A Hole in Space (Oakland Redux) // East Bay Express

For the past year, I’ve been developing this project in collaboration with Ellen Sebastian Chang and the support of the Great Wall of Oakland.  It finally went up last week, and here’s the first article about it.  We have a lot of footage we will be sharing, and more about it on the project website and my own.

Note to self, expand on this

Theater has become the museum–the place we go to see the antiquated mode of engagement, the narrative, the play, the text we’ve seen before, again.

The museum has become the theater–in the sense of the Athenian theater, the place where the polis gathers to engage over shared public concerns.

Reunion and Memory

If I had to rank the #1 strangest experience from my 20th high school reunion last weekend it would be the black hole of memory.

Often you see a person from long ago and after a few seconds you can begin to remember their face, if dimly.  Or if they’ve physically changed too much–weight, gray hair–the name can somehow ring a distant bell, even if there’s no depth charge of emotion behind it–kind of like “oh yeah that guy.”

But some people are just a void.  They recall nothing to you and the nothingness can be astonishing.

It was such a person who saw me and recognized me and pointed and said loudly, “You!”

Me?  I tried to recognize him, his name.  Nothing.  I was on my 4th Jack and Coke at this point of the evening, and woozily considered the profundity of such an absolute lack of recall as he continued:

“You!  You’re the only person who gave me shit about my Buckwheat costume!”

I barely had time to process a response but he kept going–“The three black guys who went to our high school, they didn’t have a problem with it!  They were like, ‘naw, it’s cool.'”

Ok.  Ok ok ok ok ok.  I have no memory of this.  Though it does sound like me.

My San Diego high school was, straight up, Clueless.  I remember being in the theater with my friends when that movie came out, shrieking with laughter at its sarcastic portrayal of our SoCal teen milieu.  We were the only ones laughing because no one else in the theater seemed to get that it was a satire.

Torrey Pines was every Cali high school cliche, the kind of place where the surfers surfed, the stoners stoned, the kids drove new Mercedes, the girls got drunk date raped on their way back from Tijuana, and the administration had a Christian theater group come do a play for a school-wide assembly whose lessons were: 1) all guys want to have sex, 2) no girls want to have sex but they do because their boyfriends pressure them into it.  The girls then 3) always regret it, 4) get pregnant, and plus by the way 5) ABORTION IS BAD.  (As a nascent theater director, I seem to remember that play pretty well, including a maudlin final scene where the lead girl lights a 1st birthday candle on a cake for the child she gave up for adoption.)

It was the kind of place where someone might think it’s ok to dress up as Buckwheat for Halloween.  And yeah, I guess the three black guys didn’t say they had a problem with it because if you are one of three black guys in a school of 2000 mostly white kids and you’ve essentially been brought in by some wealthy dads to play on their sons’ football team and some aggro guy comes up to you and says “Hey, man, do you have a problem with my Buckwheat costume?”, you’re probably not going to say, “Yes.  In fact I do.  It’s offensive and stupid, and let me explain to you why.”

I’m sure that guy was right, that I was the only one to give him shit for it–although now that I think about it–didn’t the teachers or administration say anything?  Probably not.  And that is why, perhaps, this one event doesn’t stand out in my memory–because this kind of offensive bullshit happened so often.  The culture I grew up in was deeply offensive to me.

And now that I think about it, I’m starting to remember something.  Which was that I was angry all the time.  I felt trapped in the culture, targeted and humiliated for being an outlier, judged, too smart for these idiots, not pretty enough, counting the minutes, the seconds, until I could escape to the mythical land of college where there would be other people like me.

I lashed out a lot–at my enemies and my friends too–because I did not yet know how to pick my battles.  At that age, everything felt like a battle.  Battle was my daily state of being–little relief from the fight or flight instinct.  As you can imagine, this made me not much fun to be around.  It made me not much fun to be.

Anyway, for the most part, the reunion was a quite innocuous, lacking in much viscerality.  A bland, perfectly pleasant affair.   It’s been a long time.  It’s too early for entertaining plastic surgery (either that, or people have excellent surgeons who keep a light touch on the Botox).  Some of the guys, hilariously enough, did look like the douchebag golf club extras from the movie Caddyshack.  You realize that 38 years of age looks very different on different people.  And there were a surprising number of people whom I felt very warmed to see.

But that story–even though it remains a void in my memory–reminds me of everything and everywhere I was 20 years ago.

Visualist in Residence

I’m currently doing an incredible residency at the Institute for Cultural Inquiry, a private library in Pico Robertson that describes itself as “a non-profit educational and cultural organization focused on ‘visual technologies’ and how they are used to document, imagine, remember and conceal the convergence of human activities and capabilities we call ‘culture.’”

As Visualist-in-Residence they’ve given me a beautiful studio and full access to their incredible archives and library.  As I began, a library of feminist spiritualism and wittiness was donated to the Institute and handed over to me.  Fortuitous?  Planets aligning?  A message from beyond?  

Anyone in LA who feels the need to do some work in a new setting, please feel free to come spend a day with me at the ICI.  photo

My first updates on the ICI’s Visualist in Residence blog here and here.  


Feminist Book Report: Les Évangiles des Quenouilles

“It is true that a woman’s desire is more burning than a man’s, but, as true as the gospel, fear always moderates excesses.” 


In the wake of Hobby Lobby and universities claiming its students never get raped and general waves of discussion regarding the unceasing violence against women–against our legal rights, our bodies, our sexual lives, our ability to speak–let me share some recent reading, which reminds me that it has always and ever been thus.  

(I don’t know if that’s supposed to make any of us feel better).

I recently greatly enjoyed Marina Warner’s From the Beast to the Blonde: Fairy Tales and Their Tellers, a history of fairy tales, mother-wit and how the figure of the female teller (they are mostly female) transforms over history (from Nattering Old Wife to Jolly Mother Goose), as well unpacking the major tropes of fairy tales themselves.  Reading it, I felt like I was 18 and taking Women’s Studies all over again.  Like a virgin touched for the very first time by feminist theory.

Warner led me to Les Évangiles des Quenouilles (The Distaff Gospels in an edition translated and edited by Madeleine Jeay and Kathleen Garay), a popular and widely published and disseminated 15th-century collection of “women’s wisdom”.  

The Distaff Gospels are framed as an old lady’s hexameron:  during the week between Christmas and New Years–a time when women would gather over the long dark evenings with their spindles and distaffs to work and gossip–the ladies beg a scribe to come and document their conversation.  Each night for six nights, one older woman in the community takes charge, sharing her particular reservoir of knowledge:  tips on pregnancy, cure-alls and potions, child-raising, the management of husband and husbandry.  

Parody as Control

While the work remains for us a kind of encyclopedia of medieval women’s beliefs, it was rendered safe (to men) through a parodic, anti-feminist sensibility enforced by the male writer’s voice.  

The old ladies speakers presented are midwives, former prostitutes and procuresses and priest concubines, herbalists, suspiciously from towns known for their occult and heretic practices.  Speakers have names like “Transeline the Hooker” and “Gomberde the Sorceress”–in attendance are Badly Screwed, Perrett Dangling Breasts, Jennette Big Box, and Little Perry Stink Hole. 

Each “chapter” of advice has a “gloss”, a response by another woman in the room; unlike Biblical commentary which interprets and proves the truth of text, these glosses often slyly subvert and undermine the wisdom in the form of supporting it.  

The author states of the gathering that “in reality, it really looked like a market where nothing was sold but talk and discourse, conversations of little consequence and value.”   He then proceeds to document all of it.  And isn’t that what happens? his clear desire for such information masked by the contempt for it–the need to write it and share it while undermining everything for which it stands.

All of this parody points to the real framing device–of this and the Hobby Lobby decision.

Masculine Anxiety  

Things that men find threatening:

  • Women liking sex.
  • Women talking about sex
  • Women gathering and talking to each other honestly about their lives.
  • Midwives for their knowledge of the mysterious workings of the interior body.
  • Even the woman’s main tool after which the book is named, the distaff, is dangerously phallic for a woman to wield–

“If a man is journeying on horseback and comes across a woman who is spinning, it is a very bad encounter: he must turn back and take another way.” 

Masculine Anxiety battles Desire.  Part of a book like this (and this provides interesting framing to say, a whore’s dialogue) is the erotic power of being in the room for womens’ secrets.  

Part of the selling point of a book like this is the sex.  These women are bawds (interestingly distinct from now.  I feel like our culture doesn’t have bawds.  Sluts, but not bawds).  

Those long winter evenings post-Christmas was a time of almost carnival festivity, boys and girls spending a lot of time together, sexual tension and intrigue.  

“Young women shouldn’t play with their suitors at eating the last cherry because usually the one who eats the last one will be the last one of all to marry.
Gloss.  Dame Sebile des Mares said then that young women should not eat their soup playing “hide the ladle” with their lovers, because their husbands will usually have affairs on the side.” 

Women describe experiences waking mid-embrace with incubi covered with “pretty silky hair”; there are several mentions of the friendly merchants to whom you bring your chickens at market, (“I often got presents from a certain merchant, which would not please my husband if he knew about it.”

I loved this one:

“When a woman has sore breasts, the only thing she needs is for her husband to make three circles around them with his member.
Gloss.  Saintine Tempremeure said that it must be understood that these three circles should be done at the end of the stomach, a little below the waist.”

They are for real about sex.  

“When a sexually inexperienced young man marries a young virgin, their first child is bound to be simple.”  

Virgins produce imbeciles!  Love it!

And yet, women’s desire triggers legal control.  

Medieval Legality

In the notes, I learned that:  

  • Women’s rights had increased in the 12th and 13th century, but then started decreasing as men regained legal control over their wives.  Backlash, 14th-century style.
  • The increased control over their wives, who became their husbands’ wards, meant it was entirely legal for men to beat their wives up to the shedding of blood if it was “necessary to amend her conduct.”  And even if he beat her until she bled, justice could not intervene.
  • In the case of adultery, a man could institute criminal proceedings against his wife; while the woman could only institute civil proceedings for redress against a cheating husband.
  • And in terms of the admissibility of women’s testimony—two women’s testimony was needed for every one man’s testimony.

Even in the bawdy, sexy, parodic text itself, the vulnerability of women’s lives breaks through.  

Tips on marriage revolve around vital issues of “money, power and infidelity.”  One chapter states:

“It is the gospel truth that a man who does something without informing his wife is, in conscious, worse than a thief, for even a thief would not dare to behave like that.”

The impotence of such an attempt to wield shame points only to the inability to actually do something about such a husband.  Other chapters include desperate attempts to control husbands’ feelings, not only towards them but towards their own children.

“If a woman wants her husband to love one of the children more than the others, she must have him eat one of the tips of his dog’s ears and give the other one to the child.”


“If a woman wants her husband to love all the children beyond measure, she must take all the children’s clear, clean urine and, without his knowledge, have him wash his face and hands in it for nine days: without fail, he will love them beyond measure.”

And then there’s this:

“If a man beats his pregnant wife or traples her with his feet, she will deliver with great difficulty, and often she is at risk of losing her life.”

The only way to solve this one is for the wife to find the shoe with which he kicked her and drink from it.  Which leads to the most important part of this reading, at least for my purposes.

Magical Solutions 

Because women had no real power, no reach choices, they are left with magical solutions or divine punishment or divine threat.  

A man who comes to his wife or mistress with stinky feet will have a boy with stinky breath or a girl child with a stinky butt.  If a pregnant woman’s food cravings are not satisfied, baby could be born without some vital organ.  God will strike down the husband who does not take his wife’s advice about financial affairs.

Womens’ tools are mostly symbolic.  And often, communicated with narrative.  So they get together to gossip and share their wisdom and their stories.  

Perhaps still, magic is all we have.


What I want to say doesn’t fit into a tweet, quite–but I remember quite clearly what Maya Angelou taught me.  

That people’s attempts to obliterate me have no bearing on whether they get to tell my story.  I get to tell my story.  It’s my story.  In time, those people will become merely passing side characters; those violations and cruelties will become events–sometimes, minor events–against the grand narrative of a life’s journey.  As a young woman who often both targeted and also had big dreams, this was so important to me.

Also that for an artist, the life’s journey can always hold around the corner unimaginable and astonishing adventures–no matter its small beginnings or even present humble exigencies–sometimes even within those small, banal places.  

Maya Angelou’s biographies had the sweep of the female quest narrative (itself a rare occurrence–I mean, who do we get?  Alice in Wonderland?  Dorothy in Oz?)–but against the backdrop of a real life.  The tremendous chutzpah and moxie–courage–that it took for her to tell her own life’s story in that way–will always remain an inspiration.  

Belated Maternal Musings

My three year old child is regressing in swim class, and it has triggered in me a cascade of anxieties.

Let me state for the record that I know this is insane.  I staunchly believe the New Maternalism of my generation barely masks the New Sexism. Women, mothers, are constantly told–by each other, by political, professional, economic and culture-producing systems in which we are embedded–that we are not enough. Between the cultural contempt our society has for mothers, the resulting internalized self-hatred mothers have for themselves, and the basics of what our biology inspires in us, no wonder we go nuts.

So fine.  I am all about being the Good Enough Mother.  My faults and failings–the ways my personality comes into conflict with my child and his needs–will inevitably impact him.  My husband and I set up a system that works for us; and we try not to actively fuck the kid up.  Past that, I refuse to worry about it.

Or at least I try.  But clearly, the monster roars within me and giving myself permission to be good enough remains a constant battle.

Ziv has been in swim classes for over a year. We started him because he loved the water. Wanted nothing more than to be in the water—really be there, wholly abandoned.  He didn’t want to wear a floatie, didn’t even want to be held—just wanted to feel the water over his whole body. His lack of fear and Southern California’s preponderance of pools drove us to the Lenny K Swim Academy where many of our anxious, professional cohort have successfully sent their children. Initially, he loved it. But in the past four months, he started balking at back floats (the gatekeeper skill of swimming) and now he gets scared about things he used to do by himself and joyfully—leaping in the water, diving in from platform to platform.

His teacher said that this arrival of fear was a standard part of the process. (Side note: His imagination has come online strongly in the past few months, and it’s fascinating to witness that with the imagination comes fear.)

But we’ve seemed to have stalled out hard.  Recently, a new YMCA opened in our neighborhood, and because classes are cheaper and closer we’re moving him over. Saturday, we took him to the Y to get assessed for his appropriate level.

He grabs the swim instructor when she pulls him into the water. He struggles against her when she tries to get him to back float. He won’t jump in. My stomach clutches, my breath comes short.  I can hardly watch. Our child is assessed at the beginner level of swimmer—a Pike. Not an Eel or a Ray. A Pike. After over a year and hundreds of dollars, it’s like he never took a swim class.

I feel actual shame, like this is my fault–the weeks we missed class, or moved to his current teacher who was a more convenient time slot but babies him, our own inconsistency, my lack of willingness to end my workday early once a week to drive halfway across town in one direction to pick him up then go halfway across down the other direction during rush hour so he could go twice a week.

I feel pain—my joyous water baby, my little fish, has become a different person. When we go to the pool later, and I try to force him to jump in without holding on to me, to push off from seated on the edge of the pool, he actually shakes in fear; when I roll him onto his back, he stubbornly clings to me for dear life.

It seems like a regression of such a startling magnitude. Does he need a break? Am I pushing too hard?

I go on the internet. A website states that when kids hit a moment of plateau or regression in swimming, it signals a break in confidence. Oh, God, where do I even start with that? What have I done to bring on my three year old’s first crisis of confidence?

I’m too tough on him. We were in a pool the weekend before and I made him to push off to me by himself and he didn’t want to but I wouldn’t fold…

…He’s sensed my anxiety around his swim regression, he’s heard me talk to his teachers about my concerns. I shouldn’t talk about him in front of him…

Ziv has always had a charisma that makes people around him respond (he’s happy, preternaturally verbal and good-looking in a way only mixed-race babies can be)…Is it because he gets so much love from everyone, that one challenge undoes him? Does everyone coddle him to much? Do I?…

…No, I don’t coddle him enough. I am profligate with kisses and hugs but more reserved with compliments. They don’t work anyway–stung by that Internet site’s “break in confidence”, I told him he did great after his final Lenny K class. No I didn’t, he responds flatly, before begging me to pick him up.

I protect my space too much…I was always a bit of a loner, and that gets tested by a husband and kid. Even now, as I’m writing this, I just want to be writing this. But Ziv and Ben want to go to the pool, and I guess I have to go with them...How awful–for Mother’s Day, I just want to be left alone…

Oh, God, he knows it…Lately, Ziv has really needed me, wanted me.  He’s passionate, he’s Oedipus.  He wants to hold my hand and hug me and touch me and be with me. When I do things he doesn’t like, he tells me to go away, and when I go away, he lets out an anguished howl.  Encouraging him to do things by himself because “you’re a big boy!” doesn’t work.  In fact, he pre-empts me by saying he’s a baby, a big-boy-baby–like he sees the end of it and wants one last hurrah.  I cuddle him and baby him when he asks for it, he’s mostly himself–but he still seems to need something that can’t be satisfied.

How strange it is, to be loved so entirely by this little creature who will someday be a grownup and resent me and see me as the root of all his neuroses. Being a mother is fucked up.  Just an utterly hopeless position.

Perhaps he’s too easy.  Some little kids have a hard time encountering the world.  Ziv never has.  At every stage, he’s gone with the program, generally cheerfully.  A thriver.  So much so that perhaps I can fool myself into thinking I’ve been doing a good job as a mom—a Good Enough one, at least.  One challenge emerges, and I fold into an echo chamber of self-abnegation and inadequacy.

I know Ziv’s “swim regression” is a phase.  In a year, I’ll be laughing at myself.  I’m laughing at myself now.  I still wanted to write this down.  Not because it’s a big deal, but because it is a window into my own mother’s madness, it’s a window into my own future, when my child’s crises of confidence speak danger, when more things are at stake.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Man on the BART Train

Large man on BART train.  Not fat, large.  Tall, wide, he sits in the double handicapped section and though someone could fit in next to him, no one would.  On top of his own bulk he wears a thick cobalt blue pea coat, black pants, black socks, shiny black leather shoes.  Knit cap.  Glasses.  Calm demeanor.

I notice he is also wearing light blue latex gloves.  He has with him a dark blue milk crate settled on the ground, between his knees.  The opening does not face up, but faces him.  The crate isn’t empty, yet magically and mysteriously, none of the objects fall out of the opening in front.

The man pulls out a white carton of generic-brand orange juice, the kind with a plastic spout, green.  He places the orange juice on top of the milk crate like it’s a table.  Pulls out a white paper napkin.  He wipes the mouth of the carton, definitively–once with the green spout cap on, one with it off.  He then carefully wipes his own mouth.  All this wiping takes time, he is doing it assiduously, patiently.  The suspense is riveting.  The man then, finally, picks up the carton and takes a couple of small, careful sips.  He puts the cap back on the spout, and the carton back in the crate.

For a couple of stops, the man doesn’t do anything.  Just sits.  I can tell he’s not done.  He then pulls out a string cheese stick and a small plastic bag of cashews.  He pulls the plastic wrapper down the cheese stick like a banana peel so he can hold the stick by the plastic and not directly touch the cheese.  He takes a couple of meditative bites.  He eats his nuts, but I can’t remember how, I just know all of this is done with such care.  The gloves stay on.

We are sitting perpendicularly, so I can pretend to be not watching, leaning back in my seat and facing forward, while I am, in truth, noting every thing he is doing.  At some point, he must know I’m watching, because he glances as me and gives me a small smile.  As I leave the train, he nods to me politely.  I nod back.

Proof of Concept (The Anti-TED)

My friend Rinku once said she thought TED talks were fascist.

I don’t know that they are that, exactly–but I understand why she said it, given the way they manage to absorb all sorts of things–scientific research and business innovations and journalistic narratives including sometimes tales of horrendous personal tragedy and survival–and then insidiously re-present it under a kind of hopey-changey Stuart-Brand-y progress-as-panacea propaganda branding.  Not to put too fine a point on it.

TED-talks stand for something–a particular performance that reflects the dilemma of our present moment.  Frankly, I think of it as positivist capitalist New World Order propaganda that doesn’t reflect the values shift needed to actually save the world.  When I think of how we are failing in our society, I feel like TED talks and Fox News are two sides of the same coin, two poles that reflect a basic underlying lie:  that our world can be repaired without a change in our lifestyle.  That we can have all our technological conveniences and have a better more healthful more “sustainable” world, we can have our cake and eat it too.   It’s the fantasy upon which Silicon Valley exists, something I’ve been thinking about for years.

It shifts the Great Leader of Fascism to the Great Innovation.  Shifts racial nationalism to a fantasy of global community that acknowledges suffering peoples, but doesn’t shift daily life to incorporate those people into our daily consciousness.

Several articles came out this week, none of which are about TED, but which, taken as a collection, resonate for me as the anti-TED, which, taken together as an outline, reveal the hollowness of the claims of TED-talks-philosophy.

Princeton study concludes that the United States is no longer a democracy, but an oligarchy.

Review of Thomas Piketty’s new book, Capital, which pits capitalism against the hopes of democracy.

Article in the NY Times Magazine on a radical environmental activist who essentially has given up.

Silicon Valley settlement talks between software engineers and four major corporations about manipulating the system to exploit their labor.

Performance Tonight for RECAPS: Rethinking Environment at Human Resources LA


Tonight at 8:30pm I’ll be doing a performance–a Scrapping Ceremony–as part of RECAPS Magazine’s fantastic weekend of programming around Rethinking Environment.  Come on by!

Human Resources
410 Cottage Home Street
Chinatown Los Angeles!