on asking for help

dear readers, i am asking you to help me.

i got into SITI summer, which is awesome! directed by Anne Bogart, SITI is at the forefront of physical and ensemble-based theatre. SITI summer focuses on Bogart's "Viewpoints" method, as well as her "Compositions" technique for creating original work, and Suzuki Actor Training. as a performer and director, this opportunity will enrich my craft and knowledge. (for more info on SITI summer go here.)

thing is, i'm broke. if i want to pay for tuition, room, board, getting there, and making up for money i won't make while i'm attending, i need to raise serious $$$. i have plans for fundraising, but even after getting money from the city of austin, my dad, etc. i still don't have quite enough.


yet!

i'm asking all my friends on email, facebook, my blog, and twitter to help me get to SITI summer! i humbly ask for a modest contribution of $10-$50. if all my contacts give me $10, i'm very close to paying all my tuition! if half my contacts give me $20, well, same thing! and so on.

if you would like to make a contribution, you can send it via paypal below:

or send a check made out to "katherine shorb" to:
2906 glen rae st
Austin, TX 78702

in return, i offer the following:
$10-$29 donation: a 5X8 postcard with original calligraphy by yours truly (see examples of my calligraphy here.)
$30-$49 donation: a postcard and a signed copy of the script to my solo show: "of chicks, dicks, and chinks."
$50+ donation: a postcard and a signed DVD of my award-winning experimental short: "task/in-progress"
please include a mailing address with your contribution.

your donation is an investment in art. it offers many returns.

on opportunity, doubt, money, and life

what happens when the thing you've been wanting and waiting for for almost a year becomes *this close* to happening, but there are two things standing in your way: money and time?

i was accepted to SITI summer for this year. a year ago, when i spoke to the director of my solo show, friend and co-artistic director of the rude mechanicals, madge darlington, the first thing she told me was to do SITI. at that point, it was just not possible, the application deadline had passed. so i went to vancouver instead. which was fabulous. but really only a taste of the techniques and methods i wanted to learn.

since then, i've co-won two theatre awards, acted in two plays, a short film and directed a play. and now i've been accepted to SITI. all my theatre friends are super excited for me. it is, in fact, a big opportunity. and not one that is completely common. i was looking at the resume of scott turner schofield. he's one of those performers who gets enough gigs to support himself with art full-time. a tranny boy with income, if you will. he's done SITI.

i'm having trouble trying not to think it was some kind of clerical error. i mean, i've really only been doing this a minute. at the same time, anne bogart's (that's the director of SITI) who thing is that she is all about the inter-disciplinary. she always uses music and film as inspiration. or as part of theory. so maybe it's not such a mystery why they accepted me. i am a discipinary whore.

thing is. now's a tough time... i'm broke ass. and i still haven't won the lotto. the whole institute costs over $3000. which includes room and board. but still. and then, i have a mortgage. and i won't be making money while i'm stomping and viewpoint-ing. so. that means that in order to get to saratoga springs, pay for the institute, room and board, and my own mortgage, i would have to raise at least $4500. $5000, to be safe...

it's one thing to desire something. it's another to actually go and get it/do it. there are always complications that beg the question: what is your commitment? is this for real, or were you only having fancies about your glam life?

and what of this glam life? i've been an on-again-off-again artist since college. i've never felt particularly glamorous. seems that people see artsy life as such. maybe it is. or maybe i should let it be.

why is it that every time i accomplish something, i can't enjoy it? i'm always thinking about the down side. i get into SITI, i have to raise the money. i get a grant for the opera, i have to
raise a match. i get an award for a show, i have to split it with people.

what's up with that?!

(deargod: pleasehelpmemakesenseofthisandthejoyofmydesiring)

on jesus, my work is important! now what do i do?

so. i'm slowly accruing cancer objects. slowly. but each one i get, i feel the gravity of my project deepen more and more.

i received the narrative of one object today. i will be receiving the object itself soon. it came from a person i knew a decade ago. i didn't even know she had cancer. but her 4-page story caught me up. her narrative was so thorough, so precise, so real. as i read it, i felt deeply honored that she took the time to share her experience with her. and that she will impart such a loaded object onto me.

it's a strange process. i've now structured "una corda" in a way that i need participation from others. to get this participation, i need to talk about my piece as significant. but i realize i only partly comprehend how significant it is. because every time a new person contributes to the piece, i think, "wow. my opera is so important. i can't believe i'm doing it."

of course, this gives me anxiety. how can i take this friend's story and objects and respect her contribution while ultimately using my own voice (quite literally)? how do i balance my innate earnestness with my conditioned critical eye and my somewhat wry humor?

then again, this anxiety is necessary. this discomfort. as tennessee williams said, struggle is part of being an artist. he was mainly talking about financial struggle (which, hey, i got that, too!), but i think most inspiring art is fueled by struggle. at least, the art that inspires me.

sometimes, though. it's like hugging a hedgehog.

on ten ways to become a lesbian

(this is one just for fun. procrastination can breed such things)
1. go to every club, knitting circle, potluck, performance art happening, and slam poetry event you can find wearing a sandwich board that states, “free toaster.”
2. shave your head. the quarter-inch attachment is the most lesbionic. alternate action: change your hair color with henna or one of the mainstay manic-panic colors: bad-boy blue, hot hot pink, green envy, or red passion.
3. cut your nails. complain about how you have to keep your nails sooooo short now. loudly and often. even better, cut just the nails on your forefinger and middle finger (or middle finger and ring finger, if you’re like that) on your dominant hand. use this hand conspicuously: show off your cell phone, pull on your dykey stud or small-hoop earrings, point at your brand new copy of dykes to watch out for, etc. extra points if you put your nail clippers on your keychain or the zipper of your sufficiently sensible shoulder bag/backpack.
4. learn and actively participate in more than one of the following activities: softball; basketball; rugby; playing the drums or a brass instrument other than french horn; a martial art; cigar smoking; open mic nights (preferably at your local wymmyn’s bookstore or lesbian bar); camping; woodwork/carpentry; composting; and suddenly announcing disgust at the misogyny, homophobia, racism, etc. at awkward or inopportune times, the more awkward the better (points if these awkward moments include your birth relatives).
5. learn the lyrics to “both hands,” “closer to fine,” “ice cream,” “iowa,” “i kissed a girl (sobule version),” “i spent my last $10 (on birth control and beer),” “drag king bar,” or any major song by melissa ethridge, k.d. lang, meshell ndégeocello, le tigre, or tracy chapman.
6. stock your tea cabinet with at least seven different types of tea with at least one black, one green, and one herbal tea.
7. read one of the many canonic lesbian books (rubyfruit jungle, zami, tipping the velvet, written on the body/oranges are not the only fruit, stone butch blues, mrs. dalloway/orlando, etc.) and post on every social networking site you belong to how much you “loved” it and how it “opened your eyes” and how much you “identified” with it.
8. if you are a meat-eater, become vegetarian. if you vegetarian, become vegan. if you are vegan, become macrobiotic. if you are macrobiotic, eat meat again, but in a sexy, enlightened way. openly discuss all your food allergies. if you have none, make them up. "i'm allergic to water!" consume more legumes and whole grains. buy the moosewood cookbook. actually cook with the moosewood cookbook.
9. watch lots of fag porn, with fags and dykes (pot luck time! don’t forget your sandwich board!). balance your fascination and disgust. claim you own a dildo bigger than the biggest dick in the porn. vocally revel in how hot fag porn is. then complain loudly about how you can’t find dyke porn like this. or announce that you’ve seen “crash pad” and think it’s the beginning of a renaissance of dyke porn. loiter near an empty bedroom or the bathroom.
10. find a girl you like, romance her or entice her to romance you, kiss her, sleep with her, call uhaul. repeat.

on cycles

smell of ink in the stone. "this is the character for 'health.'" an emerald green bustier bought on a whim, but still not worn. purple cane. no sandwiches. polymer clay. art days. "no guilt."

the lights are bright. i know not to squint. audience tense with silence. lungs full of phlegm, head sore, throat searing. just need first word. once it comes, all emerge as though connected by the same chord. rehearsal means producing good at your worst.

breath visible in the morning air. clothes reserved for "nice" occasions. packed rectory. who's who of austin. song of weary. thoughts are wary. holding hat in hand, head bowed, standing. anger, anger, anger. too many shoulders covered in liquid from my face.

stand up from squatting over the count of 20. speech. sit over the count of 25. use the pain in your legs to give intensity. speech. up on 10. close your eyes. on your toes in 10. stay on your toes. balance. balance. speech. resistance creates intensity. resistance creates meaning.

we had a couple of excursions. not as many as i would have liked. sometimes entailing hospitals, almost always entailing food. i already knew i found her pretty late. shyness can do that sometimes. but the main thing was the finding. what is it with me, cancer, and emotional intimacy?

new photo added to the altar. it's too full now.

look at this, sweet new child. auntie now, for the umpteenth time, but still wonderful. not my niece but lovely just the same. throat blocked.

i was close enough in which to confide. but far enough in which to confide. sometimes the ability to see the end inspires strategic confessions. someone close enough to want to tell, far enough that the telling won't damage or change or burden. i wonder what ma told that nurse who she bought lavish gifts for. or what other confessions i was too close or too far to hear. it seems that witnessing confessions is part of preparing. being prepared really seems like a state after one has released everything into the world--in mysteriously/mystically meted-out doses. i'm very certain they made it look easier than it actually was.

elegy. made as wrappings. beds of flower heads and satin. the right words never seem to be right enough. like uttering them is somehow demeaning. even repetitions of words once perfect feel unwarm. still a yearning rises. the yearning to rise. skyward voice and hands, earthy thoughts and moistened face. body still present, but no longer necessary.

the idea of love, last exchanged word--it grows to take on different forms. no longer bright and clear and smooth as it once was. scarred, weathered, tougher. like an aging tree, embracing the wind-swept molding of its limbs. still to weather even more. but like a hand-thrown teacup, or imperfect scribble on the page, the wabi-sabi of combined generations, combined ideas, combined bodies acknowledging each border and overlap. my younger love changed by one older, still changed by one even older.

whispers. whispers on feathers not even sprung from the throat of a dove. and flying.

on and out and up.

on memory and forgetting

because i know you've surely forgotten about me.

every so often, lovely partner says, "you should blog about that." but i haven't been.

i'm a little jaded with the internets lately. i've stopped paying attention to my rss feed. and it began feeling like this sucking, demanding force that just had no business trying to take up my time. i've just had no patience.

and so i've been away from here. and so many things have happened. obama. gaza. the new year. my mother's death anniversary. i shaved my head...

and then this weekend i visited my good friend who is very weak with illness, preparing to cross over.

she is really the main person who inspired and encouraged my cancer opera. visiting with her was hard; it's always awkward, figuring out whether to show up or leave some space, what to say, where to sit, how to talk, whether to laugh or cry. it brought back so many memories of being with my mother in this same month, seven years ago, of sitting with my friend and sharing stories, of eating cheap but good chinese food at the back of a market, of telling myself, "just listen to her talk about what you fear. it's important to her now, and it will become important to you in the future."

and meanwhile, another type of memory nags at me. so comparatively mundane and trivial: my memory of words. the lines i must say in the play. it's going up on 1/23. usually, i memorize lines pretty easily, remembering about 70% just from showing up to rehearsal. and then only i need a few hours on my own to hammer it all out. but this role... not only is it very little dialogue--i'm mostly talking to myself--i talk under other characters, so i have to listen as i talk. in addition, a lot of what she says is nonsense or repetitive. i've been running lines at any spare moment, in my car, the shower, waiting in line, and just when i am by myself at home.... last night, though, the director followed along with my lines as we did a line-through (where you only say the words from memory as fast as possible to see where you need work), after we were done, she turned to me and said, "it's almost impossible to follow along, let alone remember and say your lines..." so, we've come up with some ways to alleviate the strain on my memory.

it's not lost on me that my lovely partner is an historian, and here i am writing about memory and forgetting. and as i reflect on what is behind, i see us on the cusp of what lies ahead.

forward ho.

on things lovely partner wants me to blog

we do this on a fairly regular basis: one of us says something hilarious/witty/profound and the other immediately says: you should blog that!

here's one of them.

we were discussing the 50 state quarters that have finally all been released by the u.s. mint. and here are our favorites:kt's caption: "breaking news: space shuttles go back in time!"
kt's caption: "breaking news: saarinen design go back in time!"