What is the relationship between art and health?

Who owns a story?

How do we best craft a story to be heard?

Can any story be true?

Last month, I ventured to Swansea, Wales to attend the Storytelling for Health conference, which featured academic panels and performances. I found myself drawn to the latter, having found myself already at quite a few academic health science & art/humanities conferences lately.

A woman with Parkinson’s interweaved her story with the legend of an old king.

A cast of four brought us the heartbreaking tale of a woman who lost six pregnancies.

A woman whose mother nursed her through a stroke talked about language and where it went when her mother was afflicted by stroke as well.

A storyteller gave us three narratives about cancer.

A multimedia performance: All About My Tits.

The keynote performance was by The Devil’s Violin–an amazing storyteller, Daniel Morden, with a violinist and cellist. The work, Stolen, was fable, fairy tale, and allegory, one created when Morden was undergoing cancer treatment. It was, quite simply, one of the best things I’ve ever seen.

I was apprehensive the next morning, when Morden was in the audience for my performance, Chronic Pain: A Comedy. I was the first performance of the morning, and I’m very glad that they moved me to before the cancer trilogy. Even though the room was small, I asked for a mic to better signal the comic nature of what I was doing–trying to make people laugh with me at my pain.

And it went well. They gasped when they were supposed to, laughed when they were supposed to. But I really knew it had gone over well when the staff at the theatre came up to me afterwards to talk about it. Mostly, people had questions. Why do Republicans in the US fight for something that will mean some people won’t have access to care? Why would anyone support a system in which someone could pay over a thousand dollars for an ER visit, even with insurance? Why would anyone support a system that can bankrupt someone who gets sick or disabled or gets into an accident? Had I really ripped my urethra? (The longer version–a first draft in Davis–can be seen here.)

This was one of the best conferences I’ve ever been to–and not only because it allowed me to discuss issues in a non-academic format, but because it encouraged real conversation and provoked real questions. The woman who talked about her breasts showed them to us at the very end of the performance, but then discovered in the Q&A that we hadn’t reacted to them in the way she assumed. She thought we would compare them to the young breasts we’d seen earlier and find hers wanting. We thought they were beautiful.

When Morden did a Q&A toward the end of the conference, he talked about how hard it was to talk about himself. Indeed, he was “just” the narrator of Stolen, not a “character,” and one wouldn’t know the real-life issue that inspired it. He said he couldn’t work well in first person.

I wonder why I can, why I write creative nonfiction instead of fiction.

It can’t just be because I’m American. 🙂

Swansea was also beautiful, from its castle to its waterfront.

I’m very much hoping to return next year.

Sometimes messages (and their writers) are just incomprehensible.

Take the following message:

Him: Am Glad u took your time to read and reply me ,Well i have a few questions running on my mind,… things like ,How long have you been on here, what u do for a living, any kids?, what you looking for here , how long have u been single?.. well thats all i have in mind for now ,, may be as time goes i will get to know more..i hope to hear from you soon

Me: Ummm . . .
The first line of that message is confusing–you’re making it sound like I’ve already messaged you.
Your profile is sending mixed signals too. Your paragraph says you’re only looking for marriage (in all caps!), but your profile says you’re also seeking short term dating and new friends. The main page says you don’t want more kids, but in the questions, you say you’re looking for a woman to have children with.

I’ve been on here for two years, although I take breaks sometimes. I’ve been single for about two years. My profile answers the rest of your questions: I’m a writer and a university teacher with a son in college. Looking for a long term relationship (though I don’t want to get married–one can have partnership and commitment without that).
🙂

I guess he didn’t like that.

He blocked me.

🙂

Last week, I shared the story of a guy from Carmichael who had homophobic answers to questions on OKC. I thought saying “I don’t date homophobes” would end the conversation, especially since he’d said homophobia was a “weakness” of his.

He didn’t go away, though. Here the (annotated) conversation continues:

Him: I am not homephobes. Which question gave u the impression?

At any rate have a wonderful day and take care.

Me: There’s a question about how you would feel if a gay friend hugged you, a question about guys wearing makeup, a question about gay people having children, etc.

Him: Lol, My friend filled out some of the questions while I was away from computer at work. I have no problem with any of those. He has played a prank on me. I think every human being is free to live and create a family anyway he or she wants as long as it does not hurt others. It is a totally private thing for an individual. I believe in equality of men and women and so on.

I am mainly looking for a good solid friend. And be honest with you it is not easy to find someone like you with this level of liberalism, education and so on in this area. Friendship and good intellectual conversation with someone is the main thing for me. But honey you need to give it time to understand each other. By the way there is this learning process meaning we can learn from each other about this things that we might be mistaken.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebioF5rA1H4

What is your number? or whatever else which is trendy these days to do voice. I am seeking only friendship the rest is up to you if u like me more. You set the limits and i will respect them.

And life, friendship is more colorful than some questions and answers. You throw an apple up it makes many various turns before comes back down.

Joke time : This really super pretty but dump actress see Bernard Shaw who was super smart but not good looking. She tells Bernard lets make a kid together so the kid gets her look from me and her IQ from you. Bernard replies I am afraid opposite can happen so kid gets her IQ from you and her look from me !

[Argh. Go away. Every message I’ve sent has been to say “no thanks.” I don’t want to talk or be friends or have you send me poetry or call me honey (when guys say it in sentences designed to change my mind, I feel talked down to). The GBS “joke” is a story in which GBS makes a joke. And, of course, as a GBS scholar, I’ve heard it before.]

Me: Look: I’m not on here for more friends. I’m looking for a partner. When I first said your answers were homophobic, you admitted it–you said it was your weakness.
I feel like you’re just trying to backtrack now.
Nothing about our interaction has made me want to give you my number–I didn’t like the cut and paste; I don’t like the answers to a lot of your questions. Your profile is pretty blank, etc.
I’m not interested.

Him: I meant all good and somehow you keep misunderstanding me. When i said friend I meant I care about you that I even wana keep you as a friend if you don’t feel I am qualified enough for more. See this is the problem with texting the feelings are hidden or even miss represented. Take it easy and enjoy. You have made me tired and I am not interested at all. Take care

By the way thanks for your feedback I am adding to my profile.

[You care about me? What? You don’t know me.]

[You want to keep me as a friend? We’d have to be friends for you to keep me.]

[I keep misunderstanding you? And you find that exhausting? We finally have something in common. My view of this conversation: Me: I’m not interested. You: But get to know me. Me: No, because . . . You: Yeah, but settle for me. Me: No. You: But get to know me; I’m great really. Give me your personal number, like you would for someone you’re actually interested in. That way, I can bother you and make you interested in me. Me: No. You: I care about you, best friend forever.]

Me: Farewell!

On June 5th, some loser from Carmichael with a pretty blank profile (and with questions that indicated we’re 26% enemies) said:
Hi Beautiful ! How are you? 🙂
I didn’t answer.
Yesterday, he tried again:
Hi Beautiful ! How are you? 🙂
Me: I’m really not into generic cut and paste messages, which is part of why I didn’t respond the first time you pasted that greeting.
Looking at your profile, it’s pretty clear we wouldn’t get along–you’re a lot more socially conservative than I am.
I hope you have a great day and that you find the perfect woman for you.
Him: I am a super liberal, progressive person.
You will know that for sure if we talk more.
Me: The answers to many of your questions are homophobic.
Him: You are probably right .
I am very liberal and progressive in everything else. My only weakness is what you said. I am impressed by your IQ and Judgment. But honey nothing is perfect.
Later:
r u transextual?
Me: No. I’m cisgendered and straight. But I don’t date homophobes.

Some thoughts:

Nothing is perfect?

I know that nothing is perfect–every man I’ve ever loved has been imperfect, as am I.

But this isn’t something to overlook–like when a guy likes sports or something. Homophobia disgusts me.

And wtf with the “transextual” question? Does this “super liberal” guy really think that I’d have to be trans to have his homophobia matter to me?

Way to show empathy, which is precisely the issue in the first place.

Listening to the Comey testimony this morning, I was momentarily surprised by Senator James Risch’s opening, when he praised Comey’s writing: “I find it clear. I find it concise, and having been a prosecutor for a number of years and handling hundreds, maybe thousands of cases and read police reports, investigative reports, this is as good as it gets, and I really appreciate that.”

The very next sentence set the trap: “Not only the conciseness and the clearness of it, but also the fact that you have things that were written down contemporaneously when they happened, and you actually put them in quotes so we know exactly what happened and we’re not getting some rendition of it that’s in your mind.”

Ah–so we were going to talk about the quotes, about the words.

A moment later: “I want to drill right down, as my time is limited, to the most recent dust up regarding allegations that the president of the United States obstructed justice. Boy, you nailed this down on page 5, paragraph 3. You put this in quotes. Words matter.”

And then Sen. Risch said that since Trump said he “hoped” Comey would let the Flynn investigation go, it wasn’t an order.

Comey agreed that the words were “not an order,” but explained, “The reason I keep saying his words is I took it as a direction.”

I thought about a time when, as a single mother and undergraduate, my car broke down. FSU would keep half of its students’ financial aid and give it to them mid-semester (while making money off the interest, presumably). I had to go in and ask a financial aid officer to let me have my own money a couple of weeks early, so I could have a working car, allowing me to get to school and to daycare.

The financial aid officer met me in his office–he seemed like a nice guy: grey beard, pictures of his grandchildren on his desk. I explained my dilemma.

He said, “We don’t have to settle this now. We could talk about it later, over dinner.”

Now, Senator, he didn’t order me to have dinner, but we all understand what was happening, right? Someone with power over me hoped for dinner, just as Trump hoped for a favor in return for Comey’s job.

Ladies and gentlemen, please share your #notanorder moments.

Hey, did you miss it?
You can see it here: http://ats.ucdavis.edu/ats-video/?kmid=0_2woig6nv.

I also opened for my graduating seniors (who are amazing) the next night (no overlap in jokes): http://ats.ucdavis.edu/ats-video/?kmid=0_omoo1dgj.

CapStage is the home of intimate ground-breaking theatre. They make incredible use of their small space, creating immerse worlds that spill out into the audience.

Stupid Fucking Bird, by Aaron Posner, is playing there until June 4th.

Go see it.

I first encountered Posner’s work when I saw the recording of the Folger Theatre’s Macbeth–Posner directed it, together with Teller (of Penn and Teller). Together, they brought real magic to the stage–the witches disappear, daggers float, blood covers white hands.

Thus, I was excited to see Posner’s adaptation of Chekhov’s The Seagull. One doesn’t need to know anything about Chekhov or The Seagull to enjoy this play, but you get the old nerd thrill of recognition at some moments if you do.

The play is brilliant, and it’s beautifully directed by Michael Stevenson, who expertly guides his cast in handling a tricky piece of metatheatre, complete with direct addresses and interactions with the audience. Don’t worry–it’s not uncomfortable–you won’t be asked to come on stage or to talk if you don’t want to, but avoid drinking too much on their lovely patio before the show–you don’t want to be the unlucky person who naps–you’re likely to get called out & you’re missing a great show!

This work is about what all of Chekhov’s works are about–relationships (why doesn’t this person love me? what if I’m a disappointment to myself, my lovers, my parents, my children? is it better to be content or to search for happiness? do I get to choose?), but it also asks what theatre’s relationship to these questions are (will audiences watch something new? can theatre truly provoke us to change?).

I fucking love this play.

In my grief, I have not thought about you, my readers. The word “daddy” could technically belong to three people, even though I’ve only ever used it for one man.

I have three dads.

My father was James Dean Norris. (I was born Karma Jewreen Norris.) He and my mother got divorced fairly soon after my birth. He died when I was four, and I don’t remember him. He didn’t see me much in between–I don’t know the whole story, except that my grandparents were afraid that if he had access to me, he’d take me.
I have spent a fair amount of time in therapy dealing with growing up without knowing much about him. My mother only told me a few good things about him when I was young. I heard the bad stuff from others–who thought I knew.
That he cheated on her.
A lot.
That when she finally left him, she had to do so with a black eye.
I know he wanted me and was excited about my birth, but I don’t know why he didn’t fight to see me.
He left me two poems, for my 18th birthday (he’d had a premonition that he’d die at 35). They were about reincarnation–I wanted them to be about us. He was an American buddhist (yes, he named me).
I wanted, for a really long time, to understand him, in hopes of understanding myself.
My mom always told me that I got my intelligence from him and from her father (my daddy). I think I was also lucky enough to get whatever inspires loyalty from one’s loved ones.
My therapist once said that my dad could have been a cult leader. The two women I know who loved him loved him completely. He cheated on them, but they both swear he was their soul mate.
I don’t claim to have that kind of power, but when people talk about my cult following on campus, I think of my father.
I have come to terms with the fact that I won’t have the answers I want and the fact that those answers wouldn’t have answered questions about me anyway.

I went to live with my daddy, my grandfather, when I was 2 and my mom couldn’t take care of me. He wrote in his memoirs that he became a father again that year. No one ever thought it was strange that I called him that. He was just retired from the military, but he was only in his 40s. Every time I called home after living there, my grandmother would tell me where my “daddy” was and what he was doing.
In my EMDR therapy for PTSD, when I’m asked to picture a figure of protection, I think of him.
After my father died, mom gave us both daddy’s last name.
It was he who came to pick me up from the hospital after my son was born–when I was 17 and alone. To take me home when my son’s father and my mother couldn’t/wouldn’t take care of me.

I had a step-father in between, from when I was 5 to when I was 17, when he became my estranged ex-step-father. Our relationship was always difficult, and his request that I call him daddy seemed ridiculous. When my mother finally left him, he took us both out of the will. He also used his lawyer to take half of my money, not just half of my mom’s (I had just over a hundred dollars in a shared account from working the previous summer). (He, like my father, had cheated on her (a lot), but he managed to use his money to lie about everything and to screw her over again after so many years of practice.) I dream about his house fairly frequently–I’m always there, looking for something. (A therapist, long ago: “duh–your childhood!”) The thing I would most want from that house likely isn’t there anymore–a dollhouse my daddy handmade for me that didn’t make it out during the Waltonen woman exodus.

For all those years in between, I was still with my daddy every summer and most weekends.

It’s my daddy who’s died this week. The best man I’ve ever known. I didn’t get to say goodbye or to be there.

We won’t be having services this week–my family, the backwoods people that we are, don’t have regular services with pastors or with non-family people.

A couple of years ago, everyone waited to put my grandmother’s ashes in the ground until the boy and I could get down there.

The boy and I will not be able to go down for more than a day or two until August, so daddy’s ashes will wait above ground until then.

I’m the black sheep in my family, the prodigal daughter. But I get to be home to bury daddy, just like the stories promise.