God Bless Henry Miller!

"The way of life is towards fulfillment, however, wherever it may lead. To restore a human being to the current of life means not only to impart self-confidence but also an abiding faith in the process of life. A man who has confidence in himself must have confidence in other, confidence in the fitness and rightness of the universe. When a man is thus anchored he ceases to worry about the fitness of things, about the behavior of his fellow men, about right and wrong and justice and injustice. If his roots are in the current of life he will float on the surface like a lotus and he will blossom and give forth fruit. He will draw his nourishment from above and below; he will send his roots down deeper and deeper, fearing neither the depths nor the heights. The life that is in him will manifest itself in growth, and growth is an endless, eternal process. he will not be afraid of withering, because decay and death are part of growth. As a seed he began and as a seed he will return. Beginnings and ending are only partial steps in the eternal process. The process is everything... the way... the Tao.

The way of life! A grand expression. Like saying Truth. There is nothing beyond it... it is all."

- Henry Miller, Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion I

THIS IS NOT A WAGON

It may appear as if I have fallen off the reading wagon... alas, I assure you that appearances are deceiving! Let me explain...

Whilst I have not been keeping up with my BOOK a week regimen in the last little while, I have been on another adventure known as PURE CREATIVE RESEARCH!!! Yee-haw.

I've been hired by CalArts to direct the US premier (!) of a truly bizarre opera from 1965 called "Loving" by a rather hip cat named R Murray Schafer who coined the truly awesome term "schizophonia"... and as I was brought onto the project rather late, I've been busting my arse trying to get familiar enough with the piece and do enough research to make some fundamental decisions regarding the design and production of this epic piece of avant-art-visual-musical-poem theater.

I've been reading about Abelard and Heloise, Eros, Vanity, Ishtar, Carl Jung's theories on the Anima & Animus, Botticelli's Primavera and all sorts of varied and sundry visual research and inspiration, from the light works of James Turrell to the fashions of 1965, Beach Blanket Bingo, Jean Luc Godard, and the world's smallest drive in movie theater.

In the midst of all that, I'm working my way through William Irvin Thompson's The Time Falling Bodies Take To Light, which has THE BEST FRIGGIN' TITLE THAT I'VE EVER HEARD!!!!

I'll probably have some exciting things to share after tomorrow, which is the first major/official production meeting for the opera. It's happening after a 2 1/2 hour design meeting wherein we shall try to come to some sort of same-page consensus on the look, feel, function, form and aesthetic of this wild and weird piece of work. :-)

Wen Fu, Fool!

This week I resorted to my skinny book technique (in order to stay on schedule in the midst of my post-holiday haze) and read Master Lu Chi's "Wen Fu" (The Art of Writing). Whilst Master Lu's life (as quickly communicated in the introduction) seemed to be a succession of raw fuckin' deals, this lil' book is BOSS. Floats like a butterfly, stings like the bees in the Wicker Man. :-)

Here's some highlights:

IV. The Satisfaction

Out of non-being, being is born;
out of silence,
a writer produces a song.

X. Shadow and Echo and Jade

When the mind is caged and separate,
the spirit wanders
and nothing is controlled.

XI. Five Criteria

The poet calls and calls
into the void,
but nothing answers.

XIII. The Masterpiece

Wanting every word to sing.
every writer worries:

nothing is every perfected;
no poet can afford to become complacent.

I've been reading a lot of books about writing lately, as that is the next step for me in this dissertation process. The ULTIMATE step! Actually WRITING the damn thing.

I have filled myself for YEARS with books and more books and ideas and obsessions -- underlining things, making notes, connections, following threads -- and now it is finally time to step into the wild frontier of actually putting forth my OWN thoughts, ideas, and articulating MY philosophy on the topic that has been the recurring theme in my life, art, and thinking. It's an exciting time to be in the mind of Juli Crockett. And terrifying. Incredibly terrifying.

It is a damn good thing that I recently started meditating regularly. Not only does the journey into effortlessness and emptiness have EVERYTHING to do with my dissertation on NOTHING... the practice itself helps to keep me grounded as I venture deep into the void. Like the 'ol Zen kōan about walking in a circle in both directions simultaneously:

Here I amn't, grounded in groundlessness.

The Jesus in George Marshall

The Individual: An assemblage of fragments artificially brought together by the mind in a "unity" which cannot stand up to examination.

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

I'm having one of those deeply suspicious days wherein I don't believe anything anymore, and all is suspect. It feels as if some wrong turn has been taken. A single misstep which has disturbed the trajectory of my journey, and I find myself out to sea. Thinking causes headaches, deep breaths make me cough, and the pain in my shoulder will not relent.

August Strindberg was haunted by the scent of celery, and I find myself hounded by the pungent odor of leeks. Are you aware of the onion-like heart of the leek, which makes the eyes tear more than any onion ever could. It is a terror, the leek. And I cannot determine if the scent is seeping out of me, out of my very pores, or if it follows like a fog. How can One be sure?

I am in a panic!

A fervor!

Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to find himself transformed into a disgusting creature.... some sort of bug. I am trying to take it easy. The universe seems to have something in store for us. Something crazy.

I must get organized!

I must go home, clean my house, scrub the corners, file the papers, and do the laundry.

I will make a list of priorities which begins:

1) CALM DOWN

Here is the situation:

Upon waking one morning I found the following note pinned to the lapel of my pajamas:

Marie Antoinette died with a mouthful of jism, sprayed forth from the pecker of a most talented man. A musical genius, whose work was suppressed for fear of a world-wide spiritual liberation. His name was George Marshall, and he was a man of unknown racial origin, an orphan: found in Egypt, raised in Greece, exiled to France. Had a torrid love affair with Missus Antoinette, before her untimely demise. Just before, in fact. She died with a mouthful of his eternal artistic legacy. He disappeared shortly afterwards. I fear it was the Goons.

I believe it is in Plexus that George Marshall first appeared, at least in my conscious experience. Henry Miller has a childhood friend that he is identical to. They were bosom buddies and they both got sick and he spent some time living out in the country with George. Then something changed and he who was once his friend became his nemesis. The coin flipped and they were opposites. George Marshall became his enemy. This is all that I can recall of the episode.

The root of their conflict was, of course, a woman. One that Henry was idealizing, and George Marshall was not one to idealize. He thought it foolish. Especially in the case of this particular woman.

George Marshall.

Never have I identified with a character more than with George Marshall.

This identification, I admit, is dubious, considering that I can't really remember many specifics about the character at all. My only recollection is the deep sensation of knowing that I am him.

I do not mean this literally. Although, I shall proceed as if I do.

ON THE FIRST DAY:

Sometime, right around the Turn of the Century, it came to my attention that I was none other than George Marshall.

This is a very difficult sentence to phrase properly, so I ask that you please forgive my seeming redundancy. There is a very specific moment of revelation which I feel it is imperative for me to express from the get-go, if we are to have any hope of arriving at the same place, so to speak. Or rather, on the same page. Therefore I am impelled to try this sentence in a variety of forms and phrasings so as to make sure that the bases are covered, so to speak, and that whomever should chance to read this volume might have the greatest possibility of understanding the particular and peculiar realization that occurred to me on that fateful day.

The day of which I am speaking was the day that I realized that I was George Marshall, or, rather, if you please, George Marshall was me. I and George Marshall were one and the same. There are many reasons why this sudden revelation was rather shocking. For one, I never knew of George Marshall, prior to our defining first contact, and when we did encounter each other, very little was revealed. In fact, I didn't actually meet him, in the flesh, that is to say, in person, I merely read about him. The reading wasn't even an autobiographical account. It was fictionalized second-hand reporting, by a well-known exaggerator, who, in this particular case, was not inclined to go into much detail about the character which I have since spent my life trying to construct.

George Marshall isn't even his real name.

But alas, what's in a name?

There's the name you're given, of course, and then there's the name you give yourself. And sometimes they're the same and sometimes they're different. I wouldn't say that mine is an exceptional case. Not at all. I don't pride myself on being "radical" or think that it's anything out of the ordinary. Like all men, I see myself in the mirror in the morning and in my head I acknowledge that the image I see in the mirror is me. It isn't shocking, and it never has been. I may notice new things, but I have never had a startling revelation or alternate recognition whilst looking in the mirror. It has always been that I meet my own reflection in more or less the way that I expected I would. Without event.

It was very much the same when I became George Marshall. I merely recognized myself and accepted that fact as I accept the fact of my own face in the mirror. No use denying it, I know who I am. And perhaps there are moments when we surprise ourselves, with our behaviors and our capabilities, however, we usually know where we begin and end. There have been instances of religious experience (and chemically induced experiences) in which people have reported a sensation of not knowing where they began and ended. Regardless, the best I can do to explain it is that I instantly accepted the fact that I am George Marshall and I don't even remember that much about him, however, I plan to go back and investigate.

The fact that George Marshall and I were one and the same, indivisible, and united in the deepest sense, was not something that was readily apparent to the casual observer. I had no proof. All I had was the first instance of deep and unquestionable knowing with which my life had ever been graced. When I realized that George Marshall and I were one and the same, I realized that I had never realized anything before in all my life. I had thought that I had known many things; however, upon knowing the first thing that I had ever truly known, I then knew that I had never known anything. Again, this is a difficult and specific moment of realization to phrase. This is a peculiar experience which I would love to go into great elaboration upon, because it is a pleasure and an intense delight to recall those feelings of the first knowing. However, time is of the essence, and I must stick to the point.

The point is, in that moment, I knew, for the first time, something, and that something was that George Marshall and I were one and the same. In that instant I felt timeless, boundless, infinite and always. Not only was I George Marshall; George Marshall was also I. He was born again in me and was able to witness himself. In me, as me, George Marshall was restored to life. Reborn. It sounds much more mystical than it was, and yet, no words can properly give glory to the holiness of the situation. It was the stuff that science fiction novels are based on; of which religious literature speaks.

Merry Happy Holy Days

In case you were wondering, somewhere in the back of your mind, in the midst of all the Holiday madness, what I, Juli Crockett, was reading this week.... Well, I'll tell you!

I'm finishing Henry Miller's SEXUS, of the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy (Sexus, Plexus, Nexus) which I began on the Thursday after my 33rd birthday (the book starts on a Thursday, as Miller nears 33) and then abandoned it when I started reading more "serious philosophical texts" that had "more to do" with my dissertation.

However, seeing as Henry Miller is the inspiration for so very very much in this life of mine, I thought I'd get back on track with my personal development as an artist and writer (along with the philosopher, singer, songwriter, playwright, director, minister, et all and finish the intended re-read of this trilogy during this, my 33rd year, so that I may suckle all the wisdom and inspiration from the sensuous spiritual teat of dear Mister Miller.

Physician, heal thyself!

Reading William Stafford's Writing the Australian Crawl (which I'm feeling pretty optimistic about finishing this week!) is reminding me that I'm a big fan of good books about the creative process. I love it when artist's write about their routines, random thoughts, inner life, personal pen preferences and relationship to solitude. It makes me feel in good company with "my people" to read these texts, and I always find them INSANELY inspirational... no matter how cheesy they might be. I'm a utter sucker for the creative process.

One of my all-time favorites is Agnes Martin: Writings. For me, her insights into what it is to be an artist are as profound and deep as any philosophy book I've read. And she's incredibly CLEAR, which is such a gift. Maybe it's the intense passion for minimalism that has helped her to become so friggin' eloquent.

Heck, I even love The Artist's Way and a wild and wide range of straight up self-help-ish literature. The intention behind it all (other than the profit motive part) is beautiful: unlocking all the latent creative energy in the "common man", removing whatever trash is holding folks back, and working to create a world full of happy, expressive, creatively stimulated & stimulating communicative human BEINGS who not only participate in their world but help consciously CREATE it and make it BEAUTIFUL. Amen.

I recently read David Lynch's Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity which was utterly BOSS. Not only do I love him and his films, this book totally made me love his process and the potential of my OWN process. It was one in a series of events that inspired me to take a big 'ol leap into the void and learn Transcendental Meditation. Hell yeah. As of 11am this morning, the adventure hath commenced. This shizz is ON, nickels! :-)

lowering your standards

Alright, I admit it. I haven't finished my book this week (Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ). Heck, I haven't even finished the FIRST week's book (Philosophy for Dummies)... however, that doesn't keep me from keeping up with the schedule. Tonight I begin another one, and continue along reading all THREE books simultaneously. Actually, make that FOUR books... because this week is a double-header.

READING is not the only thing I need to do in order to complete my doctorate. Alas, I need to WRITE a dissertation. So, this week I'm reading "Writing the Australian Crawl" by William Stafford, whose very last poem (written on the day he died) I happened to read today.

The book was recommended to me by Evangenitals drummer David Hurlin, who writes the incredibly awesome and zen-spirational "Drum Theory and Revelation" blog -- which, if you aren't following it, expounds upon topics and tangents that are useful and accessible to every kind of artist/human/being. Meaning: it's not just for drummers... or rather, it's for the drummer in us all, as all of our heart's beat beat beat. :-)

One of the key suggestions, as I understand it, that Stafford has for writers is to LOWER YOUR STANDARDS so that you can just friggin' WRITE. Give yourself permission to write BADLY. Terrible. Pathetic. Lame. Whiney. Ridiculous. Lies. Poppycock and balderdash and flim flam and humbuggery. Just WRITE.

I have often wondered where this sense comes from that I, somehow, am supposed to be perfect. That there is such a THING, though I have never seen nor experienced it, as PERFECTION. That I could ACHEIVE perfection, if only I had the right atmosphere, writing paper, routine, desk, funds in the bank, diet, focus, amount of sleep, pen, typewriter, musical accompaniment, education, will power, discipline, IDEA!

For the some philosophers, this SENSE that we have for the possibility of perfection was the grounds for belief in another reality, where things actually EXIST in their "ideal state"... whereas this world we're living in is but an illusion. The flickering shadows on the wall of Plato's cave. For other philosophers, the paradox of perfection is that it is the greatest perfection is imperfection. Go figure. (Seriously, GO!)

I'm also re-reading the Ancient Secret of the Fountain of Youth this week because my shoulder hurts so bad I want to cut it off and I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to get wise and get regular with this incredible practice which was utterly rewarding on every friggin' level when I was doing it before I fell off the wagon. And, I want to refresh my memory to make sure I'm doing all the 5 Rites correctly. Accurately. Effectively. Perfectly. :-)

"Imperfection is beauty. Madness is genius. It's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring." (Marilyn Monroe)