REHEARSING AT ACT! Well, their rehearsal room anyway...

We rehearsed at an ACT rehearsal room yesterday and will again today.  What a gorgeous space!  Walls of windows on two sides, on the eighth floor, so we have a spectacular view of the city!  

And a balcony outside the room with a fabulous view.  

Christine taped the floor so we had the exact measurements of of the stage at the Berkeley City Club.  Oy vey, is it narrow.  Very exciting for all of us to be using the actual layout instead of my living room.  

Carolyn was very pleased at how I was adjusting to playing to the audience on all sides of me -- at this point represented by empty chairs.  I was never worried about this, because I've toured in my solo plays all over the world and had to adapt to SO MANY different spaces -- back rooms of bars, an abandoned police station (freezing!), and a huge flourescent-lit conference room with me in the middle on a little platform.  Actually, the conference room was by far the worst.  Oh yeah, and the former operating room at a hospital with very steeply banked seats so medical students could watch -- like performing in a pit.  And tiny tiny storefronts.  And a former stable, where the stage was the width of two horse stalls.  You get the idea.

MY LAST THANKSGIVING WITH PAT BOND

PAT BOND

Thanksgiving was always the big holiday in my family.  I think it was partly because as Jews, it was the one major holiday we could share with the rest of the country.  Sure, there’s Fourth of July.  But folks don’t fly home to be with their families for that. 

No, Thanksgiving was IT.  And it was always at our house.  My mother owned Thanksgiving.  She only missed hosting (until she became really old and wheelchair-bound) the year I was born on Nov. 27.   Thanksgiving is the one holiday that marks time for me:  "Oh yeah, that was the year I had it with Dory in Pennsylvania..."  or "That year was in Modesto with my Auntie Hannah and cousin Miriam..." 

Although I loved my mother's celebrations, my most memorable Thanksgivings have been away from home.   In 1990, Pat Bond, whose writing is featured in HICK: A LOVE STORY, was slowly dying of lung cancer.  Of course I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with her in the hospital.  She was always good company – especially after the doctor put her on anti-depressants.  Very helpful when you’ve got lung cancer.

She shared a room with Ida, an African-American woman who was in a coma.  I can’t say I was really looking FORWARD to this Thanksgiving, mainly because of Ida.  I’m not even comfortable around quiet SHY people – let alone comatose.  I WASN’T worried about the food.  My hospital Thanksgivings have never been deficient in the food department.  But the company this time – iffy.

ANHYHOW, Pat and I were quietly talking, waiting for the food to arrive, when a whole CLAN burst into the room!  Adults and children, about 15 of them, laden with food!   This was Ida’s family, who we’d never met before.  She was the ruling matriarch, and there was no question where they would spend this holiday.  It had to be with her in the hospital, even if she didn't even know they were there.  

The whole family drew Pat and me to its collective bosom.  We were in need of family, and they were happy to supply it – along with Thanksgiving dinner.  Pat and I spent that day laughing and eating the delicious food Ida’s kids and grandkids had cooked. We heard stories about this fearsome Granny Ida who ruled with an iron hand when she was well.  Maybe her family was particularly jolly because Ida was no longer cracking the whip.

So:  Just because someone’s in a coma doesn’t mean she can’t throw a great party.  It remains one of my favorite Thanksgivings.

                                                        Pat as Hick

Me as Hick

HICK Goes to the THEATRE BAY AREA AWARDS

Here's Carolyn (director/producer), me Terry (playwright/actress/producer), and Bob (light board operator), looking rather fabu last night.  Sadly, the souls of both my companions have been taken over by zombies, as you can see from their silver eyeballs.  I'm holding down the fort for the human race!  The TBA Awards were

  

quite something - a packed theater at ACT, wonderful entertainment, lots of snazzy dressed up folks (although I dare say no one besides me sported yellow-and-black checked pants by Versace - you gotta know which thrift store to hit, dahling).  The award giving and receiving moved swiftly.  Wow, there were a lot of nominations.  For those who aren't yet avid theater- goers:  There is a lot of really great theater in the Bay Area.  I say this as someone who's familiar with the New York theater scene and likes the SF scene better. 

HICK was nominated for "Best Solo Production."  The other nominees were: 

BABA, by Denmo Ibrahim, where she plays both a newly immigrated Egyptian father and the Americanized daughter

NOW AND AT THE HOUR by Christian Cagigal, a magic show that simultaneously told the story of his father, who was a Vietnam vet

PAN-O-RAMA by Jef Valentine, about his relationship to the story of Peter Pan

AND...   

MAESTRO by Hershey Felder, about the legendary composer/conductor Leonard Bernstein, which had been on Broadway...... and which won.

Funny thing about competition:  No matter how much I tell myself that I'm honored to be nominated (which WAS true) and it's fine PERFECTLY FINE if I don't win --- It is NOT perfectly fine.  I felt rather bummed out.  The after-party would have been a LOT more fun if HICK had won. 

Oh well.  On with life.    

REST IN PEACE, GWEN AVERY

REST IN PEACE, GWEN AVERY
Great Soul, Great Singer

The first time I saw Gwen Avery was in 1974, at the Amazon Music Festival in the mountains above Santa Cruz.  What a scene.   Two hundred naked women under the redwoods, listening to incredible music by incredible women on the outdoor stage.    

But Gwen wasn’t a scheduled performer, oh no.  At some point, to escape the sun, my friends and I drifted into the clubhouse.  Perhaps we needed a wee break from the intensity.  We were all tripping on LSD.  At the piano in the clubhouse, sat a naked bearded African-American Amazon, playing and singing her heart out with joy and abandon.  

She had no audience until we walked in.  She was making music for herself.  We listened, spellbound.  We thought we’d died and gone to heaven. 

Over the years, Gwen became my friend, my hairdresser, my housemate, and the subject of my still-to-be-finished documentary.  She performed at a benefit for my political campaign.  I produced her several times.  In all the times I saw her perform, only once did she fail to move me out of my chair, at one of the Russian River festivals in Guerneville.  I thought, “Well, she can’t hit it every time.”  Years later, when she was talking for my camera about her deep and abiding joy in performing, she said, “There was one show when I just couldn’t find it… One of those times at the Russian River Festival.”  I was stunned.  

Gwen just loved music, loved to party.  She WAS the party.  She was never happier than when she was creating a party wherever she happened to land.  One Martin Luther King Day, I went to a concert at Glide Church, where Gwen was part of the choir.  After the concert, she suggested we go to Osento, the women’s bath house in the Mission.  We were in the small sauna, where we were joined by two German women who were visiting San Francisco for the first time.  Of course, Gwen started talking to them, and then she started singing.  Show tunes.  That’s the only time I ever heard her sing show tunes.  I didn’t even know she knew that many of them.  Now, that was a tiny sauna.  The four of us sat on the two benches, facing each other, our knees almost touching.  And Gwen was singing FULL OUT, flinging out her arms, practically squashing those poor German girls. It was alarming.  Were these unwary visitors to the Gwen Party upset?  Offended?  Overwhelmed?  I studied their faces — sheer bliss. They thought they’d died and gone to heaven.  This would be their most cherished memory of San Francisco.

Because I was filming Gwen, I got to see many of the performances that took place in larger venues the the Osento sauna.  I also had the great privilege of going with her to visit her mother in Cleveland and her family in Verona, Pennsylvania, where she grew up.  I was very moved by her family’s love for her and their warmth and acceptance of me.  

A few years ago, I produced Gwen for Support Women Artists Now Day — or SWAN Day, the last Saturday in March.  The performance took place at Bird & Beckett in Glen Park.  Gwen dropped by an hour before the show, to check out the place, a bookstore that hosts lots of jazz and poetry readings.  She left to go change from her grubby jeans and shirt into her performing duds.  The audience started arriving… and arriving and arriving.  The place was packed!  I felt a certain pride at having done a good PR job.

When it was time for the show to begin, Gwen appeared… in the same old clothes!  She ALWAYS dressed for a show!  She leaped onto the little stage… and I realized she was drunk.  I had never seen her high for a performance.  I tried to somehow introduce her.  She lifted me up and gently threw me off the stage.  She was a mighty strong woman, and she was in charge.  There was nothing for me to do but go in the back of the bookstore and hide from the disaster that was bound to ensue. Oh, WHY had I done such good publicity?  I stood as far away as I could get, my back to the stage, bemoaning the fate of the audience.  Then I realized that my body was moving to the music.  My body could not NOT move to the music.  I turned around and approached the stage.  Gwen clearly had no plan.  The possibility of the show falling apart existed at every moment.  We all leaned forward, totally focused.  This was not being cradled in the arms of a consummate performer.  This was watching a great artist walk the tightrope between form and chaos.  Gwen pulled it off.  The audience rose to its feet for a delirious standing ovation.  I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  

And now Gwen has died and gone to heaven.  I don’t know if there really is a heaven, but I do hope that Gwen’s soul has found peace.  She rarely found peace outside of music when she was in this world.   Oh, Gwennie, there is still so much I wanted to do with you…. I’ll finish the full-length documentary now.  I promise.  

Link below is to "Jukebox Baby," my 14 minute documentary on Gwen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNo1d1ZDJfU

View from the Hammock

Feeling a bit bloggish, but not very.

We are perhaps the only travelers in the history of South Africa to go from The Happy Hippo Hostel in a seedy part of Durban directly to Amakhosi Safari Lodge, an over-the-top luxe boutique hotel -- 9 opulent cottages on the River Mkhuso (or something like that, I can't be bothered to find out the real name) -- in the middle of the Bush Veldt.

Think gourmet high tea and taking a bit of a break during afternoon safari for a glass of wine while the giraffes stand around and ogle, as giraffes tend to do, you know.

The verdict of my Commie companion, who I forced to do this:  "Good choice, comrade!"

This is the first time on this trip that I've really relaxed.  Nothing to do between morning safari (starts at 5 am) and afternoon tea (4:30).

I'm loving doing this blog, but/and it's actual work.  I'm going to take a few days off.  But first, I'll leave you with a sight for the ages.

THE AFRICAN QUEEN

THE DAY: February 15, 2013

This was one of those magical days.

MORNING:

Went to the Campbell Museum.  Had to phone for an appointment, so we were the sole visitors.  The Campbell is the former mansion of Scottish sugar barons.  The last of the line was Killy Campbell, a woman who never married, and was devoted to African, specifically Zulu, culture.   She was "married to her books and collections."  Of course, one can't help wondering  if such a woman is actually a lesbian.  She was CERTAINLY a Crackpot Crone.  In her day, very few white women had the Zulu king to dinner on a regular basis.

Her collections are now this museum run by the University of Kwa-Zulu Natal.  Yandisa, a young man studying Tourism Services, was our astonishingly knowledgeable guide.   Unfortunately, no photos were allowed.   Two fascinating facts from Yandisa:  

In some tribes, women could only take off their headdresses after asking permission from the gods, by burning incense and praying.  So mostly, they slept with the headdresses on.

Sangomas (aka "witch doctors," who were both women and men) served an apprenticeship where, when they weren't studying, they had to go around without speaking or having eye contact with anyone, slightly bowed down, to imbue them with their mission to serve the people.  Sometimes this lasted six months.

Yandisa also gave us instruction in the different kinds of Xhosa tongue-clicks.  

Killy saw that the very fabulous modes of traditional dress were starting to be debased by modernity, and she commissioned Barbara Tyrrell to paint watercolors to record as many costumes as possible.  

The museum displays over 250 watercolors.  It is an awe-inspiring vision of African dress.  The love of adornment is still a primal passion in Africa, but mostly it's a lot simpler now than the everyday tribal garb of the past. 

Married Woman

Woman Sangoma

It was, I'm sure, just a little peek at a culture that was/is so rich.  For Eric and me, it was intoxicating.

LUNCH:

Hlengiwe arranged for us to meet Colette Bodenstaff, event planner, lesbian magazine editor, and trainer of marine mammals at UShaka Marine World.   

If I come back to Durban, she'll organize a performance for me.  She's as warm and interesting as you'd imagine an event planner, lesbian magazine editor and marine mammal trainer to be.  Needless to say, working with dolphins puts a lot more food on the table than working with dykes.  She invited us to see the shows the next day! 

Below is a photo from ALICE, the lesbian magazine that Colette has just assumed control of.

AFTERNOON

Then it was on to meet  Hlengiwe's good friend, Gnina Mhlophe  (Yandisa's lesson helped me say her name correctly.  Or somewhat correctly.  Or better than before my click-lesson.  People prefer to have their names pronounced correctly, Africans included.)  Gnina is a storyteller, poet, actress, director, playwright, literacy activist… I'm sure I've left out a few of her worldly manifestations.  She's performed all over the world -- won an Obie in New York!  This is a POWERFUL woman.  

Gnina surrounded by books she has collected for literacy campaign

She was so kind to us.  She took us to her beautiful art-filled house overlooking the ocean, where she's created a peace garden.

Even her clothesline is a work of art.

It was an honor to meet this gracious woman.  The drive to her house was very special, just the two of us in her car, with Eric and Hlingiwe following in our car.  Listening to her speak, I could sense such a deep connection with language -- and this is her 3rd language, Engish!  And I felt the intensity of her listening when I told stories in my very different American "Terry Baum" way.  Really, her listening helped me see that I had a way! 

Gnina is a powerful, visionary, successful, fulfilled and happy artist.  Wow.  I'd like to be that when I grow up.  Needless to say, she's also very beautiful.

Gnina and Family -- Parents upper left

DINNER

Then we went to meet a young Communist that Eric had contacted.  Eric is a Communist, and we had come upon a flyer for a meeting that was already over.  But he called one of the numbers on the flyer, and this student was willing to talk with Eric.  So we went to Steven Biko University to connect, but we were late and Eric's contact had already left for a meeting.  But Hlengiwe was able to rustle up two other young Communists, by talking to the people standing around.  So we went out to dinner with these two young men, and debated and discussed South African politics for a long time.  

Hlengiwe held her own very well against the Communists.  I was impressed.  That girl is articulate and strong and has real presence.  I didn't say much.  It was hard to understand people, in the noisy restaurant.  Plus I figured Eric already knows most of my opinions.  

LATE EVENING

No, the day wasn't over yet.  In fact, the most special part is to come.  

It was too late for Hlingiwe to take the jitney home.  So we drove her 30 K to her home.  She lives with her mother in a house they had built on land her mother owns in what Hlingiwe called a "bantu."  Formerly lands segregated for black people.   Hlingiwe told us her mother would probably be asleep, so we wouldn't meet her.  But when we arrived, she came out in her pajamas with an umbrella in the pouring rain and invited us in!  Hlingiwe's mother was so wonderful and warm and welcoming.  She gave me this bracelet she had made!  

Mrs. Buthelezi talked about her work with the Methodist Church, and  both mother and daughter talked about the project of slowly creating their home, room by room. When they get their guest room built, Eric and I will not be permitted to stay anywhere else when we come to Durban.   

Mrs. Buthelezi showed me her vegetable garden, which is her great passion and way to relax.  There was one thing that really upset her:  That she would not be able to cook us a meal.  I mean, I'm sure she would have, right then, at 10 at night.  But we were full, it was late, and the next day was our last in Durban, and we had lots of plans.  Hlingiwe reported today that her mother cannot get over the fact that she won't be cooking for us.  She's a great cook.

I can't tell you how special it was to meet Hlingiwe's mother.  She called me "sister."  Sorry, no photos.   I didn't want to take notes or pictures.  I just wanted to BE there on the couch in the Buthelezi living room

And then I drove home in the pouring rain in the black night.  Oy vey.  I will be so happy not to drive for a few days.

And that's all that happened on February 15, 2013 to Terry and Eric in Durban, Kwa-Zulu Natal province, South Africa.  Maybe nobody has read this far, but I'm glad I recorded it all.  When the universe gives you a day like this, you need to capture it. 

Everyone TOLD me Africa was dangerous!

   

African Days

Driving driving driving through the beautiful Karoo mountains.

   

This is a BIG country.  We've had day after day of long drives. 

Passing many groups of small pastel houses, rectangular and round, spread across the hills. 

We'd drive through small towns that seemed all black.  Very poor looking, and spilling over with people and life.  

The first couple of times, we said to each other, "It must be market day"  -- i.e. the one day a week when people come into town and sell on the street.  But after a few towns in a row with "market days," we realized it was just "day," any weekday.  We stopped in one town to get water.   I was worried about taking photos.  After all, we were the ONLY people who weren't African.  This was not an environment we'd been in yet.  And, indeed, some people did NOT want their picture taken.  But lots REALLY did!  It was a lot of fun.  

Three Generations

"Take my picture!  Come on!"

She threw herself on the clothes to make a better picture

No haircuts happening at the moment

I had to take several photos until I got one she liked

Then on to Durban and our hostel, where we met Hlengiwe Buthelezi, who I had contacted through Lesbian Connection, which has a list of Contact Dykes.  

Her first name is pronounced something like "Kling-oo-way," with the accent on the first syllable.   She's a very delightful young dyke, 32, energetic and sharp, who is a dedicated runner.  She won SEVEN GOLD MEDALS at the Gay Games in Chicago!!!  As a result of that, she became a story in the press and…. her mother found out she was a lesbian!  Oy vey.  Not only was Hlingiwe no ready to come out to her family, she thought she would NEVER do it.  As a Zulu whose mother was very traditional … Well, this woman has a life story that needs to be told, now that she's been thrown out of the closet.  She did write a lot about her life, but has stopped now.  She's got to get started again, don't you agree?  If so, please send her an email at  buthelezih@yahoo.com  and tell her you read about her in my blog and want to hear more about her life.

We dropped Hlengiwe  off at her running workout (she does two a day, sometimes three) and headed for the Durban Botanical Gardens.  Magnificent trees.

A Huge Mangrove or, as the Africans call it, the Walking Tree

We happened upon a fashion shoot.

In this very lovely and traditional park…

We saw monkeys!

And then we saw that they were the notorious "blue ball" monkeys we had heard about.  Now, when our hostess at the last B&B told us about blue ball monkey who had stolen the camera of a previous guest, I thought she meant that their balls would in some way relate to some color that could possibly be referred to as blue.  But in fact, they're a beautiful almost fluorescent sky blue!  Here's just a little flash.  I couldn't get close enough.

And since we're on the subject of genitals, I saw this in the Ostrich Museum in Oudshoorn:

I love 2nd and 3rd rate museums.  I think this one might have been 4th.

To end on a higher note, here's a beautiful neon work of art on the boardwalk in Port Elizabeth, which had colorful, funny neon "paintings" everywhere!  This is a seascape.

Gotta go to bed