Svetlana the Lap Dancer

"Alex, you're going to be Svetlana, a transvestite Polish lap dancer, are you ok with that?"

Previously, in order to show off my manliness, I was going to be some kind of Tarzan carrying my sultry Spanish Jane off-stage in my arms, but the director and assistant had a brain-wave late the night before and the whole group were re-cast into a single act. It was actually a brilliant idea, as it meant we could still each have our own 2-minute moment under the spot-light, whilst remaining as a cohesive group. Due to work we had done the day before, I was anyway feeling so relaxed that I'd probably have said yes to just about any part, but anyway I could hardly say no to the chance to dress up as a woman. This was a weekend workshop about opening yourself up and improving your confidence and performance both on and off-stage. So throwing caution and decision-making to the wind, I was ready to take this part head-on.

It was like a school pantomine, but for adults. It was top cheese, plenty of sleaze, and a lot of fun. The scene is set at Madame Snitzel's Golden G-spot Lap Dancing Club, where Sid Sleazer introduces the acts, a combination of dance, singing, and live music, interspersed by suitably riské comic sketches. Everyone had a chance to show their hidden talents. One shady character was tripping on acid, and had spiked everyone elses drinks, so by the end of the show we all played up that we were spaced out and joined in a kind of love-hug and bow to the appreciative audience, who had been borrowed from another weekend workshop that was running in parallel.

In preparation we had maybe 3 hours to put the show together, work out the scenes and sequencing, select costumes, pick songs, make up some sort of approximate script. There was no full rehearsal, just fast-forwarding to ensure we all understood when to come on, but basically we could make it up as it went along. I didn't even know what song I was going to dance to, but that was half the fun of it. I also had some lines where Svetlana would approach the shady spaced out character in the bar and offer him a lap-dance.. ".. so what's it gonna be...a dirty thirty or naughty forty?"  Svetlana even managed a body roll, as expertly taught to her by someone with real experience. The shady character, who must remain anonymous due to his professional standing, happened to have talents in playing a certain musical instrument which he had brought along, so my lines included some double-entendres that alluded to him playing with his "instrument". I didn't know that transvestites are usually heterosexual, so my first instinct was to play the part in a camp voice, but the feedback when trying it out was to stick with my normal voice, and anyway the contrast of the tranny look with mainly masculine behaviour worked better. I don't know what I enjoyed more - dirty dancing with the girls back-stage, or prancing around like a giant nancy on-stage.

8 out of 10 cats were happy to be photographed

The weekend wasn't really about this show though. It was wrapped up and ended with this light-hearted fun, but the real work was in the preparation the day before. We were a pretty random group of 10 people from all walks of life, and like anyone we all have our own fears and weaknesses. What was amazing is how these were turned around into formidably powerful acts. The workshop was led by Svabhavo, clearly a magician with a huge heart, and his assistant Louisa. They are amazing people, and I would encourage anyone who wants to improve self-confidence either on or off-stage to do a workshop with them. The next one is in London, you can get more information here.

One of the really powerful parts of the workshop is where each of us in turn gets up on stage and just stands there. The rest just watch and support. Svabhavo then works his magic, staying calm and focused he reads our every breath and move, then questions, challenges, directs, and supports. I won't give too much away but let's just say whatever it is that bothers you, it will surface and you have the chance to face it in an encouraging and supportive atmosphere. Being there and being a witness to people there is a show in itself. It's the ultimate in reality-theatre: you really don't know what is going to happen so it's captivating to watch, as well as exhilarating to be a part of. It's emotional, hilarious, nerve-wracking, heart-warming, sexy, and just plain fun.

HU-man

I'm blowing my nose. It's 7.30am and this might not seem like an unusual thing to do first thing on a Sunday morning, except nothing is coming out except air, and I'm doing it to a primal percussion soundtrack for ten minutes continuously without stopping.

This is the first stage of a 50 minute "active mediation". You blow your nose, quickly and repeatedly, and without any continuous rhythm. Imagine your hands are tied, you have a fly in your nose, you blow it out, and it keeps coming back straight away. Well I didn't imagine that at the time, but it's a fair analogy. I don't know the ins and outs of it, all I know is that the last time I went along with this I felt great, even before breakfast, so I had an incentive to be this silly again.

The second part got more interesting. You know when a performer shouts on stage "Make some noise!" and everyone cheers or shouts, well here you just make whatever noise you want and let it all out, scream shout get angry wail huff laugh you name it. Make noise like nobody is listening or looking.. well shut your eyes and it's easier. I was now feeling pretty chilled due to events the previous day, so the only sound I could find was a sort of lion roaring as if to say "fuck off all of you this is my territory and don't come back" It felt like a battle I had won had ended and I was just re-asserting possession of my territory.

Perhaps I felt this assertion had worked, or I was just getting bored of it, observing myself and wondering what the fuck I'm doing but doing it anyway. Maybe tiredness drew me down, but either which way after several minutes I found myself kneeling and a huge sense of grief came over me, as if I had lost someone extremely close to me. Though I have never experienced this, it felt like my wife had died. It was a disembodied grief - I did not cry I just felt it come over me. Then I lay down on my back, and felt my arms stretch out, palms facing up, my left ankle cross over the right - I felt pinned down, then huge pain well up and wanting to burst from inside my chest. I cried out in despair. This really fucking happened - I felt like I was being crucified - except the pain was purely emotional. Then after a couple of gasps at this, a bloody chime-bell went and, crucifus interruptus, it was time for the third stage...

I got up slowly, a withering wreck of a man, and stood in the position required for the third stage - a sort of tribal war dance - the stance was forearms straight up in front as in a peck-deck push, solid fists, back straight and knees slightly bent. Then rhythmically chanting the mantra "HU!" whilst pumping the invisible peck-deck and pelvic thrusting. It's actually quite relaxing and certainly empowering. The tears dried up and slowly the man returned to strength.

Ding. Stage 4. Stop. Where you are. Just breathe. I'm a statue of this HU-man, fists still clenched. I blink my eyes open to see what everyone else is doing without anyone noticing. People have their hands open, some in the air. I'm thinking, should I have my hands open too? No, fuck that, I have fists and will stay as the HU-man. Now this next bit might sound a bit new-agey, so have a bucket ready or fast forward if you need to. Suddenly I feel this sort of circular magnetic field around my chest, running outside of my arms, maybe a meter in diameter. I feel safe, very safe. A glowing sense starts to emerge from my heart and I can feel a power growing from my chest. It is literally heart-warming. My fists remain, but very slowly my fingers begin to uncurl but only a tiny amount and end up pointing back at my chest as if to say, hey look after this guy.

Last stage, music plays. Soft indian music. Move as you want. My legs are rooted to the ground, my arms drop lifelessly to my side. I feel no great urge to move, but slowly begin to sway subtly like a tree in the wind. My arms are so lifeless they swing completely naturally as I move, and now and then to the music I feel a gyrating rhythm take over my torso and I'm like a rag-doll being spun about. Normally I'm like a stick man bopping inanely to music, but now my torso has come alive and twists and meanders like a snake, my lifeless arms flopping all over the place and bouncing back as they wrap around my body. It's a lot of fun, and I keep my eyes shut to avoid becoming conscious of how mad I must look.

The music stops and it's over. I'm feeling pretty emotional from this unexpected morning trance, and quietly float over to breakfast. The day is only just beginning ...

Bubbling with Reality

She looks and thinks and knows but does not ask. "I'm petified of what you think." And I believe her. She is so far from my world. We are together like two stones rushed to the bottom of the drain after a storm. Sitting there, nowhere else to go. But on the water glistening over her a universe appears which she enters and becomes. I look.

Enough

Sometimes things just go wrong because there's no wind in the sail, and blowing on the sail doesn't work for long.

Picking her up and screwing her brains out, because that's what she wants, it works for a bit but the effort is never repaid if there's no wind in the sail.

Then she's like an anchor, and even if the wind were to pick up you'd be tied down. Confortable because there's not going to be any storm damage, but frustrated.

Bad vibes are as contagious as good, everyone knows that. I've got bad vibes today, but hopefully not contagious by words.

I'm tired, I let her come over and stay the night. But really I needed a rest. Lack of sleep is attrocious.

Radio 4 yesterday some knob on a story talking about sleep as a waste of time. There is nothing more precious than sleep when time is racing along during consciousness, sleep comes and relieves me from it's tyranny. Waste of time is perceiving time at all. Life isn't along a timeline, it just is.

Pregnant with silence

Slience is pregnant with possibility, but silence seems to be so rare. I spend a lot of time waiting for silence, like settling dust it does come along given a calm space, and then the magic happens. Trouble is, everyone likes a bit of silence and if you got some, hey someone seems to come along to trample up some dust.

Or is it that, the pregnancy of this silence is scary, what might be born from it? Better to trample through the silence and leave things as they are. I seem to attract many people who aren't interested in conversation, rather in monologues of things they're interested in. I offer silence, and perhaps my own fear of the pregnancy this offers spreads and quickly the silence is filled - with complete shit. I'm left splattered, feeling drained, and in need of a long quiet cleansing session to restore myself.

Or I'm not at all scared of the silence, but others are and this is contagious. And I'm here to do some work on this for others. Who knows. Emotion seems like water, it just flows, cascades, sometimes gets stuck in a stagnant pool, but most of all it's not part of any place in particular, it just is and moves about like a spirit fighting or dancing or just sleeping. Maybe depression is that stagnant pool, and people come along to splash it about and move it along, but even the pool evaporates eventually on it's own, the water moves along.

There will never be enough space. Or will there? Who said that? I go through phases of dispair when I'm basically thinking the thoughts of others, filling that silence with a tape-recording of some shit I've heard. And other times when I'm at peace when I know there is nothing to worry about because it's all in order. A hope that patience will bear fruit. Or a sense that everything is ok, that nothing needs fixing. Because nothing needs fixing. It's all good, as they say in Australia.

Welcome to NYC

I opened the front door and there she was, with a smile so bright it frightened me. After all the practical commotion of getting here, and my disappointment around that, her smile said I've forgotton that all and I'm here.  My mind, ever fearful of losing its grip on the past, was struck deeply in shock at having nothing to latch onto. The light of her smile blinded the demon within. Either that, or in that smile I saw deeply the pain from where it grew.

A good soul on facebook wrote:

The prettiest smiles hide the deepest secrets. The prettiest eyes have cried the most tears and the kindest hearts have felt the most pain...


and it struck a chord with what happened then. Later I came across evidence of that pain, so maybe I was not imagining it. But I also found further evidence of extreme kindness and patience, and a positive energy which once gone left me back in a hole.

No-one can replace the lightbulb shining within you - if it blows you must have it replaced - turning on a lamp nearby don't work well for long. But how do you replace a blown lightbulb? The answer is surely some kind of joke.

Paranormal spontaneity in Christian flower arranging

A report into the recent explosion of mashed butternut squash revealed that peas are in fact the basis for tiled occurrences of glowing effervescent peanut butter. Notwithstanding the political correctness that stone-faced idiots are likely to accrue to the dullness that many teacups present the bored writer, the amnesiac hum of droning emptiness is, well, empty. The shining example of scientific perfection that results from the combination of white truth and grey fusion culminates in a state of fibroid aneythesis, alternately brought on by gumptious broiling.

The dividing line between the third and fourth positions in any frigid encounter with browning matt flexibility can only be seen when coupled with an extraordinary capacity to entern a bobbled lantern with an aging bleep. Never before has the crumpling of timeless grain lain open the complete foible of stained laminate. THe chips of desperate animals open the circle of goneadian frealate pertions. That which scrommiges the perfect aperture of  a bumpy eagle whilst flicking the candle of chrome mantlepieces cannot be seen unless wielded by crispy antelopes. All the time the glass shield of living truth crushes the crooked handle of dispair, locked into a window of steamed frishion.

The wise seek the rubber moments between the endless dark creeks radioed by the tense and poised flamingos. Rice not the holders of bearing riddles which open the crinkles of suffering and crackling of that which is made ready. Composition of ferns layed over the rugged sides of over 200 peaks rise amongst hatred of those who triangulate without ointment.

With hardly a moment to go before the joyful completion of fractal inversion, there is only one choice which yields the overtime breached from holding the forgetful orange. Slowly the wangle of karmetric entangled charlatans frees the peace from the etched markings of broken acrylic.

Wham, the chilled brummel of confusion has stuck hard to the sumple of extra-dreanacular simpering. Remaining forever anticipating the alternate erasure of necessary and opposed measle-like symptoms, the all-empathic groaning hovers above the beleaguered feverish midget.