Busy li'l bee

DISCLAIMER - I haven't the time to really blaaahg about my feelings, so I'm settling for telling you why my silence has dimmed in hue from bright golden to tarnished black through neglect. I will be making it up to y'all very soon. Or sometime soon. Or someday.

I've been hard at work lately - which is to say hard at being unemployed - but am still filling my time between dead end applications and dashed hopes of health benefits with several projects. First, as promised, here is the film I helped write and acted in for the i48|2009 competition. (Somehow we managed to turn a six minute short into a fourteen minute production) -

Beneath the Western Skyscraper from Ronn Seidenglanz on Vimeo.

I should perhaps mention that we won the best film award.

Secondly, I've been teaching modern and choreographing at the BSU Summer Dancefest. We begin week two on Monday, and thus far it's been a wonderful experience. I've neither taught nor choreographed before, so the week has been a crash-course learning experience for me as well. I have 26 students that I'm setting a piece on, and only half have been available up till this week, so I divided the piece in twain, using Rasputina's "Oh, Injury" for the first section, and "Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby" by Islands for the second -

"Oh, Injury!" - Rasputina

"Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby" - Islands

If you've read my blog for long (6+ months), you should be able to guess what event the work is inspired by.

I'm still working with my friend Johanna Kirk on some new work, am writing and flounderingly trying to sell ads for ULBoise Magazine and still have a standing commitment to the Boise Weekly. I recently was informed that one of my reviews was picked up by another alternative paper (somewhere midwestish?) so I'll be somewhere on a newsstand not near any of you!

Finally (well, not nearly finally but I'm supposed to be sleeping), I'm working on developing a script for Sidewayz Film. We're doing a retelling of Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, for which we're holding auditions later this week.

Many, many exciting adventures. Many, many bills unpaid. Many, many winks (40) I should be catching. More to come...

an inconvenient truth

I have much to say in the upcoming weeks, both about embarking on my second quarter century, what I've been up to (two photo shoots and a short film in a week!) and the various musings on what comes next in my hectic life.

In an effort to sate your feverish anticipation (you're all anxious, right?), here's a dance piece I recently performed in, choreographed by Kaelen O'Shea and performed at the Danny Peterson Theatre in Boise -

Golden Birthday

All my graphic designer friends now hate me.

Poetry From My Misbegotten Past

Once upon a time, not so very long ago (let's say 1999), I was a lifeguard. Not one of those bare-chested, sunkissed, God-smiles-upon-me sorts that proudly perch atop summer pool stands, scanning - or sleeping - behind aviator shades and prepared at any moment to gracefully part the waters below in a heroic rescue telegraphed by a Look-At-Me! whistle blast. Well, I was one of those too, but once the summer ended I transformed into a sad-sack, XL t-shirt clad, mopey indoor guard, the made-for-cable version of my big-screen summer blockbuster self. The pool I worked at (which shall be unnamed although it deserves all the vitriol I can spew at it) was rarely used. I'd come in at 5 in the morning, perform the inane opening duties - checking chlorine levels, organizing kickboards by color (unnecessarily) and cleaning used band-aids out of filters. At 6, when the club opened, I'd sit and watch the lone aqua-jogger struggle back and forth, checking his pulse at the end of every lap. As a Red Cross certified guard, I knew that I was morally obligated only to check on him every 20 seconds or so, so I'd fill the intermediate 19 by doodling, writing letters to my wish-you-were-my-girlfriend and, on occasion, composing very childish poetry. I've never considered myself a man of metre, and have far too great a prediliction toward rhyming couplets, so I put sharpie to sheet with a juvenile audience in mind. I recently came across one such poem written in my youthful, idealistic... er, youth, and decided to pass it on. It still expresses a sentiment I like, and in a very faint way reminds me of the better children's poets I enjoyed in my tender years (when exactly are those? I still get pretty fragile). Here it is, I hope you enjoy. There were two more verses, but I've edited it for the better (I think). They were something about locomotives, something about clouds. I don't know. They're better left out.

Alison and I Don't Play Together

by Jem Wierenga, c. 1999



There never was such a nice young girl

as little Alison Plopper.

Hands in her lap, "Madam, please" "No, Sir, thank you,"

she was ever, ever so proper.



But she was never the Queen of Sheba,

dazzling Solomen's eyes.

And she never rode the stallions of Egypt

under the midnight skies.



If I had the choice between being demure,

and living wild and free,

then I'd never choose to be Alison Plopper,

when I have the chance to be me.

Ah, High School. I miss it sometimes.

The People I See Around

I'm an impulse person and an impulse buyer. No, I've begun poorly. I can't start with me; this story is not about me.

Chad greeted me when the doors slid open, but I couldn't understood what he said, so I asked him to repeat himself. Well, what I really said was "Whuh?" The graveyard shift must be an endless mind-melt of half-formed conversations. I know I'd tire of it. I'm sure he already has. It's 12:07 in the morning, do you know where your diction is?

His name was Chad, but I only sidelong-learned it at 12:23 after our conversation at the checkout stand went off-script. Protected both by an ego-barrier of self-satisfaction at a celebratory day and an eagerness to be a clever little "personality," a bright spot in a dull night, I asked him if he judged the people who wouldn't cough up a buck for the Breast Cancer Society. I'd already refused, swiped and punched in my secret code. My vitamins, band-aids and greedily grabbed gum are bagged and waiting.

He replied that he didn't judge, but was disappointed. His mom was re-diagnosed two weeks ago.

Man, I feel like a jerk.

It's a deadly flaw in his family genetics, he tells me, but he doesn't say it like that. The word "pancreatic" was never on any vocabulary list at his school, so he curls his fingers as if around a giant tube of disease and draws in across his abdomen. "She had it here, but now it's up here" and his hand at his chest, over his heart. A false salute to an iffy future.

Man, I feel like a jerk.


The annual Race for the Cure is tomorrow - no, today. I know this because a friend was both earnestly and ironically wearing a pink bandana around all day. So I ask him if he's going, telling him I'll be downtown for it. That's a lie. I had no intention of going before I spoke those words, and probably can't fit it in to my hectic, fantastic "I love what I do" schedule. He, at least, is honest. He'll be sleeping because another all night shift begins at 8.

I should have left already, been out the doors and back home to spend another hour clicking through my Tivo playlist while pretending to write. But I'm in deep now as he pulls back his sleeve, revealing in the florescent overhead light a yellowed bump with a rosacead center. It's big, not enormous, but of a size that you know should have been checked out. A soddened tea bag squeezed of its last herb-juice.

"We all get them," he says. "And around thirty they turn to cancer. But I'd rather not know." If you have tough life, it's gonna show, so I'm struggling to pin down his age. His teeth, his face, the slump in his shoulders all say that he's hit that mark, or will soon. So again-

Man, I feel like a jerk.

I want to feel like a samaritan.

"Chad," I begin. I know his name now and I've committed to eye-contact. "You need to have that looked at. It's always better to have the facts so you can make a decision." Keystroke italicized - always.facts.decision. It's my presentational voice, my jedi-mind-tricks inflection. I don't think it's going to work, and I need it to work. Chad needs it to work. But this isn't a galaxy far, far away, so of course it doesn't, and he's already exited the conversation.

"When they find the cure..." he says, handing me my purchases and back in the proper posturing of employee-to-patron relations. "The cure for cancer, I'll get it checked."

That's a lie. We're both liars and one of us might die from it. And it's 2:33 now and I haven't showered and I didn't go back, dig down and give him the dollar or point him toward a free clinic. I left. I'm home. He's still working. And I'm reduced to melodramatic melancholy.

Tomorrow's another big day in my busy, busy, busy life. I'm doing things I believe are important, but now seem much less urgent than they did at two and a half hours ago.

NEXT PARAGRAPH HAS BEEN DELETED. THIS IS INCOMPLETE, BUT TO WRITE MORE SIMPLY FEEDS MY VANITY.

Here's the important part - If you were intrigued or bothered or whatever, click here to donate online to the American Cancer Society in whatever capacity you wish. I gave a few bucks, which I should have done earlier. I hope you can too.

An addendum to last post...

This is a self-inflicted humbler. No-one coerced me, but I couldn't let this morning's bedhead pass the world by...

I think my hair stayed up and had a party after I went to bed. I certainly wasn't invited.

Mean Memes

It took down Marianne, then spread to Summer. Finally Sarah caught it and in a moment of supreme generosity passed it onto Meg and Val and Trespasser, i.e. myself. We spend so much time polishing our online personas and detailing our digital avatars, then a meme such as this sweeps away our fixed veneers. Here it is...

Take a picture of yourself RIGHT NOW...no cheating, no makeup, no hair fixin, no extra primping....just as you are.

YOU THERE, HALT! I see you're thinking ahead to where this is going. It's too late, you're not allowed to step away before you finish this post.

Take said picture and post it on your blog. Tag a few friends. Hit publish. Painless, and yet so painful.

TAG, YOU'RE IT -

Elizabeth
Lori
Matt
Zak
Zil

AND, VOILA!


For the record, I knew as soon as I read the first line on Sarah's blog this was coming, but I faced it like a man. A GROWN MAN!!!

(up)to

There are certain slogans that become ingrained in the cultural consciousness. "Just Do It," "Tell it to the Marines" and "Meth, Not Even Once" all come to mind.

Such a catchphrase is the Maxwell House motto "Good to the last Drop" - a quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt in 1907. Of course, while familiarity with a brand slogan is exactly what marketers want from the general populace, their catchy quality often takes one's mind in other directions, and the phrase finds equal aptitude in other contexts. Hence, another listy post - DISCLAIMER - I'm using "to" in the sense of "till". Also this list must be read with a resounding repeat of the slogan after each item.

GOOD (UP)TO THE LAST DROP -

1. MALFUNCTIONING PARACHUTES -

2. CHILDREN SHARING A BAG OF GELATIN SUGAR-CANDIES -

3. MELTING GLACIERS -

4. SPLASH MOUNTAIN -

5. INEBRIATED WOMEN DRINKING LEMON MARTINIS -

6. MIXED-UP EYE MEDICATION -

7. DRUG DEALS GONE SOUR -

8. HACKY-SACK RALLIES -

9. FIRE DRILLS IN LAVA FIELDS -

10. THE ECONOMY -

"I frequently enjoy Maxwell House with multiple young ladies, making sure they have a good time by spreading my legs wide to show off my roasted beans."

This is for Zeb

Hard Day in a Soft-Living City

I spotted her mid-sidewalk just past Five Mile, her friendly wave shuttered and battered between the automated beats of the wipers, slicking away the torrents along with the sight of her tenacity.

It is raining. We are cold. She is on the clock.

Ironic, isn't it? Our greatest monument, the patinated personification of freedom and free enterprise, finds warped reflection in her, her bedraggled crown and terry cloth robe, inscribed tablet replaced with a corrugated sign bearing the legend 'Liberty Tax Service.' Monseiur Eiffel would not recognize this iteration of la liberté éclairant le monde, though I believe he'd see a kindred spirit, a determination to fight, to keep your head above water, in a time and place where struggle defines nearly every day.

She was standing just outside a cafe, so I pulled in and offered to buy her something hot. She told me she couldn't, but that she'd appreciate a tea on her break. The coffee kid inside asked me if I knew her as I pre-paid for her drink.

I don't know her, but I know of her. She is me, running out of options and behind on rent. She is you, tackling a demeaning task because someone else depends on you. She is all of us, surviving. We are surviving.

He asked for her name, perhaps fearing a rival Lady Libertized sign-tosser might swoop in and snatch this meager gift, only a small measure of the mercy I've been shown over the years. "Katie," she told me when I trooped back out into the downpour, and she spelled it for me. It's my sister's name.

If the statistics hold true, one hundred and fifty-six people lost their jobs while I spoke to her. This has to change.

As I drove off, scanning left right left as the rain dimmed to a drizzle, she was facing away, waving and smiling, advertising a service she could never afford and possibly might not need. She has no offshore accounts, no second home. But boy, that lady's got a wealth of guts and grit. I don't need a hundred-year old delphic piece of statuary to hold up a torch, to give a light through this dark depression, or recession, or whatever label you want to put on the consequences of some really bone-headed actions by officials I'll never meet. What I need is people, my family, my friends, girls like Katie standing against an onslaught of wind and rain and pessimism.

You can stand by yourself, alone on an island, an admired but stony copper-plated castaway, or you can stand with those you love. That's how I prefer to weather this storm.