the circus of the damned

it's late.
my nose has been running constantly since the car ride to work this morning.
the start of the final quarter of meisner was tonight.
and my little brother, fresh from iraq arrives in seattle tomorrow to spend the weekend with me.

but i can't let last night go without writing something down while it's fresh.

i woke up before my alarm this morning still buzzing.
my mind was rolling before my body was awake.
questions.
answers.
images.
an alive stirring that isn't even restlessness but a burning desire to linger in one of those rare moments of a heightened state of being.
i went to a prison last night for the first time ever
and i watched thirteen women put on an original piece of work.
the circus of the damned.
one they created from scratch.
from their writings.
their improvisations.
from their stories.
and the images that linger around a full day later:

the web one never can exit
a white translucent cloth drawn taut
by bodies pressed up against it.
the audience can make out the contorted limbs and the dead faces through the cloth
and it was this ominous back drop for an entire scene
silent only in volume

then the black monster
an actor straddled two ladders
draped in shiny black all the way to the floor
ten feel of darkness crowned with a black, faceless mask
wielding two insectlike arms
that opened and closed in an attempt to swallow one of the main characters

and the humor:
the wiccan actor who played jesus disputing with the christian actor who played the devil
they both pull out contracts for a third character's soul
then decide they cancel each other out
directing the character to spiritual bankruptcy

but my favorite part: the talking at the end.
the questions and answers like:
did any of you consider yourself an artist before starting this production?
many shake their heads.
only one had been a musician before being incarcerated.
a strong word that tastes like institution and razor wire.
did any of you discover a tool or a process that you intend to continue with even after the program is done?
yes.
the writing.
and writing of the write whatever comes to mind and don't stop moving the pen for x number of minutes variety.
the things that came out that we didn't even know was there.
several nod their head in agreement.

and then faces.
the beautiful girls. the women. the grandmothers.
the tears.
so many tears.
they spoke of hope
this is my first and only time in prison and in four months time i will be knocking on your door freehold.
they spoke of ownership.
for the first time i feel responsibility for what i have done and i don't want to let that go.
they spoke of community
out there {nod in the direction of the outside prison area} we aren't allowed to be who we are, but in here, you don't care what our past is and you just let us be. and we're a family now.
they spoke of success
when the other prisoners saw our work last night, we were like celebrities.
and victory
and they see our stories and how we tell it and they respect us for it.
and forgiveness.
i used to tell myself i wasn't cut out to be a mother. that i wasn't mother material. but i realize so many things now and i can forgive myself for the choices i made.


i was in tears. several times. with them. for them. because of them.

and robin.
the driving force behind it all just named prison volunteer of the year.
teary voiced. throat closed up and struggling to speak praises and appreciation of these ordinary heroes doing this kind of work: each and every woman in front of us.
and how that is where the magic is.
there.
in each of them.

it was a brilliant night.
and just a beginning.
for them
and for me.
kismet in the form of a random email paired me with my carpool buddy who has done similar work in a maximum security prison on the east coast.
she's starting her next project now working with vets.
and i want in.