot.com.
Here's my story and I am sticking to it. Until I don't.
My Mom was an actress. I was in utero for her performance of Buttercup in HMS Pinafore--She was supposed to be "Sweet Little Buttercup", but because she was so pregnant with me, they padded her sides to make her look like Fat Little Buttercup, instead of Knocked Up Little Buttercup.
The following year, I was breast fed by Mad Margaret. Could we see the handwriting on the wall?
I Loved theatre--used to cue my Mom for her roles, like my personal favorite, Aldonza in Man of La Mancha.
"Your a woar.."
"No honey, it's pronounced Whore--HOAR... now never say it..."
Here I am wearing my Mom's Polly Bergen wig, pretending to be a Hippie at a pot party.
My first mancrush? Probably Roger Daltry in Tommy. I also crushed on Ann Marget, hard. I was conflicted. Or Gemini. Or both!
Advice... me? Huh. Just be the beautiful person you are, however that shakes out. Do not let ANYONE define you other than you. Our greatest gift is our humanity, our individuality, and by far the bravest choice is to be beautifully imperfect and human--which make perfect sense in a paradoxical world.
Namaste, I honour the God/Goddess/Light/Intelligence in You. As is.
Craig
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Even Nice Kids Can Be Dicks From Time To Time...
... yes, even me. I know! Stop gasping, you'll hyperventilate, pass out and hit your head on something.
I could not live with the guilt.
Back en pointe, like the pretty Black Swan I am...
I was excited, but scared, to go away to Boy Scout camp when I was 12. How would I do it, not possessing the skillset to throw a ball, run, pretend to like sports, or poop in the woods? Actually, to be fair, I did like pooping in the woods until the episode of Poison Ivy Penis visited my Netherlands.
But three weeks of forced swims, unfortunate softball, making of whistle lanyards and Tandy wallets, and hundreds of verses of "There's A Hole In The Bucket, Elijah" was a hard sell for me--other than the swimming, which I loved (even though your arms and legs would get tangled in green bottle brush type pond weeds and turtles would nip at your legs...), I was a defective boy.
God knows I had the intense desire to be good at ANY of those things, but it just wasn't in my DNA. It woud have been like asking my mean counselor to recite lines from Man of La Mancha. Wasn't gonna happen.
Slightly softening the horror of away camp was the fact that my best friend, Billy Cirilli--great name huh?--would be there with me. He was a great boy at all things boy, and I by association, seemed like a normal enough kid to have around--just not someone you'd want on your team. Ever.
The first week wasn't soooo bad, even though I missed my parents a lot, but I stiff upper lipped it. Here, enjoy evidence of my state of mind:
Enter weeks two and three.
Hell. Pure hell. Some mean spirited, closeted counselor decided I must be gay since I sucked at baseball. The torture began. Making me do jumping jacks by myself in front of 100 kids, which, in retrospect would have been fun to watch as I was approximately the shape of a polka dot. Having to run with my arms over my head until I couldn't anymore, crying which seemed to be the funniest thing many people had ever seen. Watching the counsellors eat my special lemon cookies my mom sent in a care package...
Pants being pulled down, being stared at going to the bathroom--it was like auditioning for the role of choir boy.
Around week one and a half, my spirit broke and my rage turned away from the tormentors and toward my parents. THEY enlisted me in this hell, they drove me there, they didn't rescue me.
Well, I still felt it important to reach out to my family and thank them, let them know I was still alive. Here's postcard two:
What a nice kid huh? I found these when my Mom was at home in the final stages in hospice and showed them to her, and she laughed until she wept. So of course, I immediately framed them and put them up in her room. She woke up every morning with a grin and a chuckle--even in the final stages of a brutal cancer.
Thank God the humour nullified some of the angry brat and reminded one of the universal misery that we have all gone through at some point. And brought moments of joyous reflection.
Camp seemed less awful in golden sepia memory. That I liked.
That said, Counsellor Closet WAS a jerk and I hope he learned some compassion. Or died a slow, firey, painful death.
Oops. I thought I was better.
Oh well.
PS. It's cut off a bit, but there is a lovely 'PS I hate you' along the side.
I could not live with the guilt.
Back en pointe, like the pretty Black Swan I am...
I was excited, but scared, to go away to Boy Scout camp when I was 12. How would I do it, not possessing the skillset to throw a ball, run, pretend to like sports, or poop in the woods? Actually, to be fair, I did like pooping in the woods until the episode of Poison Ivy Penis visited my Netherlands.
But three weeks of forced swims, unfortunate softball, making of whistle lanyards and Tandy wallets, and hundreds of verses of "There's A Hole In The Bucket, Elijah" was a hard sell for me--other than the swimming, which I loved (even though your arms and legs would get tangled in green bottle brush type pond weeds and turtles would nip at your legs...), I was a defective boy.
God knows I had the intense desire to be good at ANY of those things, but it just wasn't in my DNA. It woud have been like asking my mean counselor to recite lines from Man of La Mancha. Wasn't gonna happen.
Slightly softening the horror of away camp was the fact that my best friend, Billy Cirilli--great name huh?--would be there with me. He was a great boy at all things boy, and I by association, seemed like a normal enough kid to have around--just not someone you'd want on your team. Ever.
The first week wasn't soooo bad, even though I missed my parents a lot, but I stiff upper lipped it. Here, enjoy evidence of my state of mind:
Enter weeks two and three.
Hell. Pure hell. Some mean spirited, closeted counselor decided I must be gay since I sucked at baseball. The torture began. Making me do jumping jacks by myself in front of 100 kids, which, in retrospect would have been fun to watch as I was approximately the shape of a polka dot. Having to run with my arms over my head until I couldn't anymore, crying which seemed to be the funniest thing many people had ever seen. Watching the counsellors eat my special lemon cookies my mom sent in a care package...
Pants being pulled down, being stared at going to the bathroom--it was like auditioning for the role of choir boy.
Around week one and a half, my spirit broke and my rage turned away from the tormentors and toward my parents. THEY enlisted me in this hell, they drove me there, they didn't rescue me.
Well, I still felt it important to reach out to my family and thank them, let them know I was still alive. Here's postcard two:
What a nice kid huh? I found these when my Mom was at home in the final stages in hospice and showed them to her, and she laughed until she wept. So of course, I immediately framed them and put them up in her room. She woke up every morning with a grin and a chuckle--even in the final stages of a brutal cancer.
Thank God the humour nullified some of the angry brat and reminded one of the universal misery that we have all gone through at some point. And brought moments of joyous reflection.
Camp seemed less awful in golden sepia memory. That I liked.
That said, Counsellor Closet WAS a jerk and I hope he learned some compassion. Or died a slow, firey, painful death.
Oops. I thought I was better.
Oh well.
PS. It's cut off a bit, but there is a lovely 'PS I hate you' along the side.
Alan Watts & Chögyam Trungpa - Right Here And Now
There is only now. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhLxSfUJAlY&feature=youtube_gdata_player
"Buddy, can you spare a time?"
"Buddy, can you spare a time?"
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Things I learned or remembered at yoga today... gather at my feet. Cubic Zirconias of Wisdom.
1) We very rarely utilize the gift of breath. It is the source of life and many of us, myself included are shallow, oxygen deprived mouth-breathers. 2) It's fun listening to your tendons snap or shatter as you force them to try to be flexible. My glass tendons are fragile. 3) Each class will make you better, but you never arrive at 'done'. Much like the concept of meth addiction, alcohol or Facebook, it's always a process of getting there--where you never get. I prefer attainable goals and merit badges. 4) I have something approximating a shapely ass when doing bridge or downward dog. Now if I can only figure out how to go through 100 % of my day in oly those two poses... I liked it, sarcasm aside. It's good to give the ego a bitch slap by doing something you're NOT great at. Humble pie is necessary in every diet. As they say in airy fairy land... Nambly Pambly--I honour the uncoordinated inflexible child in you!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Saturday, January 01, 2011
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