Stepping Back
I kept forgetting to upload my vacation journal, which puts some of my 'earlier' entries out of sequence. They are after the dotted line.
Time at the Duckabush reminded me of my not so secret dream. I'd like to set up a retreat ground in a place like that, for professional level arts training. Theatre being my preferred venue I know the type of people I want to serve. Community and fringe artists. It disgusts me when I hear community theatre run down by other artists, especially actors and directors. Admittedly you can see some awful performances, but community theatre certainly hasn't cornered that market. On the other hand some of the best work I have seen was also at community theatres, and you tend to get a level of heart in the work which you also see at the fringe level, and not nearly so often at the great big professional level.
More importantly, community theatre is grass roots more than any other type of theatre. The more people you draw into community theatre as participants and audience, the more that will go to fringe, low budget professional productions, and big fat professional productions. Fringe runs quite a gamut too and I think needs the same sort of support, though you tend to get a lot more professionals, or at least artists with professional training. Anyway those are the people I'd like to support. A retreat to support and grow arts and appreciation at the grass roots level. I like the idea of having cottages where professional artists could stay, either cheaply or as instructors. I need to continue working on the ideas, then at some point letting it go or working out practical details.
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19Jul04 :
I didn't realize it was my Mother's birthday until I checked my calendar so I could date this. I no longer communicate with my Mother. It is poignant in a comforting way that I am able to distance myself that way.
I am sitting on the old channel of the Duckabush River looking over the current channel, in front of the cabin which my Dad and brother have shares in with another dozen or so other families. I have been coming here for thirty years and it has many levels of meaning. It started out as a group of people in the self actualization workshops of the 70's who became very close and bought the cabin and property as a group. My Dad was one of the original members, and I have been associated with the group since it's inception. Back then I was the young kid who worked so hard it made everyone else tired just watching.
Aside from a full day of cooking on Saturday I have spent very little time in the cabin. I've slept under the stars or in a tent. This short vacation is wonderful, some time out of the office and theatre spaces. An interesting place to be. I don't resent my time spent working at Expedia or in theatre pursuits. Spending time with nature is even more refreshing to the soul than when I did resent most everything everything in my life. I think about time here with my family, and I've not a single memory of my Mother any further from the cabin than the fire pit a few paces from the cabin stoop.
Looking down the river enjoying the breeze while working on a script I am writing. Perfect. Should I win the lotto I'd treat myself to this a lot. Looking up from the screen and down the shady green expanse of the river is a wonderful way to write.
I've been building a small fire on the beach every evening, and sitting. Sometimes in silence, thinking or simply being still. Sometimes reciting (manly) poetry or monologs, even singing to the river. Last night my father joined me, as he has for a little while each evening. This time it was a little longer, and I sang Brennan on the Moor, an old Irish ballad and recited My Friends, and we sang Abdul Abulbul Amir (one of many spellings). When we were out backpacking when I was a kid he and my Uncle would recite the well-known Service poems (The Cremation of Sam McGee and The Shooting of Dan McGrew), Dad would sing Abdul, and Uncle Hal would recite Gunga Din or The Grave of the Hundred Head by Kipling. A very nice little connection with each other and the past.
20Jul04:
Last night Pop joined me at the fire again. I was musing. The times at the Duckabush were some of the best times of my life as a youth and young man. I was rarely happy, and it is only in the last several years that my mood is good more often than not. Never expected to think of myself as a happy person. I was recalling how intense my enjoyment of the Duckabush escapes seemed to be. Yesterday's journal entry got me thinking along those lines. I was musing on why I don't experience the same thing now. I am a different person. Definitely in a better place now, though I know I wouldn't be where I am know without my life experience. I now enjoy nature for it's own sake, rather than as an escape from my life. A less intense, though richer experience.
Time to finish packing and head back to my every day world. Wish I could stay longer, yet looking forward to getting back. The best way to end up any excursion.
Time at the Duckabush reminded me of my not so secret dream. I'd like to set up a retreat ground in a place like that, for professional level arts training. Theatre being my preferred venue I know the type of people I want to serve. Community and fringe artists. It disgusts me when I hear community theatre run down by other artists, especially actors and directors. Admittedly you can see some awful performances, but community theatre certainly hasn't cornered that market. On the other hand some of the best work I have seen was also at community theatres, and you tend to get a level of heart in the work which you also see at the fringe level, and not nearly so often at the great big professional level.
More importantly, community theatre is grass roots more than any other type of theatre. The more people you draw into community theatre as participants and audience, the more that will go to fringe, low budget professional productions, and big fat professional productions. Fringe runs quite a gamut too and I think needs the same sort of support, though you tend to get a lot more professionals, or at least artists with professional training. Anyway those are the people I'd like to support. A retreat to support and grow arts and appreciation at the grass roots level. I like the idea of having cottages where professional artists could stay, either cheaply or as instructors. I need to continue working on the ideas, then at some point letting it go or working out practical details.
--------------------------------------------------------
19Jul04 :
I didn't realize it was my Mother's birthday until I checked my calendar so I could date this. I no longer communicate with my Mother. It is poignant in a comforting way that I am able to distance myself that way.
I am sitting on the old channel of the Duckabush River looking over the current channel, in front of the cabin which my Dad and brother have shares in with another dozen or so other families. I have been coming here for thirty years and it has many levels of meaning. It started out as a group of people in the self actualization workshops of the 70's who became very close and bought the cabin and property as a group. My Dad was one of the original members, and I have been associated with the group since it's inception. Back then I was the young kid who worked so hard it made everyone else tired just watching.
Aside from a full day of cooking on Saturday I have spent very little time in the cabin. I've slept under the stars or in a tent. This short vacation is wonderful, some time out of the office and theatre spaces. An interesting place to be. I don't resent my time spent working at Expedia or in theatre pursuits. Spending time with nature is even more refreshing to the soul than when I did resent most everything everything in my life. I think about time here with my family, and I've not a single memory of my Mother any further from the cabin than the fire pit a few paces from the cabin stoop.
Looking down the river enjoying the breeze while working on a script I am writing. Perfect. Should I win the lotto I'd treat myself to this a lot. Looking up from the screen and down the shady green expanse of the river is a wonderful way to write.
I've been building a small fire on the beach every evening, and sitting. Sometimes in silence, thinking or simply being still. Sometimes reciting (manly) poetry or monologs, even singing to the river. Last night my father joined me, as he has for a little while each evening. This time it was a little longer, and I sang Brennan on the Moor, an old Irish ballad and recited My Friends, and we sang Abdul Abulbul Amir (one of many spellings). When we were out backpacking when I was a kid he and my Uncle would recite the well-known Service poems (The Cremation of Sam McGee and The Shooting of Dan McGrew), Dad would sing Abdul, and Uncle Hal would recite Gunga Din or The Grave of the Hundred Head by Kipling. A very nice little connection with each other and the past.
20Jul04:
Last night Pop joined me at the fire again. I was musing. The times at the Duckabush were some of the best times of my life as a youth and young man. I was rarely happy, and it is only in the last several years that my mood is good more often than not. Never expected to think of myself as a happy person. I was recalling how intense my enjoyment of the Duckabush escapes seemed to be. Yesterday's journal entry got me thinking along those lines. I was musing on why I don't experience the same thing now. I am a different person. Definitely in a better place now, though I know I wouldn't be where I am know without my life experience. I now enjoy nature for it's own sake, rather than as an escape from my life. A less intense, though richer experience.
Time to finish packing and head back to my every day world. Wish I could stay longer, yet looking forward to getting back. The best way to end up any excursion.
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