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MegBeam and SHADOWjam: how did these two become connected?

Filed under: Open Heart Project, Portfolio of Artpieces, SHADOWjam, Synapsis, The Ink People — Leave a comment
November 29, 2011

Mind of a Snail inspired me to take up SHADOWjam-ming ...


*>>>> Be sure to read this post first: SHADOWjam Manifesto

a moment in the window of The Green House (Arcata, CA) where I facilitated my first SHADOWjam on Dec11, 2010.

It was the summer of 2008. I had just finished my two terms of Americorps and had started working at the North Coast Co-op, with plans to work there until I transitioned out of the area into the next big steppe of my life, presumably within the next year or so (note: that year is officially 2011 – haha!). I was deeply involved with The Ink People in a lot of ways, in particular in association with Synapsis. In fact, I was spending much of that summer preparing for The Great Puppet Feast, a multi-day-venue puppet festival slated for November. I had already fallen in love with the puppet and realized that I had found my medium, the medium I needed to focus on to follow the highest realization of my artistic path.  So when Leslie Howabauten (then still Castellano)  asked a few of us over email if she could send some puppeteers our way to crash the couch while they were on a performance tour, my heart leapt a little, squealing, “me me me me”. Those puppeteers were Mind of a Snail Puppet Co. They and two accompanying artists joined me in my tiny apartment. I found them some venues to perform their first show, “Dream of a Tree” (check out a video of segments here), and conduct SHADOWjams. I was completely enamored from the first second. Wow, here was a concept that lumped so many of my most beloved experiential morsels into one epic adventure in spontaneous art-making. Those morsels being performance, a sense of playing,

turtle mouth speaks lightning (MegBeam)

experimentation, community building, embracing silence, crafting creatures, layering, responsive sounding, dramatic use of light contrasted with dark, communication, repurposing used materials, song, story … i could see the entirety of my universe in this medium.

Mind of a Snail toured south and then rejoined my Arcata Attic (the nickname i have for the soft story apt i inhabited while working at the co-op). I would not see them again in person until the Regional Puppet Festival in Seattle, summer 2010.  It had been a way intense year in more ways than I can even allude to in this space at this time. So I could hardly be anything but a sponge at that festival adventure. I was loving my first immersion into the puppet community – discovering its intricacies, dreaming up my relationship with it, perceiving my future role in it, observing beautiful puppet work – but I had a real hard time engaging in any sort of productive way. Few conversations or personal interactions – which was such a bizarre state to find myself needing!! I’m the girl whose been known as a conversationalist since she learned to speak,  whose kindergarten teacher declared, “No, you’ll be a chatterbox when you grow up!” But I was crawling into a spirit cocoon. Who talks from inside a cocoon? Except at the SHADOWjam they facilitated one night. It was pretty much the only time I was actively engaged in an exchange with my fellow puppeteers. So emblematic as I reflect upon that experience …

Mind of a Snail released their Manifesto a bit of time after the festival’s end. I had written them permission to begin developing the medium where I am. They were enthusiastically supportive, and I began preparing for my first exercise in

shadow birds meet spirit-heart (MegBeam)

facilitating a SHADOWjam in observance of the close of my 20′s. (yeah, i was born Dec10, 1981 – go ahead, see what stealing my identity will get you ;-P) Saskatchewan Cards made a stunning zine-invite. The Green House was amazingly hospitable for the whole event. It was a spectacular and warm opening to my development in use of the SHADOWjam medium. The main theme was that of goats, which were the subject of the then-upcoming Zo*tekh Project #3: I graze with goat … (further notes on this in later blog posts).

at the 12/11/10 jam: the angel tells the alligator with a quote from Jesus, "the kingdom of heaven is within you." (Alligator w/ a Bird Belly puppet: Leslie Howabauten, Photo: MegBeam)

Later that month I facilitated not only the first SHADOWjam in South Carolina but my first art event in my hometown. I had grown up as a performer in other peoples’ projects. I grew as an organizer and catalyst for my own projects elsewhere, so it was really special to share this part of my self with a few people who had known me the longest – my parents and Chelsea Thompson (my dearest friend from childhood – though she

goats & mystic stand before the door of reality in the First SHADOWjam in SC (MegBeam)

didn’t know that until we were both already adults ;-P) along with a man I had gotten to know as a high schooler but still remains one of the people i respect the most from my hometown, Joey Oppermann. Yes, attendance was sparse at that first SC SHADOWjam but plentiful in dynamacy. We created a story of goats entering a mysterious door, finding the flowers on the other side irresistable to grazing, being transported to magical places, and being met by a mystical woman.

I have since facilitated three more jams in Humboldt and one in San Francisco. (I am saying this on 11/29/11 … there will be more before the end of the year; i promise :D – example: Dec2, 2011). I have many dreams about how my journey with SHADOWjam will roll out in the centuries ahead of us. I have several show-starters in production, ones whose concepts have been consciously ruminating inside the cocoon with me while others are mere glimmers of “wha–?”. And my time to emerge as the Beamerfly is just now dawning. That light is peaking over the horizon. Thanks for joining me for the crackling of the crysalis.

spirit-heart opens the door to find a flood plain of splendor (MegBeam)

the mystic woman-angel reappears to cast her shadow (MegBeam)

ANNOUNCEMENT: open heart #4 will be ushered in on the heels of a goat

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A Letter about Annot (written 2004)

Filed under: General Musings — Leave a comment
February 15, 2012
(originally posted in May, 2007, in the Facebook group for folks from Annot and friends)

A vintage poster for the little train that takes you through the mountains to Annot from Nice.

 

 

 

 

These were my thoughts on this topic back when the CofC Annot Campus was in danger of restricting its existence to the fond memories of those who had already experienced it. Thank you to all of you who worked so hard to keep that from happening. The evolution is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

“Sat, 26 Jun 2004

It all started when I was in middle school, and I had a teacher from Belgium. She was my English teacher all through middle school but also my first French teacher. French was a regularly graded subject which seeped into ungraded parts of ma vie scolaire. “Elevez-vous,” “présente,” “goûter,” and “à demain” were just as quotidiens as “turn to page 8.” That was when I fell in love with the French language and the ability to quickly access the exotic by speaking a few words from another world – le monde francophone. I continued to take French through high school, winning the French award my senior year. When it was time to choose colleges, I was deflated after admitting to my mom, “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t go to Duke (N.C.) if we can’t pay for it.” But realizing that the College of Charleston (which we could afford with instate scholarships) had a French campus in the works made it all okay. It was my intention from the day I dropped my letter in the mail to register for freshman orientation to go study at that French campus, the famed Campus Européen à Annot.

Spring 2002 found me in my sophomore year, struggling with my choice to be a Music Major/ French Minor and making plans to go abroad internationally for the first time in my life. My decision to participate in the Annot program has proven itself to be one of the most fruitful. J’y ai rencontré “La France profonde.”

Thankfully I had felt a rush of an adventurous spirit from the beginning because I signed up to stay with a host family who became my portal to this country which up until then had been for nothing more than a dream, some postcards, and une affiche orange hanging on the 4th floor of the J.C. Long building with a B&W photo of some kids on a mountain. My famille d’accueil was a middle aged couple named Pierre and Eliane. They made it their duty to introduce me to the French tradition of champignon hunting, to inform me that a good wine will always say on the label “Mise en bouteille au chateau,” and that lardon is better than bacon. Pierre was a teacher so every time I took him my French compositions I received a lecture on grammaire and it connected to everyday French life (i.e. idioms or the impersonalization of society with the increased usage of on in the place of nous.) They were very active in any spectacle that the school held and in which I took part, including the Sept.11 memorial service and the poetry reading. That goes for the whole town really. The Annotians warmly embraced all of us beyond my expectations. Because of its small size, we were able to form relationships easily with people. Some I knew I would see everyday so I was motivated to learn how to talk about all my adventures without looking up every other word during the conversation. Within the first couple weeks I was in Annot, I had already made friends with a few kids my age, giving me many opportunities to make rapport with the French youth such as a weekend trip to Cannes and a night at the Nice Opéra (Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette).

The mountains were amazing too. Pierre and Eliane’s house was up the mountain a little bit from the town and the campus. They were always super willing to drive me back and forth, but usually I chose to walk or ride the bike. There was a waterfall that disappeared occasionally and always a unique character to the light thanks to the huge mountains surrounding us. (Okay, so they are the Bases Alpes, but they are still bigger than any we have in S.C.!) Being in a medieval town, I could not help learning at least a little French history mixed with some legends. FACT: A member of the French Resistance was killed by the gestapo during WWII where a house is now built on the right as you approach the town center from the direction of Digne. FACT: Charlemagne hid out in an expansive stone cave, now called La Chambre du roi, about a 20-minute hike above the train station. That might not actually be true, but I hiked there many times quand même, even camping out one time. Strolling the stone streets and studying the churches was mystical for me because I had never before lived somewhere that had been established for more than 250 years.

Alors, I changed my major to French when I got back to Charleston, and I now live in Paris. I started an au pair job a month ago yesterday. In fact right now I am sitting at the family’s flat on rue St. Louis en l’isle, and I am about to go pick up the kids from school. I adore Paris, but I am realizing more and more everyday that there is no way I could have started out here or any other French metropolis. It is just too big and intimidating without a solid base in French already in place. It is easy to get lost in the crowd here and hard to make friends. In Annot it was just the opposite, and it was perfect. We had the best of both worlds: the comfort and tranquility of rural France profonde and the intensity of the big city because Nice was only a “petit train” ride and 8€ away!

I thank College of Charleston and the French Department specifically for providing me with such a dramatically life-changing opportunity. A teacher once taught me about “kernels” in literary theory. Kernels are the bones of the narrative. A kernel cannot change without changing the entire structure of the story. Fall Semester 2002 in Annot is just such a kernel in my story, directing my life down a path that could not have existed without my first living in Annot.

Again, I thank you.

Sincerely,

Megan E. Workman
23, rue Monge
75005 Paris
FRANCE”

May 19, 2007 at 11:51am · Like ·  2
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Visit #1: StDominic’s Parish (SF)

Filed under: Course in Sanctuary — 1 Comment
February 13, 2012

St. Dominic's Catholic Church, formally established in 1876. (MegBeam, 2011)

The Course in Sanctuary began on Christmas Day 2011 at StDominic’s Parish at the corner of Bush and Steiner Streets in San Francisco, CA. (Read more about Christmas Day’s happenings.) I also attended their Candlelight Mass on February 12, 2012. And so, Visit #1 is actually two service visits to the same church.

I had been considering for about a month where exactly my Course would begin. San Francisco is packed full of churches of all kinds of affiliations. I work as a childcare provider for new families all the time, and, since i try to walk about an hour a day, I often walk to the jobs, enabling me to notice much more along the way than if i was using any other source of transportation. I have not written down every church i’ve encountered on my walks, only ones that piqued my interest and that seemed to meet the “different” criteria; nonetheless, i already have 25 on my list.

StDominic’s is less than a 15-minute walk from the house where i was staying at the time of Christmas (and on Feb12). And Catholics tend to “really do it up” for the ChristMass. And my partner was raised Catholic so I could talk to him about it. And during college, I sang quite a few musical pieces that had been written for Catholic services. Okay, easy choice for the first lesson on my Course.

This is my summation of the Christmas service: I had been to many Christmas services but never a Catholic one. I had visited Catholic churches all over Europe but never attended one of their services. I had read history, essays, doctrines, apologies, etc. about Catholicism but never read one of their masses. I had sung numerous compositions created for the Mass, but never sung during a Mass. The time for newness was now. After leaving the butter crunch packages in front of the doors of the other apartments in my building, I walked the 15 minutes to St. Dominic’s. I had found this church on a walk back from a babysitting job a couple weeks earlier. The Christmas morning walk felt so good, exchanging grins and seasonal greetings with my fellow pedestrians. It was sunny and not too awfully cold. I passed a few people on the way, exchanging smiles and Christmas greetings with each of them. A solemn mass was still underway when I arrived. I didn’t know how packed this church might be for Christmas, and I wanted to make sure I got a seat. I was so obviously not a Catholic.  But the lady next to me was still willing to hold my hand during one of the prayers. It felt refreshing to sing the familiar Christmas songs, but I missed my mom harmonizing next to me. At some point, I was so moved in my spiritual awareness while my eyes were closed that I felt the distinct compulsion to open them. I wasn’t ready to full-on bawl among these strangers. One tear squeaked out though – first tear of the day. The service was the typical length but felt timeless. I bypassed the priest who was shaking hands at the exit; I opted to shake the sun as I enjoyed the luxury of walking slowly back to my house. (Taken from the Christmas blog referred to above.)

Both times I visited I was struck by how similar the United Methodist services I attended through 8th grade (up until my parents switched churches to the one they still attend currently). The stained glass windows, the acolytes, the altar coverings, the strict order, the call and response style (some of which were the exact same wording!), the recitation of the Apostle’s Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the moment to greet your neighbor. I had been an acolyte as a kid and still knew the old versions of the Creed and Prayer. Yet, growing up, I had the impression that Methodist Christians were way different from those Catholic Christians. True, the doctrine and dogma contradict each other drastically, but how the two groups worship is shockingly similar, methodical and structured, measured and realiable.

During the Christmas Mass I felt pretty elated, going through this whole holiday thing alone while staring at all the elaborate sanctuary structures, decorated in greenery and red ribbons. I stared again through a window some point between the two service visits, too, again the elation, even without the service, just staring while holding the cosmic mudra at my belly. I remember reading that the early European Christian church builders poured so much artistic care into their structures partially to create that effect of elation in those present thereby aiding their ascent into godly expansion. Elation does feel like it turns my heart into a helium-filled balloon.

Tears were mentioned in the summary. I am a deeply spiritual person despite my disconnection from a religious identity and cultivate my spiritual consciousness on a daily basis. On this journey through sanctuaries, I am determined to exercise my own spirituality within these contexts of spiritual community. Taking that into a church service again for the first time in a long time – the first time for a reason other than placating my parents in an even longer time – was an eruption of my self, which resulted in a hurricane of emotion and brain spinning, quite a few tears squeezing out by the end of the day. And yes, the original plan was to attend two services in that one day, for comparison’s sake. The one service at a time was the most I could handle, i realized, though, due to this intensity factor, and so i delayed service number two until earlier in this night where  i am writing. Although, sometime, i do still want to attend two in one day because i have this question: how do all the people involved in the service handle multiple services in one day?! wow! i noticed the priest leading the service was the same as the one before. He did not give the homily though. That was given this time by a priest I did not recognize.

Jan2006

During the Dec25 visit, there was a debate inside me that i entertained mildly at first but which grew rambunctious as the service proceeded. Would i take the Communion? This was a serious question for me. I have tatooed on my neck (Brent Bartel, Pacific Beach, Jan2006) a Latin verse taken from Faust, as translated in Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta as “By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe.” This exemplifies my dedication to earnestness and pure intention. When the time came to choose yes or no whether to engage in this Catholic ritual, i knew there was no way i could participate in the ingestion of the holy cracker and liquid. My partner teased me a little later about that decision. He said, “Most Catholics don’t believe in anything they do with the church! They just do those actions because they think they have to!” In my observations, not just in these new experiences of the actual Mass (oh, I’ve been watching Catholics all my life, including a visit to Rome two weeks after Pope John Paul died, whoa), there are plenty of people who really do believe the doctrines! Maybe enough of them don’t live in Erie, PA, where my partner could have known them personally, but there are plenty of them. And regardless of the percentage of adherents to a sacred belief who are genuine believers, it is my belief that ritual is powerful just in its being done, and, therefore, i could not participate in such a mighty act if i could not be engaged in that action earnestly. Tonight? the debate did not even arise. Staying knelt down with my self looking inward at the sky that floats there under the stony feather, i did not even line-up this time to actively reject the sacrament by requesting instead a blessing from the sacrament bearer.

But this whole issue of not believing in the religion you practice: I hear that a lot in relation to religions, and I felt I saw it a lot as a kid. My self can’t fully comprehend that possibility. Sure, I get it theoretically; people take part in religion for all kinds of reasons. However, my perspective is more of an “all in or all out” style of approach – different ways of being.

Unlike Christmas day, I shook hands with the Priest tonight upon exiting. His handshake was so reassuring and his eyes so kind. He didn’t know I was an unbeliever. He couldn’t see that I didn’t take communion or performed funky gestures unlike the rest of the congregation. I summoned forth my own positive energy to let flow through our brief grasp.

May peace be with you. And also with you.

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FFP’s Mail Art in Richmond Art Gallery’s online gallery!

Filed under: Portfolio of Artpieces — 2 Comments
February 2, 2012

Yay! The Richmond Art Gallery has finally been able to post the show in an online gallery. It will be up for about a year. You can check out the whole show here, and you’ll find many amazing pieces as you scroll waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down to see my three among them. Of course, i’m presenting them on this page, too, out of the context of the whole show. As reference (as to how they looked before enjoying a ride through two countries’ postal systems) you can check out my earlier blog entry.

 

"The Economy of Found" (post-postal, by MegBeam, 2011) A little mangled, but all there.

 

"Economy of Light" (post-postal, by MegBeam, 2011) I guess a piece came disconnected, but they kindly taped it back together, interesting artistic decision on their part. I'm kind of surprised the dangling thing is still there. And the scanner's light is reflected in the photo lift!

 

"Economy of Freedom" (post-postal, by MegBeam, 2011) I like how some of the birds have been partially set free. Perfect.

 

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Blackout

Filed under: General Musings — Leave a comment
January 18, 2012

I wasn’t able to do the full blackout thing, but here is a whiteout (because my text is in white normally). To learn more about  this issue, check out today or yesterday’s shows on Democracy Now!

 This protest lasts until 8pm EST on today, Wednesday, Jan18.

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Happy Birthday, Dad (in 2007)

Filed under: General Musings — Leave a comment
January 14, 2012

A photo from the 2006 trek up LeConte (MegBeam)

 

 

 

(This was originally posted on the Mt. LeConte website blog, on February 14, 2007, in honor of my dad on his birthday.)


 

 

 

“LeConte holds a special place in my family memories. After living along the Redwood Coast in Northern California for a while, I realized that my first visit back to my homeland South must coincide with my family’s annual trek up The Story Mountain. After all, a particular travel authority purports that the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is the 5th best place to experience fall foliage. Besides this goading tidbit, I had really delved into my study of place and personhood, one’s connection to his various environments, and the interaction of one’s childhood space with later claims of identity and its influence on the formation of personal operating systems. I claim these mountains as my heritage, and I was on my way to re-ignite the fires of our familial relationships against the backdrop of my personal story.

I took a seven-hour bus ride down Hwy101 to The Bay Area to hang out with a friend in Oakland for a few hours before boarding a red-eye flight backwards in time to Atlanta, Georgia. This was the beginning of my journey up LeConte the October of 2006. After about a week of visiting friends and locations I loved, I caught a ride with a good friend up to my hometown. I was getting closer. The week prior to the annual ascent was a whirlwind of books and treasured time with family and rest in my first home spot, a warm berth of purity. I also talked to my dad and cat about the upcoming trip. I dealt with the disappointment that my mother would stay behind for the first time. Daddy and I had done quite a few hiking and/or camping trips without Mama but never to LeConte. If anyone were left out it would have been me, in consideration of all my wanderings as well as the demands placed on me both at school and work. I was determined though that this weekend on LeConte was going to be great despite this new challenge.

Daddy began prepping me by letting me borrow two mini books about LeConte Lodge. I had seen him read these numerous times over the years, and I recognized many of the books’ anecdotes as common fodder for conversation with my dad. This was fun for me, because I could imagine again these places in their untouched wildness being sculpted by their admirers. I snuggled under the sheet covering my childhood trundle bed in my long-sleeved LeConte t-shirt and drank up this specialized history in anticipation.

Friday came, and I had packed all my bags for returning to California once the weekend had spent itself in the wilderness. In the midst of this sorting task, I set aside the essentials for a weekend at LeConte Lodge. This was a breeze. Not much variation is needed from year to year; the secret is to practice simplicity and efficiency. A book, warm gear, and a flashlight are on the top of the list. I kept the morsels from the stories I had just consumed on the tip of my brain so I could mull them over on the trail during the next couple of days.

Daddy and I hit the sack early in preparation for a pre-dawn departure time. All through the night, visions of giant peanut butter cookies danced in our heads – along with an occasional boomer-squirrel playing thief. After breakfast, we both kissed a still-sleeping Mama on the forehead in the dark. “Ya’ll have fun. Don’t forget how much I love you,” she replied, and we were off.

About three hours later, Daddy and I arrived at the Alum Cave Bluff trailhead. I was asleep during most of the drive, but Daddy had awakened me around “T minus 30 minutes” so I could get all excited by gazing out the window. We were aiming to be on top before our stomachs started growling too loudly to ignore. We were both a little chilly at the beginning, but we were planning on scampering up that mountain as best we could within our abilities so our hopes were high for solving that slight annoyance. The creek was running along to the tune of “Happy Birthday, Gracie” whose day would be celebrated during our descent. I was invigorated by the idea of a woman so in love with a mountain that she structured her daily life in such a way that she could climb it as often as possible to the very end of her days. The adage, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” has rarely been better personified.

Daddy and I joined our chatterings to those of the water – recounting previous trips and generally speaking whatever came to mind. I felt more at ease and unified with the experience than any trip previously so the conversation mixed easily with my environmental observations. The weather was the most perfect either one of us could remember, just like each year’s Christmas tree. We could be comfortable hiking in shorts and long sleeves while the sun dappled our way. Perfect.

We climbed through the little starter tunnel while paying homage to the men who carved these steps and inserted these poles. I considered the difference between how those men experienced this trail and how my dad and I were encountering it. The sassafras hiking stick that my dad had carved for me many years ago served a dramatically contrasting role in my hand compared to the tools swinging from the mountain men’s grasp. Those men’s labor allowed for my peaceful trek.

And we continued toward the summit, engaging in casual banter with fellow hikers. We talked about Mama, what she might be doing, and what she might say at that point of the trail if she had been with us. Gracie’s observations were also mentioned as well as those of Paul Allen. But quietness was shared too. As I have grown, I have become comfortable enough with myself that I can embrace silence to be enjoyed with the people I love and respect. During those moments, I can truly appreciate living life alongside such special people, such as my dad. Our tummies were cheering with ferocious growls as we stepped out of the final tree-lined corridor onto sunwashed Flat Top. We had made it, and it was cabin kickback time.

A day lazily spent around the LeConte Lodge clearing is a luxury. A peanut butter sandwich “saying hello to my stomach right now” while soaking in the full bath of noonday star goodness next to a new porch equipped with sturdy rockers – oh, you thought I was describing heaven, didn’t you? What an amazing day.

I paused from my book since distracted by my brain trying to figure our how I could explain this journey’s significance to my California friends. They hear my glory stories about the Great Smoky Mountains all the time, but, for them, the gleam in my eye and the excitement in my voice are the closest things to experience they could boast. Well, I knew there sure would be plenty of that for everyone to have a bite. Just don’t forget anything, I reminded myself.

Daddy and I chose old shingles that were going to be trashed to take with us as souvenirs. He wrote Mama a letter on one to ensure that she would know he missed her. I read the book she lent me so we could discuss it Sunday night. Mama would have been reading in the sunshine too if she had been there.

Supper was a joy and a beautiful transition into night as always. We caught up with two young women who, like me, had grown up climbing this mountain on this day with their dad. It is as if we are all one family for one night a year. Pass the cornbread, just once more . . .

Neither Daddy nor I were able to keep our eyes open too late that night. We were able to manage a walk to Cliff Tops for one more mystically cloudy sunset with our ranger friend from Grundy, VA, and a short spell of sittin’ in those rockers before it was time to say good night to the moon who was getting ready to be full on the following Wednesday. We both fooled ourselves into thinking we could read a while but concluded that the films screening on the back of our eyelids took priority. I clicked off my book light and listened to Daddy snore on the bottom bunk as I revisited the daylights’ images of the heavy clumps of red berries . . . hanging from the silver branches of the mountain ash . . . against the Fall-blue sky . . . turned dark . . . turned star-dotted . . .

. . . turned burning new and softened in the furry fog of morning.

Daddy said it rained hard during the night, and it was cloudy still just before sunrise so he had returned to the underside of those bless-my-soul Bay blankets instead of waking me up for a Myrtle Point visit. We comforted ourselves in the memory of past eager sunrises and the current deliciousness of being well-rested. It was almost time to retrace our footsteps, back to that little mama.

Daddy and I first retook our seats in the dining hall to refuel for the downward portion of the hike. I marveled again at the characteristically challenging task of choosing vegetarian in an omnivore world and was thankful that I could do it with my dad. We say our goodbyes to the staff, to the once-a-year family, and to the mountain I carry in my mind and in my personal story all the time without stopping.

The trip down the mountain by foot and by car was quicker than in the opposite direction 24 hours earlier. Daddy conspired with me to illegally collect a single Orange Jewelweed blossom for my vial of Mt. LeConte as we drove out of the park. My vial accompanied me back to California and stands beside me now, four months later, as a symbol of the mountain-sized love my family is blessed to share – also all the time without stopping.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY on Feb14, DADDY (AKA: FRED)!”

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While we are looking at 2009:

Filed under: General Musings — Leave a comment
January 14, 2012

Originally written on February 8, 2009, on behalf of an FB friend who tagged me to do it. Some of these are not really true about me any more – especially #25, now that’s a story – but it’s a fun snapshot of some free writing about things i was willing to expose about my person.

 

1. i eat each of the different kinds of meat about once a year to keep my system used to processing it.

2. i love playing board games.

3. i wanted to change my name to Appeldery (spelled like that) when i was little.

4. i grew up without a tv until i was in 12th grade.

5. i don’t have a fingerprint on my left index finger.

6. i requested audience with the governor of south carolina when i was about 7. after waiting for a while he sent out his regrets and a signed photograph.

7. i am in love with a balding, dreddy boy.

8. i eat a lot of parts of foods that other people throw away or compost.

9. i am pro-public-farting.

10. my middle name is elaine.

11. no, i don’t look like meg ryan just because our names are similar.

12. i am quite obsessive.

13. my favorite stone is lapis lazuli.

14. i classify my outlook on life as “pessimisstic idealism” (living in such a way to make it as possible as possible for my ideals to realize themselves but recognizing that evil seems to usually win out these days and disappointment is rampid …) .

15. i am pro women keeping hair on their bodies if they want it there and society getting the fuck over it if you think it’s “weird” or “gross” or “unladylike”. I’m the lady, and i get to decide what i’m like!

16. i am a promotor of the Keeper.

17. life goal: catalyze social and cultural change through the arts and education.

18. i love love love purple.

19. no, i don’t work at a grocery store because i’m a failure. it was the top choice for the time being.

20. olive brine is so yummy on raisins. totally serious.

21. i had fungus on my toes for 8 years until i discovered PAV …

22. sigur ros is my favorite band.

23. i can wiggle my right ear independently from other muscles.

24. i hAVE BETTER than 2020 vision – looking foward too!

25. i am moving to new zealand in 2010.

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Also from 2009: I love this flyer :)

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January 14, 2012

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A letter from 2009

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January 13, 2012

Monday, December 7, 2009
Megan E. Workman
Community Member
Arcata, CA
864/353.4029
Workman.Meg@gmail.com
RE: Panhandling Ordinance

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed herein originate from myself and do not pretend to represent any organization. I recognize that no human can have attained Absolute Truth, but I attest to the genuine existence of the following observations in my own wise heart.

Dear Arcata City Council,

I write to you today in recognition of Ordinance 1399 currently in discussion to regulate panhandling in the city of Arcata. My unease with this issue is the lack of human compassion represented in the December 2 draft of the Ordinance and its inability to achieve one of the goals the Council has set for this law. I thank you in advance for taking note of my humble concern.

I generally commute in town by walking. As a resident at the intersection of 11th and H Streets, as an employee at the North Coast Co-op’s Arcata store, located at 9th and I Streets, and as a studio renter at the intersection of 24th Street and L.K. Wood Blvd, I am quite familiar with the areas identified as problem centers for panhandling in our community. Even as a young woman with an unimposing stature, usually commuting alone, including in the night time, I have never felt threatened by someone asking me for anything on the streets of Arcata. Nevertheless, I respect those of my fellow community members who claim the feelings of “fear and intimidation” quoted in Item 5 of “SEC. 4280. Findings”.

I have, however, noticed at times a sense of aggravation or annoyance inside me. I rejoice at the opportunity this gives me to examine the source of these feelings in my spirit and to positively evolve as a human being. I am grateful that I do not have to ask strangers to help me survive in this life. I also welcome the extra food that I find along my Path and the ease with which I find those who need it so I can share. This is the compassionate approach that I have personally adopted as an Arcata Community Member.

My impression of Ordinance 1399 in its current draft is that human compassion is largely absent. All levels of our United States government have a history of composing policies and enacting laws in the primary interest of business owners and economic outcomes. It is true that they are often veiled in pseudo-humanitarian language, and sometimes even lies, so as to obscure these intents from the people they are oppressing. I in no way accuse our honorable City Council of intentionally engaging in such an anti-progressive mode of decision making. I propose, however, that the Council reevaluate Ordinance 1399 and scrutinize, from a position of compassion, its treatment of all parties involved. Panhandlers are not only that. They are human beings with stories, hearts, corporeal as well as spiritual needs, and basic human rights, such as speaking freely with other humans. This must not be overlooked. For example, I agree that one human right being addressed with this ordinance is the right of one to be in shared public spaces and not fear aggression. But is this not already regulated by more general Public Conduct codes? Targeting a largely houseless population with this language does not seem to regard their status as equal to that of “victimized” citizens.

Item 5 of “SEC. 4280. Findings” sets forth two goals for Ordinance 1399. I feel that this current draft thoroughly addresses the first goal (“to protect citizens from fear and intimidation accompanying certain kinds of solicitation”) but seems to entirely neglect the second goal: “restore an atmosphere of mutual respect within the community”. I very much support the pursuit of this goal, but there seems to be no provisions here for its realization. I am not totally sure how an ordinance would provide for the attainment of this goal, however it would be encouraging to see the Council give more attention to the achievement of mutual respect among business owners, as one segment of that community pie, and the folks who largely are not buyers but no less a community pie slice. The only idea that comes to my mind is perhaps free trainings on the plaza regarding topics such as “Aggressiveness vs. Assertiveness” or “How to say ‘no’ with Kindness”. I actively join the Arcata City Council on a daily basis in the pursuit of this goal.

I thank you again for the work you do on behalf of our town and for taking the time to hear my voice.

Sincerely,
Megan E. Workman

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The July that meowed.

Filed under: Portfolio of Artpieces — Leave a comment
January 13, 2012

(first published as an FB note on July 12, 2011, at 8:13 am)

i had a cat in 1996 named July … my dad found her as a kitten stuck in some bushes on the fourth of july … she was hit by a car a few days before my birthday later that year in december … my other cat was really pissed the whole time july was there … when july died i was really sad to lose that fluffy one … but hershey was back to her pre-pissed self so there was also kind of a resurrection through July’s death … my mom postulates that hershey conspired in some way with that car … Hershey and my mom never really ever grew to like each other … i dedicated my first Zo*teKh Zine (published in january 2008) to Hershey (who died in the fall of 2007).

Hershey was dignified, even as a kitten, and even though she was super spunky, always dignified. But July was always a scoundrel. They both died the way they had lived – Hershey: lain out under the family oak tree, July: mysteriously on a neighboring road. I miss them both.

 

An altar to that stuff of my life which has died and supports me now by being my ground ... (created by MegBeam in 2006 at The Ink People)

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Christmas (alone?!?) in San Francisco: Part Two

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January 4, 2012

Back row, L to R: dad's older sister's husband, dad's older sister, dad's younger sister, dad's mom, dad's dad. Bottom row, L to R: dad's older sister's son, me, my mom, my dad. Year? Circa 1988.

And I did it, Christmas by myself. I had almost done it several other times, but this was the first one that actually happened. I was really optimistic about it, and I did learn a lot. But I’d rather not do it again, for a while at least. Here I recapitulate.

For a while, I had held on to the dim hope that I could go up to Humboldt to surprise my boyfriend on Christmas. (He’s now my husband-to-be, but in those pre-Christmas moments, he was still my boyfriend.) After I realized that that would be impossible, I debated about even acknowledging Christmas at all. It might have been easier. After all, my family’s interpretation of the “true meaning of Christmas”, as told in the Gospels, is not something that I believe in anymore. But then, most people are not celebrating that at Christmas anyway. I have wrestled for years about this holiday. At once, there are so many amazing family memories attached to Christmas, and I do appreciate the unity that holidays potentially provide within a culture. And besides the repulsive commercialism that can saturate any moment in our contemporary world, this particular holiday also promotes peace, joy, and love. I’m into those last three. So I resolved, around Dec15, that I would try to celebrate Christmas in some way. Why would I completely ignore a holiday that offered so much goodness? I’d figure out something.

One of those fringe enjoyments: a decorated tree along Lover's Lane in the Presidio, en route to christmas eve job #1 (MegBeam, 2011)

I babysat twice on Christmas Eve. In between jobs, I was able to spend about an hour and a half at my house. I spent it decking out my living room. I knew I would be arriving home late and wanting to wake up early, so if I wanted to wake up to something that resembled the nostalgia I was going for, then I had to take that moment to prep. I had bought a bag of Christmas tree ornaments from Goodwill – 12 ornaments for 99cents – wear and tear included!

The troll was my fave out of the Goodwill ornaments. (MegBeam, 2011)

After decorating, I crawled up to the roof of my house to look at the lights. I reflected on the fact that I had been enjoying the fringes of others’ celebrating all month – by taking care of kids in houses decorated for the holiday or by sniffing the pot roast scents wafting up to the roof just then. It was a little weird. But pleasant. I had never before felt so outside of a community during a holiday. Oh, I thought, I’m going to have so much fun tomorrow, though; aloneness won’t even matter.

I had an amazing Christmas Eve evening, spent with a two-year-old that I simply adored. He achieved the prominent status of “My Favorite Kid that I have Kept Yet in San Francisco”. He was creative, engaged, inquisitive, and wore glasses to correct his cross-eyedness (so cute!). I wish I could be his nanny. He kept asking when Santa was coming. Babysitters don’t often get to be the one to answer this question because we don’t normally get to keep the kids on such a special night. After the job was done and I arrived home to the living room I had arranged in Christmassy splendor, I had in my hands two – count them! two! – San Francisco bus tickets that said Dec24, 2011, on them. Fun.

St. Dominic's Catholic Church, formally established in 1876. It is located at the corner of Bush and Steiner Streets in San Francisco. (MegBeam, 2011)

I excitedly wrapped the butter crunch for my neighbors (for more on the butter crunch venture, please see Part One), rechecked my plan for attending Mass in the morning, and settled my brain for a long winter’s nap. Yes, I had decided to attend Christmas Mass. (For more in-depth writing about this experience, please refer to the first post of the Course in Sanctuary Series.) I had been to many Christmas services but never a Catholic one. I had visited Catholic churches all over Europe but never attended one of their services. I had read history, essays, doctrines, apologies, etc. about Catholicism but never read one of their masses. I had sung numerous compositions created for the Mass, but never sung during a Mass. The time for newness was now. Alone Christmas would find me starting out at St. Dominic’s.

After leaving the butter crunch packages in front of the doors of the other apartments in my building, I walked the 15 minutes to St. Dominic’s. I had found this church on a walk back from a babysitting job a couple weeks earlier. The Christmas morning walk felt so good, exchanging grins and seasonal greetings with my fellow pedestrians. It was sunny and not too awfully cold. I passed a few people on the way, exchanging smiles and Christmas greetings with each of them. A solemn mass was still underway when I arrived. I didn’t know how packed this church might be for Christmas, and I wanted to make sure I got a seat. I was so obviously not a Catholic.  But the lady next to me was still willing to hold my hand during one of the prayers. It felt refreshing to sing the familiar Christmas songs, but I missed my mom harmonizing next to me. At some point, I was so moved in my spiritual awareness while my eyes were closed that I felt the distinct compulsion to open them. I wasn’t ready to full-on bawl among these strangers. One tear squeaked out though – first tear of the day.

This Christmas tree is suspended in the air and has green gloves for needles. (MegBeam, 2011)

The service was the typical length but felt timeless. I bypassed the priest who was shaking hands at the exit; I opted to shake the sun as I enjoyed the luxury of walking slowly back to my house. My main gift to myself was going to be not keeping a time schedule all day. I needed to be asleep by a certain time so I could be fresh for babysitting early on the 26th. But other than that, time was nothing that day.

I passed by one of my Christmas trees, pictured here. I chose to adopt a few trees as mine this year instead of creating my own tree decoration. I really love what these people did. This display is interchanged with seasonally appropriate installations. There is always something hanging from that latch.

Another view of the glove tree. (MegBeam, 2011)

Back at the house, I almost poured myself a bowl of cereal for my Christmas brunch, but then I thought, “I want to open my parents’ box first. Maybe, if i’m lucky, there are going to be some grits in that box which would be waaaay better than cold cereal.” I took my internet, Christmas playlist into the living room where I had made the Christmas installation and took their big box from the pile. Sure enough, I opened the box, and not only was there a bag of grits from the water-powered stone mill close to my parents’ house, but also four batches of cookies, a batch of butter crunch, a promise for another year’s subscription to South Carolina Wildlife, my favorite childhood tree ornament, and a picture of our family on my first Christmas, when I was only two weeks old. Okay, there comes the full-on bawl. I’m laughing-screaming-crying in warm joyfullness when my family calls. All who were there sang to me on the phone. My gift was complete.

nostalgia for brunch ...

Eventually I had to let them go. I took my grits to the roof along with those special tokens of my family’s Christmas Past. This brunch ended up being around 2:30pm, with all my weepy wanderings. My Humboldt mentor, Libby Maynard, reminded me in an email that I wasn’t alone because I was with her in her heart. And that was the basic message from my biological family too. Yet I was quite stunned by the sadness I felt at being alone on Christmas. I had struggled for years with debilitating depression, often characterized by hollowing senses of lonely, castaway feelings. My healthier mental wellbeing today is based on the cultivation of  my awareness of my center, a powerful center of being that is always with me. And so this aloneness was absented by loneliness. I could feel inside me the glowing presence of those I love and could feel myself glowing in them, instead of the crushing box of isolation. However, I longed to share this celebration, in a geographical closeness, as in bodily, right beside me. Oh! This is what people mean by “Christmas is about sharing.” Peace, love, and joy are completely different animals when they are being experienced and expressed by humans in ensemble.

The glove tree at night. (MegBeam, 2011)

I dripped a few more tears as Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” came over my playlist again. That’s what Christmas is about for me and what I want to celebrate with people, of course more than once a year, but especially make a point to do it WITH other humans at least once a year. I’ll do it in my heart everyday, but let’s take out our hearts together sometime and celebrate our visions of a better world. I have read many strong arguments saying it would be impossible for our world to exist without strife. A warring is essential for existence. Despite whether that is so, I choose to be on the side of compassionate peacefulness and joyous loving, the side of seeking universal sacredness and walking the kind path with confidence.

After pondering this for a few hours while playing in the garden, lounging on the sofa, watching the sun set from the roof … I knew I needed to be around people, even if we were not going to be engaging each other. So I took my puffy eyes and my awakened-a-bit-more spirit to Japantown for a bit of Christmas veggie soup. I left one of my holiday cards for my servers, the only reach out I could manage at the time. Then soaked my edges with Russian River’s Damnation at Toronado. Batman: Noel was my company, along with the strangers all around. I went to sleep with a new understanding and fresh intentions for my tomorrows: it can be a perfect holiday from the looks of the agenda, but a holiday meant to be shared will shake a person up if they spend it alone. I may need that shake-up as a reminder again sometime, but you can bet on me seeking out some family, whether the adopted or the biological kind, wherever I am on Dec25, 2012.

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