Category: Process

Watershed 2021

12/31/2021

www.ivanestradaproperties.com

I’m starting to think the adage might be true, that, as we grow older, our sphere of give-a-damn starts to tighten. A gabillion zillion things happened this year, and I’m not sure I caught any of them because they weren’t in my direct purview. Also, I tend not to be of the “like, subscribe, switch on notifications” persuasion, so, when all is said and done, and for better or worse, I imagine myself a little less “influenced” than your average small-town bear. There’s a flip-side to this, of course, being that I easily made over a thousand *important* decisions this year, that no one gave a shit about. No harm, no foul.

A lack of abatement from COVID meant that, once again, the musician’s primary source of reception and feedback—the live gig—was not an option. However, knowing that the AFO once again could not come to as a performing band freed us to focus on finishing the project that we started in the murky waters of early 2020: Ray of Sunshine, specifically an AFO concept album featuring songs from the rock opera Ray of Sunshine.

More generally, though, we (being BlueDorian Media Entertainment’s 2021 squad, including the AFO, guest vocalists and instrumentalists, designers and artists, producers and engineers, and the organization’s core team) started to see this year as one in which we would be focusing on content, setting ourselves the underlying goal of not just producing but producing our socks off, committing to going above and beyond what we thought ourselves capable of doing, both in terms of quality as well as quantity, all the while retaining our focus and, more importantly, staying sane.

That we succeeded at all was a surprise, that we were able to achieve what we did, a wonder, and to all involved in the past two years worth of curriculum I feel a sense of gratitude and pride—it’s one thing to pump out great material in your *prime* (such an arbitrary assessment) when everyone is cheering you on and you have the will of the fans on your side, it’s entirely another to do in the silent cave that is modern COVID-based life. The work is there, for anyone who wants to check it out (shop.bluedorian.com). It was a thrill and a delight to work, soup to nuts, with such a talented crew of artists—I look forward to working with them again in the upcoming years.

www.brainlesstales.com

I took part in a QnA session focused around the music of Ray of Sunshine, and I was posed the question, “How can you allow your music to stream for free? How do you get people to pay for your music so you can make a living?” These are good questions, ones that I do not have the answer to. Now, granted, we at BlueDorian have yet to apply a marketing plan to our template. Our first step, still in process now, is to populate the commercial web presence (the store) with content. Anything outside of that goal, I’m not interested in, for the simple reason as to create good product requires focus, and if I’m trying to figure out how to sell my goods before I’ve built my goods, I’m not focusing.

Still, I’ve often self-reflected that music and visual arts, despite being in the same taxonomic “class” of activity, are such polar opposites, in terms of the logistics that their practitioners are required to go through to succeed. Visual artists more or less obey the commercial maxim, that 80% of your business comes from 20% of your clients, so really, you just need to secure the 20%. Music has no such luxury. Predetermined market values are placed on our commodity in such a way as if I spent two minutes throwing together a selection of pre-written beats, versus if I spend two years composing a piece that painstakingly fuses the sounds of a symphony orchestra, renaissance vocal group, and gamelan ensemble (all of whom I had to hire), both products costs about a dollar in the marketplace of ideas.

Anyway, like I said, that’s outside of my purview, at least for now. We’ll come up with a plan at some point, when it does seem relevant. In the meantime, 2021: cheers! It feels like we hardly knew ye, but I know that’s a lie. We live in formidable times. It’s time to step on the gas, and ride off into the sunset. To that end, here's this awesome fellow:

www.istockphoto.com

Travel safe and talk soon!

-AF

Wishing you all a HAPPY NEW YEAR 2022 :)

Title Inspiration: Watershed (Saliers), Indigo Girls

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A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Three

1/23/2020

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Continued from Chapter Two...

source: get.pxhere.com

3) One Hundred Percent

We start rehearsals.

Okay. This seems like a good place to go back to the point about there not being a show, because we do keep landing on there, thus far with very little sign of finding any resolution. As mentioned, it wasn’t as though the show lacked content. We had songs. We had characters. We had scenes. We even had set pieces. What was it lacking?

There are two aspects to this question. The first one is fairly straight-forward, and, being so, was relatively straightforward to solve: the show lacked cohesion. The numbers it was missing were those that, somehow, turn rag-tag lists of songs into a show, or at the very least a song cycle or revue. As we began rehearsals, it soon became apparent that some sort of main through-line, and the basis of a main character, were being called for to help this happen. This led to the development of some of the more dramatically involved numbers in the show, including the You Can Make Me Smile/Departures sequence, the romantic duet What Would You Do, and the psychological nightmare Nocturne. It also became clear that, while not, strictly speaking, the story’s protagonist (this is one spoiler I’m not giving away today), Soul was indeed the main character of the show—the one through whose eyes we and the audience were to traverse the proceedings—and needed to be treated accordingly. It is at this point when I cannot help but recall, somewhere between rehearsal and rehearsal, in a half-hour flash of white fury, that the epiphany song When Tomorrow Comes came into being, and solidified the character’s role as group conscience, albeit at times a reluctant one.

source: ae01.alicdn.com

The second aspect of this question, or rather, how it was solved, has remained something of a marvel to me, since SOM went into its final week of rehearsals, even though I lived through it, second by hyper-aware second. Now, as mentioned, I had written the show as a revue, meaning it would be a collection of thematically-linked songs, scenes, and sequences, in the musical theater style. It was balanced in terms of where the peaks and troughs were, and the resolution at its conclusion was clearly delineated. We had added elements of theatrical flair, such as an airplane, built out of four stools, for the number With Wings to Fly, as well as moments to showcase the vocal virtuosity of the cast members, not to mention their dancing chops (Find the Sun, and Swing!) But on the night before performance, something about the show just wasn’t working. Fiona, our tireless director, called an emergency meeting at her house. The show’s ending, she was convinced, needed an overhaul. I was exhausted—we all were. We bundled up into enough vehicles as were needed to fit us, and headed downtown, ostensibly to save the show.

For my part, I had no idea what was wrong, nor what the solution was for it. I would imagine the same could be said for the cast. However, we’d come to trust Fiona implicitly over the course of rehearsals—she had never led us astray before, why would she now?

source: www.huffpost.com

We began to plunk out different combinations and permutations of how the ending three numbers would play out together, until at some point probably close to midnight, the idea appeared out of nowhere. Fiona instructed me to find a segue directly linking the fourth last (preantipenultimate, I suppose?) song to the closer, effectively erasing two songs from the show’s ending. I’ll admit, I was a little skeptical—it was a lot of music to leave out of a show that was already struggling to find its length quota. But, and this was the most significant moment that I would come to experience over the course of putting on this production—this wonderful, shoestring production—possibly one of the more remarkable collaborative moments I have experienced in my life: I simply trusted her judgment, knowing that this cut was going to make the show work, and, in turn, at least so I imagine, she trusted me, that I would be able to make that vision happen in a way that was authentic and satisfying. By then, folks had started to conk out in front of a silent TV screen with half-eaten packets of Doritos strewn across the coffee table. I put the finishing touches on the new arrangement, woke up the cast, and we ran it, once more, with feeling.

It was magical.

source: i.ytimg.com

As for the first—and only—performance, it went well, with hardly any hitch, which was a nice way for things to befall, given how much effort we had put into putting together a show, almost from scratch, with hardly a soul noticing, in under five weeks. The airplane flew, the tap number came together, the “blind” waltz elicited tears, the reworked ending even more so. What’s interesting to me, to this day, is what that “cut” (i.e. the omission of the 2nd and 3rd last numbers from the show) ended up doing. Rather than serve the audience a perfectly balanced meal on a silver platter, it made them jump a little bit, with a jarring switch of gears that, by rights, shouldn’t work, but, I’m finding out as I continue to grow as a creator, almost always does. The song Rain (the show’s closer) in light of this becomes less of a conclusion and more of a catharsis, as the audience struggles to catch up with the emotional roller coaster created by the sudden acceleration of the characters’ collective journey.

4) Live to Tell

Flashforward twenty years. I had plans for States of Matter. In the early aughts, I remember that I was hoping to workshop it, apprentice with preeminent theatricians in various places, exotic (well, places like Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, which, to me, would be considered less “exotic” and more “home”), and turn it into a “real show,” something that might be relevant beyond its years, a piece of immortality in a fleeting world. As the years passed, I was faced with disappointing reactions to the work. The Malaysians didn’t think it was Malay enough. The Singaporeans weren’t convinced it had relevance in Singapore. I started to wonder when it became acceptable for the identity of art to become so provincial—it would have been one thing, and possibly easier to accept, if consensus had simply been that my music was terrible. Eventually, I shut the project down, in favor of more commercially viable ventures.

Yet, every so often, I would take it out of mothballs, and look it over, maybe do some rewrites, sketch out a new song. In those times, I find myself having this ongoing conversation with myself, wherein I’d pose the question: isn’t it about time to say goodbye to States of Matter? To let go of this ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen-year-old show once and for all?

I think of Fiona’s revisions. I consider them deeply. I’ve become very clear on the fact that they were not only necessary, not only ingenious, but likely integral to the success of what I like to refer to now as “SOM 2000.” Without them, I imagine, that, while audience members would likely have still been supportive, I don’t think we would have seen the droves of moistened-eyed pundits urging their way into the green room to say hello to the cast and crew, who had worked so hard to create something so out of the ordinary that night. It was an incredibly emotional set of moments, put together by an incredibly rare combination of energies. I certainly was blind-sided, and I don’t imagine we’d be able to create this catharsis again.

source: www.shutterstock.com

But maybe that’s just the point. We cannot recreate the magic that was SOM 2000, and perhaps nor should we. It will always have had its place in history. We have the memories, but the energy is long passed. We have all since been influenced by the ebbs and flows of time and the world song. We are different beings than we were then. What remains, if anything, of that SOM, are that which was written down, audio and video recordings of the performance, yes, but moreso, notated scores of songs, that can be read and learned by musicians, actors, and produced, and mounted on a stage. But to try and find our way back to that which was, in my opinion, would be folly. And maybe that’s all well and good.

Think of the experience of living history. I have friends who participate in this, and I have a passing interest in it myself. The idea of cooking a meal from scratch upon an open hearth to me holds in it an incredible sense of romance and adventure. So, one day I hope to create circumstances that will allow me to do such a feat, and, once done, have myself and my loved ones enjoy the fruits of our labors. But that doesn’t mean I have a wish to live in, say, the 18th century. I’m happy, in this case, to let the past be the past, while allowing, even chasing, for certain experiential aspects of this past to exist in the present. This is what’s called a dialectic, two contradictory poses that exist as one; life is full of them, and, I’m learning, the more of these apparent paradoxes I can come to understand, the more of them I can accept in life. And the more I can accept in life, the more opportunities there are, and the more options open up. At least, that’s what seems to make logical sense to me.

What is States of Matter, and what is its relevance in my life? On one hand, it’s a twenty-year-old piece of music theater that doesn’t particularly represent who I am now as a writer. Yet, and on the other hand, I have a great deal of love for it. And I do believe that, in all its sentimentality and generic inspirationalism, it still has things to offer in the marketplace of ideas, especially to young people or anyone who might be undergoing a process of loss of innocence, and a re-deciding of who they are, and, more importantly, who they would like to be. We are all the fearless explorer. We are all the shrewd pragmatist. We are all the turbulent psyche. And we are all the wise sage. We all wander through the rain, and we all long for home. This year we mark the 20th Anniversary of States of Matter’s first, and only, performance. In honor of it, we will be presenting, “States of Matter: In Concert”—an abridged version of the original show, in concert form, with select new material, and brand new orchestrations. Details to follow at bluedorian.com. We look forward to joining with you, in heart, music, rhythm, and soul.

States of Matter, The Company, from left to right: Jennifer McDonald (Music), Steven J. Engelbrecht (Rhythm), Elizabeth Geuss (Soul), Adam Farouk, and Bill Meakem (Heart); image courtesy JM.

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A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Two

1/22/2020

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Continued from Chapter One...

source: www.glassdoor.co.in

1) Sail Away

Flashback to the fall of 1999. I’m a newly reinstated junior at Cornell University, Ithaca, New York, having spent the previous semester on academic leave of absence, in order to, ostensibly, decide whether or not tertiary education was indeed the thing for me. In truth, a lot of me was still unsure, but for the most part it seemed like the thing to do, to keep me out of trouble, so to speak, and, in retrospect, given the influence my being-there has had upon so many factors of my current existence, it’s hard to imagine what my life would have been without my having returned as I did. By then, I had had several bouts of musical theater fever, and was firmly ensconced in its grasp. I found myself spending time with its practitioners, including dating, on, then off, then on again, then off again, a woman of rare talent in the field. Through osmosis and exposure alone, I found myself lucky enough to glean no small amount of education in what for me continues to be a noble and fascinating subject.

source: nystagereview.com

“States of Matter” had come a long way. Over the summer of 1999, I found myself in something of a writing glut, scratch-crafting songs that would go on to become some of the cornerstones of SOM, songs such as: Walking Away; With Wings to Fly; and Call of My Life—these titles may not be familiar to many of you, which, I’m realizing, is one of the reasons why I am writing this blog. But more on that to come. Over the fall, I took on my first major writing challenge, which was a mini-musical story that would eventually serve as the basis for SOM’s Memory and Visitations, Part One. I had long been a fan of R.C. Sherrif’s “Journey’s End,” and with more than a passing interest in World War One history, it felt natural, for me at least, to draw from both to create the backdrop for the Sail Away segment of the show. Unaccustomed, at the time, to writing music that served either characters or a story, writing the plucky young soldier, around whom the plot was centered, was fiercely uncharted territory, and brought with it no small complement of fears and concerns.

source: www.irishnews.com

Fortunately, I had not arrived at the gates of this endeavor empty handed. Over the years, I had been fortunate enough to work with some incredibly talented individuals in the arenas of choral singing and a cappella. Even more a blessing, however, was that, among this community, there were individuals who were as rapt by musical theater as I was. In this way, three of the four cast members of States of Matter were found: Bill Meakem, who brought a stunning, lilting tenor, and an irrepressible energy to the role of the idealistic conscript; Steven J. Engelbrecht, whose commanding and charismatic baritone, not to mention his dance prowess, perfectly suited the roles he was to inhabit, and Elizabeth Geuss, whose sassy and sagacious coloratura infused her part with all the wit and wisdom it was calling for. Fortuitous, and fortunate, it would turn out. To this day, I remember nervously bringing sketches of Sail Away to Bill’s apartment, and playing them in so tentative a fashion as to border on contriteness. Thankfully not only were the eyes and ears supportive, but yearning, as I was, for involvement in an original work.

Sail Away was originally intended to be part of First Edition’s introductory showcase, to be held in December 1999, but for whatever reason, it never happened, which was probably all well and good, as it allowed the mini musical to be workshopped without the pressure of a looming deadline. In the meantime, songs continued to be written and workshopped, such that by the time winter break rolled around, myself, our producers Edmund Quirin and Rice Majors, and the three-quarter cast we had assembled had just about half a show under its belt. Of course, it was around this time when I also learned a very important lesson when it comes to production: better to have one thing done one hundred percent, than to have ten things done ten percent.

source: sg.news.yahoo.com

Why, you ask? Fast-forward to 2000. It’s five weeks to curtain up, and, yup, you guessed it: we have no show.

2) Music

Now, by this point it should be clear, that when I say we “had no show,” rather than the total, complete absence of anything resembling a work of theater, what I actually mean is something a little bit different, linked—perhaps unsurprisingly—to the “very important lesson” mentioned above. Indeed, we had added to the inventory of working songs, including both the opener and closer, respectively: Just One Look, and Rain, the latter of which was based on the very original chord structure I had come up with, all those years ago, at Interlochen Arts Camp. We had found ourselves, in Fiona Santos and Jason Brantman, a director and stage manager with unquestionable bona fides, who were both, for some reason, willing to step onboard for the cause and take the helm of a novice production of a half-written show by a first-time composer. (When put that way, it seems almost foolhardy, like some sort of theatrician’s fear-factor challenge, the kind of thing that isn’t considered complete until someone’s devoured a whole raw fish.)

The most glaring omission at this point was the role of “Music,” one of the show’s four principal characters. We had already gone through two performers for the role, one of whom was a one-time stand-in for the ill-fated First Edition showcase, and the other of whom passed on the role in favor of a part in a concurrent student organization’s production of “The Lion in Winter”: understandable, even if I was a little incensed at the time. Backing up—over winter break I had put significant effort into the show’s opener: Just One Look, and it was then when one key component of the show was solidified: there were to be four cast members, two men, two women, and each character was represent one of four “states,” namely: Heart, Music, Rhythm, and Soul. Don’t worry too much about what this all means—it’s a bit like the characters from the movie “Inside Out,” except derived from metaphysics rather than from emotions. This becomes one of the key precepts of States of Matter, in addition to which is the idea that all of these characters are created equal. Among them there is no top billing, and the casting of the show must reflect that, which, at present, it did.

source: www.pinterest.com

Flash forward to the spring. We’re starting to panic. We’re going through a comprehensive list of candidates the likes of which would make an election year blush. Fiona, our fearless director, has stepped in at times to play the role, and while she’s convincing, we all know it’s no long-term deal. The idea is even floated to me that my girlfriend at the time might step in and play the part. Now, she’s a professional actress, with years of training under her belt, while the current members of the cast, talented and dedicated as they are, are ultimately student amateurs. Such a disparity in experience and practical knowledge of the craft would only serve to highlight any inequality that may exist between them, in addition to going against one of SOM’s core precepts (see above). It’s a glaringly obvious fact, one for which I gain no points whatsoever in pointing out to her. No big deal, I’m told, by everyone; the fact that I find myself newly single by midsummer is surely just coincidence.

We finish going through the list, and no one is particularly suitable. The actors won’t handle the intricate musical numbers. The singers are lacking in character. I’m about to lose hope, when who do I run into in the university chapel’s basement (a common hangout for choral singers—trust me, it’s not as weird as it sounds) other than one of my oldest of college friends, who quite literally walked up the slope with me on the first day of class: Jennifer McDonald, who, I’d often thought, would have been a shoe-in for the part of “Music,” with her clean belt and natural sense of introspection, but for the fact that this was, ultimately, a student production, meaning cast members would have to balance academics, social lives, and other competing extracurriculars. Aware of her full schedule, I simply didn’t think to ask, until the date of the production started to loom, ever closer, and politeness was swiftly trumped by practicality. We needed a full cast; the worst that could happen was that she said no. Once again, whatever the driving force behind her taking on well more than a student ought to in a single semester, the production was blessed by her decision to participate, as it was too with now SOM veterans Bill, Steve, and Elizabeth, who were playing Heart, Rhythm, and Soul, respectively.

Continued in Chapter Three...

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A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter One

1/21/2020

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source: https://cornellsun.com

It was late January, the year 2000, and who could have ever predicted that such a rag-tag crew of haphazardly-organized, multi-passionate but painfully-inexperienced wannabe producers would have grown into a steadfast company of creative entrepreneurs, bound and determined to bring to life a theatrical production, whose success, be it artistic, financial, or otherwise, was far from assured. The presentation in question was an experimental musical revue I’d been writing on and off for the past three, or six, years, depending on to whom you spoke. By winter’s end, still 2000, the fledgling student organization “First Edition Productions”—who was mounting the production—had found itself a director, a stage manager, a good three quarters of the cast, the band (such as it was—one single pianist), a producer, and a venue. The other components, it seemed, could still be picked up along the way, with ample time for rehearsal before curtain up. There was, however, one small problem.

There was no show.

Flashforward twelve years. The Mayan apocalypse approaches, and I’m inventorying my body of work as part of a comprehensive website redevelopment effort. The lead designer, going through the list of current BlueDorian projects, arrives at a collection of documents grouped together under the three-lettered acronym: SOM. I’m asked about it, and I clarify that SOM stands for “States of Matter,” which is a show I wrote, back in college. A follow-up question is posed—nothing pointed, just to gather more info on the subject; I’m asked: That’s a twelve-year-old project. Does it still have relevance in your life?

www.mynorth.com

Flashback to the summer of 1995. I’m attending Interlochen Arts Camp, a jumbled mess of emotions (me, not the camp—I take that back: also, at times, the camp), playing piano for one of the institution’s jazz bands, alongside a charming, kind, self-possessed young lady named Norah, who, unbeknownst to all of us at the time, was slowly preparing herself for when she would eventually go on to become a worldwide superstar and leading expert in the field of a mellow, mellow, oh so mellow, jazz. Meanwhile, I’m spending most of my time trying to figure out life, without ever pausing to think about whether life ever took the time to try and figure out me. My closest friend at the time is a consummate New Yorker, with an ascerbic tongue and offbeat sense of humor. We bond over the original score of the musical “City of Angels;” he introduces me to the William Finn masterpiece “Falsettos,” and a firm friendship is forged.

We decide per breakfast one day that he and I should collaborate together and write a musical. Naturally, we decide on coming up with the title for this magnum opus first (priorities, priorities). Unable to conceive of any better means for such a vital task, the method we settle on ends up being a game of word association. Somehow, from goodness knows where, we stumble our way to the phrase “States of Matter” and decide that it is fitting, which is saying very little given that we’d yet to decide on subject matter. But with the grand excitement of a new project to sink one’s teeth into, by the end of the next week, I had put down the basic chord structure to a song. My thinking was that my collaborator would finish it, by writing its lyrics. This was not to be. By then, he had made plans to withdraw from the wooded cabins of northwestern Michigan, and return to the pulse and fervor of the Big Apple. I shelved my new creation, not thinking it likely I would ever see it again.

http://www.asergeev.com

I remember the question as though I were being asked it today: Does States of Matter have relevance in my life? It—the question—tingles up, in, and around my brain, like a hyperactive triangle player, filling me with dread and incertitude. Earlier that year I’d brushed it off as a possible put-forth for some theater festival or other. A colleague of mine, whom I was speaking to on the phone at the time, validated this decision, responding with something along the lines of: Yeah, you don’t want to submit something you wrote in college. I was quick to agree back then. Now, as I find myself on the precipice of what will be States of Matter’s 20th Anniversary year, I discover that I am less assured of my convictions, wondering instead if there is a place, not merely in memory, but perennial, for this piece of barely pre-twenty-first-century art, in all its heartfelt theatrical naiveté, a place in the world dialogue, as we all stumble along together through the beginnings of a new millennium, a place in our hearts as we each take one step closer to finding the sun.

Continued in Chapter Two...

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Watershed 2019

12/31/2019

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source: youtube.com/user/KilligrewMusic/featured

The year draws to a close, and I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure I have the energy to go twelve rounds with another one. Between the mental health diagnoses and their ongoing, and in many cases worsening, symptoms, and several emerging physiological issues as well, next year I would hardly be surprised if I were to find myself on the receiving end of something fatal, and, I have to say, some days I’m not sure I wouldn’t welcome it.

I’ve always been honest with these watershed posts. I’ve never sugar-coated my feelings. I’m really thankful for all the support I received upon reentry to the world after my hospital stabilizations this year. I can say for certain that I would not have made it through with quite as much of what little remains of my sanity intact without the calm, kind, and caring strength shown to me by friends and family, who in the face of these circumstances rallied to become the support network I never knew I had. I am deeply touched by this collective gesture, and will hold it near and dear to my heart for always.

The weeks and months following reentry were a difficult period, and continue to be so, with symptoms showing no sign of abating—in fact, they seem only to strengthen with time. No one seems to know exactly what’s going on with me, exactly what is the matter with me, let alone how to present any coherent plan to try and heal me. I am told that the work takes time; what I experience is that with each day the symptoms become further entrenched, and increasingly more difficult to face. I spend most of my time—I may have mentioned this before—with my eyes closed, to try and escape the symptoms and the turmoil they convey.

I’ll keep this short, meaning to say that I’m winding up. I’m often loathe to make life-suggestions, believing a person’s right to choose the content of their experience to be paramount. But in going through what has been beyond the hardest year of my humble existense, I feel, for once, a sense of responsibility: that to hold my tongue in this instance might be to miss out on an opportunity to do some good, or at the very least to share some perspective that, who knows, might be worthwhile to someone out there.

So, to any and all who might find this relevant: a recommendation. Look around you, and admire all the beauty that you see, including, perhaps especially, the beauty that is yourself. Devour all there is that brings you joy to see. Watch the world. Observe it, mindfully, with curiosity, and wonder. Speaking as a person who may never be able to take the simple act of looking at the world for granted ever again, I cannot emphasize this more. The world is a beautiful place, absolutely stunning, and I miss it so much. Take in the best of the world, and leave the rest. Allow its beauty to bring you satisfaction, happiness, and joy.

You deserve it.

source: https://resize-parismatch.lanmedia.fr

Travel safe, and talk soon. -AF

Title Inspiration:
Song: WATERSHED (Saliers)
Artist: INDIGO GIRLS

Enjoy! -AF

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Where Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops

11/19/2019

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source: https://c1.staticflickr.com

My Dearest Mack and Tosh,

I hope this finds you well. I’m writing to catch you up in more detail on some of what has been going on here with me over the past few months. I’m going to dive right in. There’s some candid content here, be forewarned.

As you know, this past April I had a major mental health emergency, and was hospitalized in a voluntary inpatient unit for several days. I was discharged quickly, with a new meds regimen, which everyone, including me, thought would solve the issues recurrent prior to my admission. Unfortunately it did the opposite, amplifying my symptoms to the point where I was basically existing in what I might describe as high-crazy mode most of the time. Long story short, the situation culminated with my readmitting myself into hospital, and spending another stint in a mental health inpatient unit.

I was, eventually, discharged again, with a different meds regimen, a different therapeutic model, and a different, more fitting, diagnosis. I am, clinically speaking, more or less stable, but the combination of symptoms make it difficult to take anything for granted. Along with the bipolar disorder, which I still have, I meet sufficient criteria to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which, as we know, is simply delightful—in addition to which, I have a combination of anxiety symptoms, which express themselves most frequently in the form of panic attacks, which are severe and can strike at any time, as well as something residing in a ballpark very nearby to obsessive compulsive disorder. Together, it’s a tricky situation to manage, to say the least.

Even as I’ve recovered considerably over the past two and a half months, I still experience my symptoms considerably, especially those related to OCD. I’ll be going about my business, when suddenly I start noticing something, for example, a spot on the wall. Then, I cannot stop noticing it. I t takes up all my attention. If I try to fight—in order to stop noticing it—the symptom (i.e. the obsession about the spot) only gets worse. The only way to stop noticing it is to somehow “accept” that my mind is obsession about the spot, but this is not always easy, or possible, to do.

In these moments it’s very easy to be overwhelmed be feelings of hopelessness and darkness. The other day I had some intense dark thoughts, as a bi-product of unprocessed symptomatology. Before long I found myself questioning why I was alive, and wondering if the alternative might not be a more preferable state of affairs: a chilling place, indeed. Thankfully, with even my meager practice of coping skills, plus some help from the new meds regimen, I was able to get through these thoughts, and make it safely to the other side.

I’m realizing how important it is for me to find a way to stay connect to people, and avoid isolatory situations as far as is possible (barring writing, which, for better or worse, is typically done alone). Feelings of hopelessness can metastasize in isolation (for me, anyway). I’m looking to stay on the side of light and lightness.

If you’ve read this far, thank you, and I appreciate it. Will look forward to when our paths next cross.

Travel safe. Talk soon.

-AF

source: http://www.thewizardofozmovie.com

Title Inspiration:
Song: OVER THE RAINBOW
Artist: ISRAEL "IZ" KAMAKAWIWO'OLE

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Fear No More the Lightning Flash

11/5/2019

source: http://www.themindvoyager.com

This year, on April 30th, I had what’s commonly referred to nowadays as a mental health crisis. This sterilized, sanitary term has—in true Carlin-esque fashion—sounded at once more dramatic and more serious in days past, with the phrase “nervous breakdown” warranting (and justifiably so, I can now attest, have been through one) the terrifying vision of a mental *snap*, followed by a period of complete inability to keep up with normal day-to-day activities: work, family care, relationships, and so forth. The brain is fried, or deep-friend, rather, and no amount of coaxing can get it to see itself as otherwise, at least at first.

(This first paragraph took me two weeks to write, thirteen days of which were preparation, and failed attempts.)

source: https://images.freeimages.com

Because I am human and prone to distorted thinking (not saying those are necessarily linked… necessarily) my initial thought was that of: Why? (Truthfully there are days when I still think this.) Why did this happen? Was I being punished for something? Was there something I had forgotten that I had done wrong, that I still needed to atone for? And for that matter, did my life still work that way—pinned, inexorable, to the wheel of karma? Where were grace and compassion? Where was enlightened equanimity?

Thankfully this “control fallacy,” when it lasts, doesn’t last long. *Phew*—as it were. The bottom line is that it happened because, well, it happened. At least, so far as goes the philosophy of it all. As for the logistics, bridgestorecovery.com speaks of a nervous breakdown occuring: “when a person is no longer able to cope with stress or pressure. Stressful like events may trigger a breakdown, but underlying mental illness may also cause it.”

(Again, I can attest to this. I’ll spare you in detail as to all of what the stress was; notwithstanding, it was a combination of work and personal factors.)

source: https://media.baselineresearch.com

I spent a little over a week in an inpatient unit, under close watch for safety as well as diagnosis. I graduated to what is known as a “partial program,” living out in the “real world” while attending a bevvy of a groups and classes, on tools and information generally designed to help the subject remain both in the real world and living. Now, it’s more or less back to reality.

source: https://singularityhub.com

Except, the way I remember it, reality was once a collaborative adventure, not a cruel exercise in smackdown economics, featuring humiliating defeat after humiliating defeat, as I struggle merely to remember vocabulary and simple items on a to-do list. I’ve been told that the real recovery, the one that begins well after the groups, well after the classes, can take months, if not months upon months, a grueling Everestian climb, which, if these first weeks are to be judged by, I can once again attest to.

But enough about that. What concerns me now is recovery. How do I get better, so that I can cease being a burden on my lovely wife, a true dedicated superhero if ever there was one, and start getting out there back to the world of creative badassery and cosmic avenging that so much more suits me than passive victimhood ever could.

source: http://www.8-bitcentral.com

I am forcing myself to write this blog. The mental strain is near unbearable. With each word search the side of my brain feels like it’s being seared on a skillet. But I will persevere, and I will complete it. Because if there is any sense of give-uppery in me, lingering, lurking, what better way to find it, and show it exactly how it can go fuck itself, whenceforth will I move myself into a space—bulldozing my way there if I have to—where things are the way they should be: where my creativity is back in charge.

Title Inspiration:
Song: DIRGE FROM CYMBELINE (poem) (Shakespeare)
Artist: JOHN GIELGUD

Enjoy! -AF

I've Never Been Too Good With Names

10/15/2019

AF Thoughts from May 5th 2019.

We discuss guilt and shame. Rich, the facilitator (real name altered), wears casual jeans and an open flannel shirt, wearing his grey head of hardly receding hair neither short nor unkempt. He has one of those faces where when he is gone you are unsure whether or not he has a mustache and beard, or rather, you are absolutely certain he does, but would hate to have to stake your life on it. He is friendly, but more to the point in this case he embodies a state of gentle authority: knowledgable, and firm in his understanding of how to convey said knowledge. We begin:

source: http://www.citypointchurch.com

Guilt and shame are established as two forms of conscience, developed specifically to determine scope of behavior, or, in other words, to limit it. Don’t go outside the cave after dark! is the rule and you are to follow it. Whereas in reality, the reason for this rule is both sound and based in logic i.e. you will in all likelihood be eaten by a large, long-toothed prehistoric feline if you do (go outside the cave), the forces of peril employed in teaching this lesson are far more immediate, and, in many respects, far more threatening i.e. because I, your parent, told you so, and if you disobey me I will become angry!

1) Shame

source: https://www.rover.com

Shame can be understood as the fear of disconnection. It develops at a relatively young age. Children are conditioned to join the herd, and to do so no matter what it takes—it is often said that children will take bad attention over no attention at all, such is the pull of the herd. Shame intersects with a fear of abandonment, or exile, two of the most basic disconnection-based consequences a tribe can put on individuals.

2) Guilt

source: http://i.ytimg.com

Guilt is slightly different. Guilt develops at a later stage, when the mind can abstract, particularly when it can create for itself its own set of personal rules—its personal code. When an individual violates their own personal code, a feeling of guilt may be the result.

3) The Brain(s)

We can consider the various “brains” i.e. the various stages of human cognitive development, and how they relate to guilt and shame.

First, the “reptile” brain. This part of the human brain deal with the basic functions: eating, sleeping, defacating, etc.

Next, we can observe the “mammal” brain. Via the mammal brain, babies learn to label their emotions. They learn how to express, and how to connect. Also, it is worth noting, shame lives here.

FInally, there is the “human” brain. The human brain begins to come into play at around 3 years of age, developing from 3 years until about 6 years old. The human brain, a marvel, can share information, thoughts, ideas, and opinions. It can read Aristotle and Shakespeare. It is worth noting that most herd animals will, at most, join three (3) herds, whereas humans will join hundreds of "herds" in one lifetime (i.e. social circles, professional circles, and so forth).

It is this—the human—part of the brain that learns to navigate all of these different rules. Often times, rules which apply in one place, do not apply in another. Humans can navigate this, humans can modify the rules at will. Rules, for humans, are what we create, and rules are negotiable.

source: https://www.taringa.net

Rich now leans back in his chair. We are given space to wander and explore.

It is easy to see in the world how children who are treated differently can become children who are wired differently. The question is asked: why do some children have such a large shame conscience? We ponder. Nature? Nurture? Excess punishment... child neglect... bad treatment? If a child is aggressively punished every time they are taught a "lesson," do they learn the underlying lesson, or is the lesson they learn that their parents will get mad and will yell at them?

To the group, it stands to reason that any and all of these factors would have an impact on the developing mind, teaching it how to move through the world.

The discussion segues briefly onto the subject of depression. Depression: it is different from sadness, it is a pane of glass between you and your life, that get thicker and darker as its power grows. You know they're out there (your supports, your *tribe*) but you just don't feel them.

After a few more minutes of discussion, Rich interjects, with some grist for the mill. A too-high shame-o-meter can, he proposed, can elicit the feeling of “I am pretending” in children: “I feel like I am pretending all the time.”

He goes on to say: We accept the love we think we deserve.

For those with too high shame-o-meter, the beliefs are often:

If you like/love me, I’m fooling you
If you tell me I did a good job, I’m obviously faking it

They WILL remember the criticisms.

And they will disconnect from the good things.

source: https://static.timesofisrael.com

Closing Thoughts

As the session winds down, Rich offers us some some final impressions to mull over.

There is a watchtower, he says, in the upper mind, whose purpose is to ask: “What do I think about my feelings?” Guilt lives up here. It's a rational place.

As for shame? Just because a feeling is real, he says, doesn't mean it is true.

He leaves us, as the minute-hand on the clock passes ten signifying the end of the period, with the following, on the off chance, he says, that it is useful. It is a set of questions that one might ask oneself during the guilt/shame response process, as follows:

Did I break a rule?
If so, what rule was it?
And, furthermore, whose rule was it?
And, finally, what do I think of that rule?

We all carry around guilt, as well as shame, he concludes. Hopefully this mode of inquiry during periods of distress might free us from some of the toxic effects of our unprocessed shame, and allow us a greater sense freedom, to know that we are writing our own rules, and charting our own course.

source: https://pngtree.com

Travel safe. Talk soon. -AF

Title Inspiration
Song: IT'S A SHAME ABOUT RAY (Dando, Morgan)
Artist: LEMONHEADS

Enjoy! -AF

Watershed 2014

12/31/2014

This has been one of the toughest years I have experienced to date. And also, somehow, it has been one of the most fulfilling, and one of the happiest. It is possible this is all part and parcel of the process of retaking my life. January was a month-long wakeup from a decades-long stupor, realizing that all the things I thought I was were actually lies, that I had concocted to keep myself trapped in a system of thought wherein I could never gain enough momentum to find my potential, let alone shoot for it, let alone achieve it.

For so long I thought I was wrong. Simply put together badly, incorrectly. And somehow, in this light, the best recourse seemed to start again, just press the reset button, and, if you believe in that sort of thing, hope the chips fall better next time. Hey, it works in video games. Sometimes. But this sort of thinking was, again, against social codes of conduct, no matter where in the world you are. You don't feel depressed. You don't feel suicidal. You certainly don't feel depressed, suicidal, and murderously rageful at the same time, not unless you're a comic book character with a big clown-smile on your chalk-white face. If you're not that guy, then what you do is you suppress whatever you feel with witty banter and clever comments, and hope to fit in. You get a friend, or a girlfriend or boyfriend, maybe a string of them, heck maybe a string of them at the same time, and you hope to fit in. You do what they--whoever they are--tell you to do, and you hope to fit in. But in the end, all this stuff isn't you, so you end up feeling, and probably acting, like a fucking moron, and you hate yourself more for it.

The tricky situation here is that it is often difficult to spot who is and who is not going through this, exactly because of the above situation described. I, for example, was peppy and outwardly positive enough that, on occasion, I had folks leaning on me for strength and direction, which, I should add, I was happy to attempt to give (it made me feel validated), but that I had absolutely zero capacity to provide in any way that was healthy for anyone in that situation, least of all me. Luckily I never figured out exactly how to press that reset button, or maybe I just never decided on the method in time, and thankfully, the keen eyes of an attuned, empathic, and self-aware human being got to me before I could do anything idiotic.

Meds have been an interesting kettle of fish. I stopped writing blogs mid-year, for a number of reasons, some creative and happy (more on that later), but the other was for time spent just needing to keep track of how things were progressing medically. After a near scare with lithium toxicity towards the end of the year ("So, my hands aren't supposed to be numb all the time, then?"), which incidentally, is nasty if and when it happens, things have leveled off to a good equilibrium. I'm still getting used to the ongoing periodic blood tests. You know, if I'm being honest, I always thought myself above the healthcare system, so this is perhaps a good ego check (you can't yoga or exercise your way through everything), and I can't but feel blessed and thankful, for so much. The weird thing, though, about all this is that, well, lithium toxicity is, as mentioned, nasty. In fact, with a large enough dose, lithium is fatal. My medication, it seems, that which facilitates my reemergence into the world with a greater sense of capability and self-command, is also a poison. It is chilling to me that that which would, in the past, have been a means to the reset button that I longed for, has become a different sort of liberator, one of the gift of healing, rather than harm; light, rather than darkness.

Well, enough about that. The past and present are moving further apart for me, and that is a blessing. The one thing that still plagues is what apparently are called "intrusive thoughts." Now, this makes it seem pretty harmless. Unfortunately, as always... For me it's been visions, uncontrollable, of violent and painful self-harm. That's about as far as I'll go in terms of detail, so don't worry. The challenge is that these thoughts can be triggered by anything. I'm making toast, I'm driving down a one-way street. Then all of a sudden, bang, one such thought-stream occurs. It's unpleasant, yeah, and, if driving, dangerous, but it is especially difficult when the imagery is so strong as to become debilitating. I tell you: not fun. If someone had told me this year I'd find myself doubled over on a daily basis, head in hands, unable to get up, practice, get any work done, because of incapacitating day-mares, I would have been very skeptical (I realize I'm paraphrasing here, for all you Mass Effect fans out there). Anyway, very interesting. It's basically taken months of what feels like Jedi-style mental practice to create effective firewalls, shields, and a capable arsenal of tools and counter-images to allow me to basically just get up in the mornings and get shit done. But, the shit, as it's said, is getting done, so, and you'll hear me say this a bunch: I am thankful.

So, if you see me twitch randomly in the middle of a conversation, now you'll know why :)

Now, for those of you still here lol, onto the fun stuff.

This year had seen something of a boom, creatively speaking. It makes sense. I haven't been spending all my time trying to keep rogue emotions and thoughts in check. It stands to reason it would allow for more time to be spent, I don't know, actually doing my job. Yay, doing my job. Anyway, so the major thing of awesomeness was the development of AFO (the Adam Farouk Orchestra, if we must). Those who were around last year will remember its re-debut after a few years of dormancy, with a roster comprised of some fantastic local musicians: Tim Reppert, Jeff Berlin, Raleigh Green, and Kelly Riley. This year, I reconceptualized a little but to emphasize guitars and voices, and moved to an ensemble that I haven't really seen much of around (no idea why, it's an awesome combo!), of three guitars, one bass, all musicians being vocalists, and no drums (which incidentally, is more of a challenge than I had anticipated, especially with rhythmically demanding music, and while everyone is singing in counterpoint, yeah seriously, wtf is wrong with me?!)

But, as mentioned, this is a super fun concept, that warrants some developing, so we'll likely be building on this in the coming year. I'm tempted to add keyboards and drums, just because I love the big sound, but there's a lovely purity about this setup; we'll see. We were fortunate enough to be able to video and record our last rehearsal of 2014 (December 6th), and so far initial soundbites sound great, and we're looking forward to checking out footage next. Keep an eye out for clips of this on youtube (and elsewhere) sometime this year!

The AFO 2014 roster included at various points: Elizabeth Lorrey, Tom Appleman, Nate Leavitt, Tim Reppert, and Raleigh Green. Live-jam credits: Tim Reppert (sound); Chris DeSanty, Seth Wood (video), Elizabeth Geuss, Andrew Goldin (production), The Inner Space, Brookline MA (location).

Finally, last but not least, I got back into the writing chair big time this past year. Really, it was like I caught a fever, and the only cure was more cow-bell. Except I couldn't find a cow-bell, so I started writing, and that worked pretty good. The first half of the year was spent redelving (#mymadeupword.com) into Heart, Music, Rhythm, Soul, specifically, repurposing it as a series, fleshing out the characters, and finding a new sense of purpose in a story that's been near to my heart for over a decade, since the original States of Matter went into production for the very first time, all those years ago. Look out for more news on this project next year (2015). But the biggest news has to be the genesis of an entirely new project line. It's spanking new, so there's not that much to share, and in any case I'll be sparing, given just how mutable details tend to be at this stage of the game. What I do know is that it will be a Faerworld story (i.e. fantasy); its working title is Daughters of Time; and it will follow the adventures of a team of four super-powered heroes, as they journey down that treacherous path that is self-discovery, while fighting against incalculable odds to stop unstoppable foes from destroying the world. I'm looking forward to this one. My Joss Whedon-roots are showing here as well lol. I've been feeling moved to do a story with a strong all-female team for a while, and I am definitely buoyed up, even at this early stage, by working on this project. Definitely keep a look out for news on this one! And if you don't see or hear anything, feel free to bug me :)

So. We made it. This has been a year to survive, but also a year in which to thrive, and to celebrate, whether in joy or defiance; but either way, to stand up, or leap in the air, or simply raise your arms, and declare, I am the light. No darkness shall stand in my way. I will shine all that I am, across the universe, over and throughout this world where I dwell, and I will be me, and I will be heard, and together we will sing the song of victory. Happy 2015.

Thanks for sticking with me. Travel safe, and talk soon.

-AF

Because

7/28/2014

Why?

Darned if I know. Perhaps I am simply too dumb to quit.

A few years ago, I came up with a vision to create an independent creative arts company. Sounds impressive? Hardly. Back then, all I had was a name for a company; as for what it did, I had no idea. In fact, even today I still struggle with exactly what to call BlueDorian, because I’m still not exactly sure what it is, or more appropriately, where its edge lies. What today is BlueDorian Media Entertainment was for a long time the record label BlueDorian Music, and before that, BlueDorian Productions, the producer of live concert events. Things keep shifting, alighting for a brief moment, then taking flight again. And for some reason that I cannot rationalize, I listen to those muses: I follow the sun.

Well, perhaps there is a fear-trigger in the air right now, because I am remembering, with painful clarity, how this is exactly the sort of behavior that I was admonished for for most of my young creative life: “Oh, Adam, you always over-think things!” “What’s wrong with you? You’re always shifting around!” I learned to resent my fluidity, and to feel as though there were something inherently wrong with my process.

In some ways as a result of all of this, I spent a good deal of time in my youth desperately trying to fit in, to belong to institutions, to be part of “it” clubs, believing that in order for me to survive, succeed, and—so I believed—find creative fulfillment, I would need their seal of approval, their commendation. My early attempts were mostly unsuccessful. But eventually I started to understand what I needed to do, what I needed to believe, to make it in the system.

I came across a number of different institutions. In all cases, what they asked of me was that I buy into their method, their tried and true approach, forsaking my own. In a general sense they all seemed to imply that to succeed I needed to boxcar myself, to compartmentalize, that I was to consider myself: “musician;” or perhaps, “composer;” or, at a stretch, “recording artist,” but whatever I was classed as, there was no switching, leaving the boxcar, and I should always know my place. If I absolutely must, I could write lyrics and call myself a “singer-songwriter,” but really, it’s preferable to leave that job to the “real” lyricists. And don’t write stories, that’s for people called playwrights and novelists, bookwriters, and screenwriters. And don’t even think about anything further than that. Yeah, all those video games and comic book concepts that you have swimming around your noggin? Forget those. Know your limits. Know your place.

And so I bought into that way of thinking, hoping it would get me in with the cool kids. And funnily enough, eventually, this behavior was validated. I put myself in a box for enough time, and was finally rewarded for it. And the system, having finally accepted me, took me to swirling heights of achievement. It was a thrilling, swashbuckling—if brief—tale of excitement and rockstardom that padded my ego and wrecked havoc on my mental and physical wellbeing. I was able to wake up, fortunately, before things got too out of hand.

Which brings me back to BlueDorian. Being capable of choosing the full expression of my Creative Self—weird, nerdy, epic, cross-platform, out-of-the-box, take your pick—over the expedience of what is expected of me has required that I become aware not so much of my limits or my place, but of my experience. And in each moment, my experience is that both my limits and my place are extremely mutable. They shift constantly. Every time I think I know the scope of what I can do, it changes. Sometimes it increases, sometimes it decreases. I never know where it is I am, other than right here.

So how am I supposed to know my place, at least in the way dictated by those institutions and their criteria? Know my limits? Sorry, I can’t. Not anymore. Or perhaps I lack to capacity to. So then I think to myself, heck, maybe that’s the reason I don’t quit. No, not because I’m so courageous, so visionary, so belief-filled, but because I’m just too oblivious to do otherwise. What is it? What is it that keeps me going? Foolhardiness? Persistence? I’m reminded of the comic book character Hal Jordan (a.k.a. Green Lantern), who in one particular story is asked: Why don’t you ever give up?

To which he replies, with characteristic defiance: I don’t know how!

Yes, it would be glamorous to adopt that as my own raison de faire. But that too would be a lie. I’ll be honest with you. I know how to give up. There are many days I want to give up. I want to give up right now. I’m tired as hell and my allergies are acting up and it’s one of those days when the meds aren’t really taking hold. I see so many obstacles, so many reasons I can think of not to carry on. Add to that many people I see around me, who themselves seem to believe as fact all the fears I do my best to face and work through every day: that there are no true empowered people—that the only way to succeed is to ally yourself with someone who has a “position of power,” hang onto their coat-tails and hope that they bestow some of that “power” upon you; that independents are destined for struggle or failure because the system will always beat you down; that, sure, people start off with emboldened vision, but always end up cynical cogs in the machine of acquisition.

So much of this way of thinking still exists, both in me and out there, and yet, still, I am here, be it for stupidity or stubbornness, for some reason convinced that there is some other way, some other means for me to create what I envision, some other path through which I can manifest the beautiful world I see in my heart’s eye, some other method via which I may succeed on my own terms.

Why? Nothing outside confirms this. Nothing outside ever has. In fact, all the validation I have ever gotten from the outside world has come when I have chosen expedience over alignment, myth and image over truth.

So what the heck do I do?

I’ll tell you. I keep going. Somehow. Day by day. Moment by moment. Why? Your guess is as good as mine.

source: touchingmountain.com

There she lies a-waitin'...

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Adam Farouk's Official Blog

Watershed 2021

A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Three

3) One Hundred Percent

4) Live to Tell

A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter Two

1) Sail Away

2) Music

A Memory in Three Parts, Chapter One

Watershed 2019

Where Troubles Melt Like Lemon Drops

Fear No More the Lightning Flash

I've Never Been Too Good With Names

1) Shame

2) Guilt

3) The Brain(s)

Closing Thoughts

Watershed 2014

Because

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