swimming to life

swimming to life ( aka Life Spot) (aka Swimming with Spalding)

(Suggested Songs –,
1) Hold on It’s Coming by Country Joe McDonald,
2) Spalding’s Lament by Bob Egan (available exclusively at www.spaldinggray.com with all proceeds to PS 122, NYC) www.spaldinggray.com/donations.html)
(music suggestions, internet links by John Boland, all subject to strict copyright by the artists/webpages themselves)

Preface (Before) – by John Boland, MSW

Unlike the preface for Spalding Gray’s Life Interrupted, this does not contain any spoilers to the monologue. Let me explain how this writing came about. After Spalding passed on, I felt driven to write a story about it to add a sense that my denial was slipping away. The first story I started to write was what I call a ‘Dick and Jane’ story. It’s basically what I write when I write my Mulligan Detective Mystery books (www.johnboland.com). So I started off with a ‘Dick’ who decided to drive cross-country as soon as he heard that Spalding was missing. His goal was to find Spalding. Before too long, he met a woman at a garage/restaurant stop whose car had just kinda blown up, so she was stranded. He offers ‘Jane’ a ride and of course before too long on the journey, they discover they are both going to NYC to look for Spalding, and then Dick dicks Jane. That’s about as far as I got before I got bored. Plus the fact that by the time I got back to it, Spalding’s body had been found and in reality, I was running around trying to get to NYC to go to the Memorial Service. That resulted in me writing a complete monologue called ‘Swimming to Manhattan’. (http://www.spaldinggray.com/nycdiary.html). Then I decided I was going to write a story in the first person where the first person was Spalding. It would probably start when he came out of the horrible movie with his sons, and supposedly left to go see some friends. He never showed. I would have him calling his son to tell him he would be home soon, then he would get on the Staten Island ferry, and while doing theatrics near the edge of the boat, I would suggest the possibility that the ferry might have hit a large piece of ice in the river, thus casting doubt on his suicidal tendencies. I never wrote even a word of this story as I realized that all it did was feed my denial and how fair is it to cast doubt… now that I sort of have already by writing about it here! This third idea is not mine at all. What happened was the the film director Soderbergh announced at the Toronto Film Festival that his documentary about Spalding was going ahead, but that it would involve a monologue never performed by Spalding. I wracked my brains for days, went over the list of monologues that I knew of but nothing made sense. So when I sent out a message to the mailing list of www.spaldinggray.com, I wrote: Soderbergh Documentary – I had asked for info about this. It got a big splash at the Toronto Film festival as the project got picked up. Only detail was that it would involve a monologue never performed by Spalding. There are a couple that didn’t seem to be performed but I’m at a loss to guess. And turns out that the producer of the Doc. is on this mailing list, so I’m sure they will let us know more details when they become available.

Soon after writing this, the producer sent me an email: "What Steven meant by being a monologue never performed - he's taking everything we have on Spalding and trying to construct it as if this was his last monologue."

The reactions of spuddies (fans of Spalding) that I told about my fictional story ranged from “weird” to basic disbelief. My reaction was how could this be accomplished? And that lead me to an ‘ah ha’ moment, a small satori, a perfect moment… I am always up for a challenge. Even in first grade, I had to solve a math problem on the blackboard in the kitchen before I could get breakfast. I guess that was the start of it. Going to Cabinet Maker school and building a huge, solid cherry, roll top desk as a final project. And now this. Writing a monologue in Spalding’s voice as if he had survived, as if there was no ice, as if he had not jumped, as if… Postscript: After this story was almost complete, the Producer of the Soderbergh Documentary, wrote me to clarify the above understanding: "What Steven meant by the last monologue is that he is going to take every bit he has documented on Spalding and piece it togehter in a way that will hopefully look like Spalding's last monologue."
The story of his entire life. So my story was written with the best intentions and not with a misunderstanding. Heck, it was written.
The Estate of Spalding Gray has asked me to “make sure its clear that you wrote it in response to his death.”
And that I did… With great gratitude and totally as my own reaction to the passing/death/moving into the Bardo of Spalding Gray, I present the following story which is pure fiction.

Special Thanks to the Estate of Spalding Gray. I miss you Spalding.

After ‘by’ Spalding Gray (in reality written solely, except where noted, by John Boland as strictly fan fiction)
(words in italics include a voice emphasis or stage direction, as well as titles)

If I seem like I’m jumping from the first part of Life Interrupted, you wouldn’t be wrong. This monologue is being written in a new manner for me. As some people know, I did not stay in New York in the New Year to quote ‘finish’ my new monologue. You see, the plan had been to practice the second half before I started this tour. Plan it in NYC. And as a matter of fact, based on past practices/rehearsing live performances, I would have been obsessing over the first half still. I mean I had people, including friends walk out of the theatre. So normally, I would just carry on from the end of the first part. My arrival back in New York, my further adventures with the medical world, the state of my brain and emotional condition. I could probably even work in a witty line or two about my drop foot. (wiggle foot to audience). But I can’t because I didn’t stay to rehearse. I left New York, and this is how it happened.

I’ll start one night in early January, and I’m at the Staten Island Ferry. I remember that it was about 9 pm, and I phoned my son. I just said to him that I was checking in and I would be home soon. But that wasn’t the truth. In truth, I was in a terrible state, mostly emotionally. My hip was sore but it’s always sometimes. I often used to ride the ferry. Most times it was a kind of sanctuary from wondering the streets – someone once called it ‘drowning in the sidewalks’. I liked the water and people didn’t seem to recognize me or they certainly didn’t acknowledge it. This night was different. I was still depressed although not as depressed as I had been over Christmas. My brother’s there visiting and all I can do is stare into the fire. Not like staring into a fire and being mesmerized. Staring into the fire in a total comatose, catatonic way. Bad enough that Kathie and my brother had to endure that, but what about the kids… How unfair could that be? But tonight I went onto the ferry realizing that something had to change. There was no way I wanted to slip back into that black hole. Although now I could sort of function – almost go to skiing lessons for the hip… less, take my sons to a ridiculous movie but cry afterwards for no other reason than feeling on the edge, and find out that those new anti depressants, anti ds, SSRIs, whatever, could actually be contraindicated for my brain injury. So some things were better. Some the same. Some worse. I needed to change and I knew things had to change right then, on that ferry.

If you’re sitting there thinking. “Oh my god, he was not just talking about suicide, he was thinking about suicide”. Actually, I was planning suicide. I figured I could climb over the fence they had on the ferry, a fence put there just for potential jumpers like me. I had the energy barely perhaps to make it, I may not have had that energy again, and I figured that the ice cold harbor that actually had ice in it that year, well I wouldn’t last long. No chance that someone could spot me and actually save me. I didn’t want to be on the front of the Enquirer, or heavens, even worse, the New York Post , that epitome of sleaze. I could read the headlines ‘Actor Saved by Guardian Angel’ - a little too Capraish for me, and they still weren’t calling me an author!!! No chance of that though. The ice would freeze me instantaneously I figured. Audience: (in a lower voice) “Oh my god, what about the boys, doesn’t he have kids and a wife? Didn’t he have a monologue about that or something? What a narcissistic jerk.” (back to my voice) Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t myself. I also knew I had a choice. But that choice couldn’t include more rehearsals where audience members followed me to ask about racial slurs I apparently made against Pakistani doctors, no more canceling tours so I could stare into space in a padded room, whacked out on thorazine, and really no more rides on the Staten Island Ferry to seek solace. Next time I’d go sweep up for those monks again. At least that was paid solace. But I was still 'on' the fence so to speak. Climb the fence and drown. Hide indoors and do something else. Anything else. And what was I good at? Striking up a conversation. I had noticed that since 9/11 (who moves on the 11th of the month anyway?) What – the U Hauls are cheaper? Quickly, no more going back to that remorse. Since 9/11, New Yorkers made sure if they were rude, they were only rude to another New Yorker for being rude to a non New Yorker. The days of rudeness had had a very rude awakening. One that I now realize I missed as I somehow turned it into guilt that moving prevented me from helping. Helping? Helping what and how? How did I make this transition in thinking… (pause for water) Well, that comes out, hang around. But any time you want to leave, please raise your hand and we can discuss it. (sips water, looks out at audience)

That’s what I did best. Strike up a conversation with a stranger. But as I’ve just pointed out, it had to be someone who didn’t recognize me as a New York celebrity. I managed to find a young couple who were clearly from out of town. Sweden. That made for an interesting conversation. About the ‘cheap’ gas in the U.S. About why Sweden was reported as having the highest suicide rate in the world. Apparently, the rates had gone down after they started a series of kind of vacation from depression retreats. (I think they must have also finally stopped showing those early, very depressing, Bergman films). My only thought was it was a long way for me to go to Sweden for that. I told them I worked in the theatre now and then. I even tried to write. They seemed very impressed and even wrote down my name so they could look it up. If this ever gets to print, maybe they can laugh now. They certainly kept my mind occupied. I didn’t want them saying my name too loud, but then again the others on the ferry probably wouldn’t recognize me. I certainly wasn’t like the former Spalding, knowing his dashing looks as they appeared in those Press Photos they still flog on Ebay. I thanked them for the company and we got a cab to get them to the hostel. After all, even if they were from Sweden, this was the coldest night of the year in NYC. I remember shivering at the time, realizing that I had actually seriously thought of jumping into the icy water. Somehow it seems amazing how distant some thoughts can seem in a short time. I was even feeling less depressed but when I was thinking of jumping, I didn’t see myself as depressed, or not very so anyway. It’s only in retrospect. I got the taxi to cross at the Verrazanno Bridge. When I told him I wanted to go to Sag Harbor, his look said ‘show me the money’. I then realized I must have looked a mess. Once I did that, he was all smiles as this was going to be a good fare, on a bitter night when people I guess maybe stayed home and didn’t take cabs. By the time I reached home, I had become convinced that somehow this taxi driver had saved my life. My thinking was not only obsessive, it was quite magical. Note that I just have used the word ‘home’. At that time, I don’t think I would have used that word. I was still obsessing about why did we sell the old house. And who in their right mind moves on the 11th of the month, not only the 11th of the month, but September 11th, just when terrorists took out the Twin Towers. I had convinced myself that I could have helped if we hadn’t been moving. And that was the fault of the new house. Why? I don’t know anymore. That thinking was magical. Just as I thought it highly suspicious that the name of the realtor involved shared the same name as the likely drunken vet who hit us in Ireland. A combination of obsessive and magical thinking is enough to likely drive anyone mad. I gave the cab driver double the fare so he could get back to Staten, and maybe take the rest of the night off. After all, hadn’t he somehow saved my life…(sips water, looks out at audience)

Kathie was waiting up, hoping that I would return. I knew my sons were probably up as well but not about to show it as it was late. They would just be comforted by my arriving home. Comforted. That may seem like a strange word as they fall asleep below their comforters, not knowing how close they came to not having a father anymore. And yes, it does seem uncomforting looking back at a scene not quite domestic. Not quite a night as in Morning, Noon and Night. I had a few things I needed to tell Kathie. First, I wasn’t going to go to the airport and try to catch another flight to skiing for cripples. Now before you decide to follow me after the show to tell me to stop using politically incorrect words, I’m using it just in reference to myself. Yes, I’ve seen people skiing who only had one leg and maybe they were having fun, but I knew I wouldn’t. My skiing days were over. But how do I tell my spouse, lover and agent that I wasn’t going to use her special Xmas gift. Given in the true sense of giving as she knew how much skiing meant to me. And then I realized my true gift was her as she didn’t seem to mind at all, no worries about a refund, just a strong desire for me to be well and happy. And I had almost given that up… amazing how distant some thoughts can seem in a short time.

I decided after a good night sleep (a benzodiazepine helper), that despite my pain, I was going to get out of bed as I did in Terrors of Pleasure, if you’ve seen that… (voice trails off a bit , just a pause for brief moment of thought). I needed to jump out of bed (literally leaps over the desk with some difficulty and holding his hip). I needed to have some decisions to make, to list out loud. “Cancel the shows that were to be for rehearsal performances…” “Leave tour plans the same for now…” “Find a retreat – a place to retreat – to somehow prepare for the tour…” (Now in front of the desk) Yes. I saw someone in the back. They just noticed I am no longer behind the desk. But I do need to sit down. (2 helpers – all in white, appear to be like orderlies at a psych ward, take chair out to him and place water on small side table.) Yes, I’m sitting down to ensure I rest my hip. And I just couldn’t give up the glass of water so hence the side table, but yes, I have come out beyond the desk. I am comfortable now and I certainly hope you are. And now I will tell you where I went, some of what we did, and how I ended up here in Vancouver.

The Journey I wanted to go away somewhere, not sure where. There were friends like Prose, but some of them hadn’t seen me since my stint in the psych ward. Not a pretty sight. And I needed something new. And then I remembered. There was a man from Canada who had been kind enough to send me all kinds of stuff about ‘Spalding’ from the internet that he thought I’d been missing – the rare Spalding butterfly, the Spalding University rat races, and a burned copy of a CD by the Mexican electronic punk band spalding gray… named after me perhaps as I am the only Spalding Gray listed in the US phone directory and Spalding does not seem to have a Hispanic ring to it, although Senor Spalding (said with an attempted Spanish accent) at least fits the alliteration category. My kids loved the CD. I actually even sent him an email as thanks – now that’s something for eBay… And, he said he had a place on a lake in Ontario and invited me to use it as a retreat anytime. So the next morning, while missing my flight to skiing, I gave him a call. I taped it as I was hoping the answer would be ‘YES’ and then I might be able to use the tape in a monologue. Already, my thought process was closer to normal. (Play Tape - voice of Spalding to be by Spalding imitator) John: (man who sent me Spalding stuff): I listen to Jack S: Who’s Jack? John: Oh…sorry, it’s just a radio station that gives you a grand if you answer that way and you are lucky enough to have the station on the phone. So, my turn. Who’s this? S: Spalding, Spalding Gray. John: (pause) Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. Way better than Jack. I don’t know what to say. Why would Mr. Gray be calling me? S: Well, I want to take you up on that offer you made once of a retreat in cottage country. John: Oh…yeah, that’s fine. It’s pretty cold and snowy there, but it will be warm inside. S: I think it’s colder in New York. John: When do want to go? And how are you going to get there? S: Well I want to go right now. And I guess I’ll fly and rent a car. Where’s the nearest airport? John: Ottawa. Some say it’s the coldest capital in the world, others say Moscow is coldest. S: One thing. I don’t want to be there alone and yet I want to be alone. You’re a psychiatric Social Worker aren’t you? How about you come with me… John: Yeah, I could do that. All my cold weather clothes are there anyway. And I have a car in storage in Ottawa. So how about this. Wait a minute…what about the New York rehearsals and the tour? And your family? S : Family’s ok. Rehearsals are history and I want to still go on tour. John: Ok. You phone and see about flights to Ottawa and I’ll see about a cheap last minute thing from here and phone to get the car out of storage. Call me back in a little while. See you Mr. Gray. S: You call me Spalding and I’ll call you John. Sound good? (End of Tape)

I booked a flight then realized that I could have booked a flight for my new found friend. So I called him back but he had already booked a flight which fortunately arrived in Ottawa very close to mine and he had had his car in storage towed to the garage to make sure it was top notch road worthy. I asked what to pack. John said he left virtually everything he needed at the cottage so he could go there quickly. He had 2 down jackets there, I would need a good pair of winter boots but I could buy almost all my extra winter stuff in the local village clothing store. So pack light, bring some thermal underwear and a good winter hat. The cottage would be warm enough but weather off the lake, that would by now be frozen solid, could be very unpredictable, windy and cold. I flew to Ottawa the next day. Only Kathie was given the phone number there. When I arrived in Ottawa, it certainly was icy. I had heard people on the plane discussing if Ottawa was the coldest capital in the world or if it was second to Moscow. At this moment, it was a mute point as I hadn’t dressed all that warmly and hadn’t been able to borrow that down jacket yet. I had told John that he could recognize me easier than me picking him out of the crowd, although seeming that I didn’t even recognize myself after the accident and plastic surgery, I was kinda hoping to not walk right by John. That would be embarrassing at the least. But when I was walking towards the baggage, I saw someone holding up a sign with ‘SPUD’ written on it. I had to check to make sure it wasn’t a potato convention on but I could tell it was John due to the long hair and giant beard. He was all apologetic for writing ‘Spud’ instead of Spalding, as he was afraid there might be a sports or potato convention or something, or paranoid that someone might wonder how many ‘Spaldings’ there might be and he figured correctly that a greeting party was not in my plans. We went to his friend’s James’s farmhouse where he stored his car. A nice big boat, kinda like in Terrors of Pleasure, but I didn’t think John was going to try to unload the car on me. John told me that James was a super nice guy, retired, big time golfer/curler and big time alcoholic. “Towards the end of the day, if he’s had too much to drink, he can start sounding a little nasty. That’s when I say good night if not before.” Sure enough, it was barely noon and James greeted us with 2 open beers. Now, it wasn’t my favorite beer, Sierra Nevada, and it wasn’t my 5 o’clock happy hour, but… He had friends drop in to get ready to curl the next day. The afternoon turned to a blur. Somehow, James managed to function, cooked a great meal, and John and I packed it in early, our excuse being that we wanted to leave for the cottage early. We knew that being way too drunk was not an excuse as it would only result in 2 more beers in front of us. We both slept soundly, but awoke to the curlers getting ready to leave. We drove off as they left for curling. The only thing I really remember is James telling John: (With a slight slur) “John, I used to think my family was dysfunctional, and then I met yours…” I know that family dysfunction is a catchall, and that less than 4% of American families fit into the classic nuclear family, but I always get a strange sense of relief when I hear about other dysfunctions. Here - I want the members of the audience to raise their hands if they think their families are dysfunctional… (There is a slight roar from the audience as virtually everyone raises their hand, many two hands). Now, that was an unfair question and not really scientific, as if you weren’t from a dysfunctional family, why the fuck would you pay to see me… (Cheers/clapping/laughter)

The drive to the cottage was uneventful. John did tell me a lot about himself but I promised not to write about it, and I’m keeping that promise, unlike some other private conversations...The further we drove, the more scenic the country got. We turned right at a road that went to K…if you turned left. John said that we would go to K. later to get some food. The population of K. was 700, half old hippies that had moved there in the late 60’s when K. was sort of a ghost town. The railway had stopped running when the original old growth lumber cut was over. The other half was Polish. A strange mix to be sure but John said that recently, and only recently, they had begun to get along. There’s a story there but we’ll save that one. The cottage was absolutely stunning. Set just back from a beautiful sand beach, surrounded by towering pines, the whole place had been built in the 30’s with tongue and groove pine from the logs cut down to make room for the cottage. The original owner had hand built all the furniture from exotic woods like Butternut and White Oak, finished off by a massive stone fireplace. Our source of heat which turned out to be fine. Sort of... “We can get the heat going and then go into town. First, before town, let’s talk about what we’re going to be doing here.” I said I had no idea what I wanted to do except get away from NYC. I didn’t tell him about the ferry ride because the cottage was on water, even if the water happened to be so frozen that pickups drove out to the ice fishing huts. I also admitted I wanted to make some serious changes in my life. “Are you still planning to go on tour?” I said I wanted to but was nowhere ready physically, psychologically, or monologuistly. “Ok, one at a time. I’ll tell you how to get each one ready but as time is limited, I would want you to follow my directions, and you always struck me as someone who doesn’t like to follow directions.” Yeah, right. Like people always like being told what to do. Hands up those…ah, forget it… I still had that sense of desperation lingering in my feelings. I agreed on the condition that I could object at any point and we would discuss it. “Do you still have medical? Have you done a union gig lately?” I had done a short film called Paper Mache Chase with Cynthia Nixon, partly because it was a fun, great script, but it also got my medical extended. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0379924/) “Ok. There are 2 doctors in K. One is a medical doctor that I want you to see. It’s generally impossible to get in to see him. Many people have to drive to Ottawa, - hours, just to find a Doctor that takes new patients. But when I needed a Doctor, I just phoned and did my chat them up part about having a Master of Social Work and blah, blah. They phoned back in 10 minutes with an appointment. I’ll get you in. I think you should start on ---- right away. It was originally used for seizures but now it’s used for chronic pain and it’s also a very mild anti depressant. It has no side effects and cannot be ODed on. Someone, somehow, got a hold of one million milligrams and took them all – had a good sleep but no other effects. The second Doctor is more into therapy than anything. As I see you making a face, this doc is in with Patch Adams, the one they made a movie about with Robin Williams. Patch even shows up in the village once in awhile. You need to see that Doc as well as I believe you need to learn to laugh. You can make audiences laugh til they can’t remember if they are laughing or crying. You, yourself, need to laugh as much as your audience and readers. ( bursts into laughter which appears contagious to the audience.) Then there’s the Natural Healing Centre. I want you to get an assessment for Bach Remedies. They’re sort of homeopathic remedies that deal with emotions. And massage. The massage therapist is excellent and will know to be very gentle with your hip. That’s a busy schedule. And your tour starts in Florida on … January 26th as I remember. Can you accept what I’m proposing so far?” I think I accepted cause these people sounded so interesting. My gut feeling was that we weren’t finished yet though. “And we aren’t finished. Ready to hear the rest?… Do you want to rehearse your monologue? It’s not finished is it?” No, it wasn’t finished. My monologues never feel finished. I always just move onto something else. “We can book the Friendship Centre. Just a fairly small building, but if we put up a few signs, the old hippies should pack it.” It wasn’t 5 o’clock yet and I dreaded to hear what was going to happen to happy hour, so we just went into K. K. was a funky, sleepy little place. It was January. The cottagers were gone, the hunters were gone and I assumed that most everyone was keeping the fire going. Went to a nice restaurant whose main claim to fame at that moment was the heat inside and the Friday night all you can eat Pizza. We went to the supermarket and the natural food store and stocked up. John said we needed to have at least 3 days food on hand in case we got hammered by a winter storm. So far, there wasn’t much snow but I had heard the expression ‘if you don’t like the weather, stick around for five minutes…’ ( holds up cue card with ‘LAUGH’ printed on it, then faces it towards himself and laughs heartily).

We set all the appointments up. John smoozed me into the no new patients Doctor for the next day, the Patch Adams dude the day after, and a massage and Bach Remedy for the day after that. I really liked the fact that ‘Patch’ could charge my medical insurance. I had discovered that my friend was on the South Beach diet so we were really stocking up on the protein. I whined enough to get some carbs into the basket. Then for our last whirlwind tour of K., we went to the jewel, the oasis, the taj mahal of K. The amazing clothing store, run by Mr. A. He has had the store for more than 50 years. And one of his biggest selections was in, you guessed it, plaid shirts. And big sizes too. I really like my plaid shirts to be big on me. They had up to 4X large. So I bought the ones that I liked the most but left one of my favs, just so I knew that I could visit it when I was in town. And Mr. A. had stories like you wouldn’t believe. And every customer knew him and more stories would flow. I asked him if I could come drop into the store just to hear some stories. He had no idea who I was although, he did get into the habit of calling me ‘Mr. Spalding’ as for a clothing store that seemed to be easy to remember…Oh, and I almost forgot. He had real Police suspenders that my friend wore constantly. I became a convert. (Snaps suspenders) Please don’t do that to me though, I may be like Houdini and not be ready…(fades…)

When we got back to the cottage, I knew we had driven by the prominent, main street beer and liquor store AND it was getting darn close to my happy hour. And I knew this was when I would hear the rest. “We aren’t going to drink here. Maybe we might go to a nearby bar on occasion. But Happy Hour will expand here until every hour is Happy Hour. I think that our Patch substitute will work with you on your obsessive thoughts and compulsions. One way to do that is as well as discovering and changing what those obsessive thoughts are, you can also substitute for the rituals. Our ritual here is going to be meditation, walking and saunas. For now, read this. I’m going out to cut a hole in the ice so that we can have some pails of water for the sauna. Can you read ok with your dyslexia?” I had read the book before, years ago. Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. I had to admit that it was an excellent book in terms of simplicity and direction. Especially with the sound of one chainsaw cutting a hole in the ice humming in the background. (Sound of the roar of a chainsaw in background briefly) http://dogbert.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?y=16&tn=zen+mind+beginner%27s+mind&x=24
http://www.sfzc.org/

The beach was a very fine, yellowish sand. In a bay that was almost constantly windy. Apparently less than 6 feet deep for a long way out. It’s hard to judge how long the beach was. I’d walk to the end in about an hour as I walked slowly. And it took me awhile before I actually made it to the end where the river flowed out, eventually apparently to the sea via the St. Lawrence. John told me a few interesting things about the river and such. I might as well tell you now as opposed to later, even though I also want to tell you what happened with our piece together care team. The river had lots of large snapping turtles who would on occasion wonder into the lake in the spring. Apparently, you’d only see their head from a distance but they’d never bother you as they were way to frightened or into self-preservation, though, think about it, who would be the turtle's enemy except perhaps people and water mosquitoes (aka jet skis...) But one year, the turtles en masse decided to not nest in the river but to nest on the beach. So they would come up, dig a hole, lay some eggs, and I guess essentially split. And even after 50 years, they’ve never been back to the beach. And then there was the story of the giant turtle. I’ll tell you. Lots of turtle stories up there. These are but 2 of them. Once while sitting on the beach, a giant snapper came out of the water. John knew this thing was huge so very carefully tried to get a stick close to it to get a rough measurement of it’s size. The turtle turns and shows how fast he (she?) is in the water. But there is a way to estimate age by as I recall the feet or tail size – something like that. This turtle came in at the size of can’t get any bigger, was likely bigger than the largest one ever recorded and was a minimum of 75 years old. I kinda used the story to put my age and life into perspective. I fell in love with the beach, even in it’s frozen state. It was the kind of beach that was very easy to fall in love with. And there are stories about it and maybe I'll tell them someday…nah…

The first appointment was with the physical Doctor. My clear challenge was going to be able to tell him everything in 10 to 15 minutes top. Remember the - hour drive that others had to make. John went in with me, introduced me, the Doctor seemed to vaguely know who I was, then John explained his assessment of my history with the accident and anti ds and such, then said I should go on ------ at an initial high dose, building quickly to the daily max dose of 3500 mg... The doctor simply wrote the prescription and we made another appointment in a week. Oh, yeah, he did take my blood pressure as there was apparently some chance of ------ raising the blood pressure. Ten minutes. Done. I was trying to remember what other things I had ever done in 10 minutes…Off to the pharmacy, and out in the country side, whitish as it was, to the granola factory (after the fairly funky pharmasave owned by a kinda business oriented guru). Apparently, a successful granola factory as the owners had a Mercedes parked out front. John said the granola was so good that he would have some on occasion, despite the carbs. I stayed in the car as we figured these folks were pretty savvy and my sudden appearance in K. was yet to be made public, xept for the clothing guru who did not know who I may be. And back to the cottage, to get the sauna going. Well stoked with chunks of oak, and then we mediated for one hour. I sat cross-legged for a brief time til my hip rebelled and then sat in a chair. My mind was absolutely wild. I had a sense of my out breath but more of a sense of thoughts rushing at me like a train coming out of the tunnel with my foot stuck in the tracks. I had never had my foot stuck in tracks and certainly not tracks that also seemed to be in quick sand. The more I struggle, the more I sink. Kathie, the kids, New York, the monologues, my father, my mother, my brothers, my fears… I managed to convince myself that after 59 minutes the combination of thoughts, obsessions and pain had lead me to nothing else except a complete sense of giving up…and an out breath and a final bow. Happy hour was somehow never going to be the same. We had a light dinner, John’s being almost solid protein, and I only added some basmati rice. Off to the sauna. Did I say the sauna was outside? It had a church bell at the top as John was trying to get the property declared a church as he had become internet ordained. (www.ulc.net/). The main reason being to avoid the astronomical taxes that the county charged the cottagers, as “who else around here seems to have any money?” The walk to the sauna in the dark, windy cold in only a towel, was nothing if not bracing, followed by the blast of 60 degree Celsius heat in the sauna. John complained that it wasn’t hot yet and piled in more hard wood. I quickly learned the finer art of just the right amount of water squirted on the bricks behind the stove. Just enough for an enormous assault of hot steam, but not really enough to cool any part of the bricks, and sauna rocks. Picked from a certain river where the aboriginal natives got their rocks for their sweat lodges. And outside to get a partially frozen bucket of water to dip towels in to wrap our heads in to ease the suffocating heat. My pores felt like they were screaming open and pouring out sweat. We helped each other rinse our hair with buckets. Then just as the thermometer was inching towards 80 degrees, we burst out into the clear sky. The steam from my body made me think I was on fire. It was all I could do to get back to the cottage, take 900 milligrams of ---- , and crawl under the Eider down comforter by the fire. I was asleep as every muscle in my body felt more relaxed than I could remember for a very long time.

Next day was ‘Patch Adams wantabe today, Patch Adams wantabe’ It seemed that John spent most of his time either walking on the beach, visiting neighbors, (I think they gave him one beer a visit), and typing on the internet and emails or writing his Mulligan Mysteries as he called them. He had sent me a copy once of his first book, self -published. I hadn’t read it. I think it was probably in a pile on my desk in NYC. He said that Mulligan was a social worker who was dragged into detective work and followed his roots as a hobo. The books even came with an organic soundtrack. I promised to read it, just as soon as I read Zen Mind Beginner’s Mind for the second time since arriving. Both my legs and mind were insisting on it. Today, John gave me the keys to the car. I felt like Dad was giving me the keys. My stare illicited: “I’ve read ‘Booze,Cars and College Girls’. Don’t worry. I assume your driving skills have improved since then. Also this ain’t Manahattan.” He started to sing the Talking Heads song that sort of goes like that. “And yes, you could drive it into a tree and probably kill yourself or at least become fully paralyzed. But I don’t think that’s a good idea for you, your family, my car or the tree.” He went back to typing and I left to see Patch. I think I was hoping that he would look at least a little like Robin Williams and talk like Robin when Robin hasn’t taken his lithium. Neither. I can say that he was a very gentle man, very kind and understanding. I told him I wanted to learn to laugh, at which point he laughed as he was fully aware of my books and monologue films. We agreed that I would not write about what we talked about as he was concerned that if I did ever write about it, the methods he was using, such as EMDR (www.emdr.com) might not be appropriate for everyone and might be misunderstood. I do know that by the end of the session, I was laughing and smiling as I rushed back to the warmth of the car. He sent me home with a Marx Brother’s DVD, for as he said, if it worked for Norman Vincent Peale, why not steal the idea. (wikipedia page for Norman Vincent Peale) I drove back to the lake and never once thought about trees. John was listening to what he usually listened to and used in his books’ soundtracks: Laura Nyro Kate Bush Doves The Strokes Todd Rundgren (especially ‘I Hate My Friggin’ ISP’ as John tried to explain to me how slow a 56K modem was – whatever a 56 K modem is). While John continued to pound away at the notebook computer – (or maybe it was just a 56K), I reread ‘Zen Mind’ then started reading what was titled on the front as ‘swimming in mulligan stew’ by John Boland (Kindle version 2010). I was laughing on the first page already and had passed the P by Ns test (you’d have to read it), when it was time to get the sauna going, get some dinner, roast in the sauna, steam in the air. But tonight, instead of collapsing by the fire, we both started watching ‘Night at the Opera’. Perhaps it’s cheating to watch the best Marx Brother’s movie first, but I was laughing so hard my side hurt, and I was still laughing as I drifted off into another 900 milligram ---- sleep. When I awoke, I’d had another good sleep and I was surprised that my hip hurt less. And I was due to take another ---- Gaba twice that day.

“Off to the Massage Therapist. Off for a massage.” Rose (not her real name) struck me right away as an Indigo adult, if there was such a thing. Once I met her children, I realized that they would look indigo even in Manhattan. For those of you not ‘hip to the jive’, Indigo children are supposed to be very enlightened children born as part of a quasi new age thing. Their mission is peace, and are distinguished by an indigo colored aura that simply radiates from them. (http://www.indigochild.com/) Rose was very gentle and knew right away about where my pains were. I myself hate physiotherapy in general as they immediately expect you to do wonders and by the evening you are at emergency trying to get a shot of morphine. Rose instinctively knew how much was tolerable. Where she could go deep and where only a gentle touch was tolerable. She knew full well who I was but didn’t natter on about my books and such. She wanted to see me every two or three days. I certainly didn’t mind, especially now with the independence of having ‘Daddy’s’ car. She said that she was trained in the Alexander technique although later when I found out how intense and long the training was, I had my doubts if she had completed the training. But how perfect for me. Me who sits at a desk, or now at least on a chair. How perfect to learn perfect posture. (shifts his position, straightens up his spine) (http://www.alexandertechnique.com/) Now, her other gig. (Everyone in K. seemed to have at least 2 gigs on the go in order to survive). The Bach Flower Remedies. You say Batch, I say Bach (as in Music). The basic scoop from what I understand is that Bach was an English Doctor who was exceptionally intuitive emotionally. He would gather drops of dew from certain plants at 12 noon and experiment on himself. As a result, he came out with a series of 38 remedies. Rose and I chatted about my emotional state, with her in charge of returning me to a feeling when I often went to thinking intellectual thoughts. Like what would happen if the dew was taken at midnight? After 20 minutes she mixed up the following remedies: Rock Rose, Aspen, Olive, Heather, Walnut, Sweet Chestnut, Star of Bethlehem (www.bachcentre.com) Then we just chatted about how she had ended up in K. Interesting story but not to be revealed here. After awhile, she asked me to describe my emotions. I felt slightly different. Very subtle. “Here is an extra bottle. Take them as I mentioned. Oh, and the extra bottle is for John. Ask him why he thinks he should get the exact same remedies. And ask him what he does when you are in ‘town’.” Everyone seems to call it town, but at 700 people, isn’t that a village? I’m sure Krumville was bigger than that.

When I got back, I could hear music from the cottage before I even got out of the car. So that was one thing that John must do when I’m not there – listen to loud music. I asked him what it had been. ‘Princess of the Universe’, by Utopia (Todd Rundgren) , live in Japan. He claimed that it had to be listened to loudly. ( in background, one line of song plays, “you have to take a cold shower so your head won’t swell, you’re the …”) I asked him immediately why he thought Rose would send us the same remedies. “Oh, they might not stay the same. They are fluid. Excuse the pun. Maybe it’s subtle, maybe it’s esoteric, but we do seem to be similar in some ways. For example, I did our biorhythms (http://www.facade.com/biorhythm/) and they are identical. Now, in case you are wondering what are the chances are of that, well probability theory will tell you that it’s 1/23 x 1/28 x 1/33 = 1/21252 and there might be some permutations on top of that but I can’t remember that far back into differential equations, but if there were, they might be 6 or 9, which would mean, say a probability of 1/191268 which is .0000052. So, in K. there might not be any people with the identical biorhythms while in NYC, given a population of 8 million in the city proper, there might be 42 people. So, one thing was for sure, we didn’t seem to have the same capacity for mathematics! “So thank Rose for the extra remedies. Now, we got the medical doctor in place – time to take some ---- by the way – and the mind guy and the massage and Bach Flower Remedy practitioner in place. What’s left? The hall is booked for Friday night and I think we can put up a small sign Thursday to get a few people out. What monologue are you going to do?” Monologues seemed so far from my mind that I really had no idea. We decided we would dress very warmly and go down to the gazebo on the beach to talk about this. “I got stuck trying to get Mulligan out of India into Nepal (he must have been referring to writing with that silly notebook computer), so I wrote this haiku while you were gone. (Another thing I guess he does while I’m not there).

frozen sand crunches
wind blows frozen lake sparkles
warmth of ice hut

He had also gotten the wind harps out of storage while I was gone and fit them on the front of the gazebo. The wind was strong that day off the lake and the harps were literally humming. “These things are so loud, we had to put in a volume control as on a windy day, the sound can be heard quite a ways down the beach.” I concentrated on the sound and found my breath following the wind. Was better than concentrating on how cold an icy lake wind can be. “First, what are you calling this monologue?” The question took me for an absolute spin. It was called Life Interrupted wasn’t it? My shocked curiosity must have shown. “Yeah, well I figure that Life interrupted isn’t as big a downer as Black Spot, but still a downer. But I think I know how to decide…” I said “permutations” as it was the first word that came to mind and maybe the math lesson wasn’t over. Black Life Black Interrupted Spot Life (see spot run) Spot Interrupted Interrupted Black Interrupted Spot Life Black And yes even Interrupted Interrupted, Black Black (how’s that for a downer?!) And we settled for Life Spot as surely I was sitting and hearing in a life spot, and getting the title down was preferable to freezing…

Back in the warmth, the tour discussion hadn’t ended. I admitted that flying around for the tour was an added stressor, as in lonely hotel rooms, cosmetic airports and anxiety provoking flights. “Drive. Get a tour bus. You know enough rock stars to swing that. Laurie Anderson, Billy Joel, Lou Reed et al. They probably have better access to a rock tour bus than I do. Besides we can decorate it up like Bogart did in The Harder They Fall.” I realized that the bus was a good idea except that the last part was a joke. The Spud Mobile didn’t quite cut it. I’d talk to Kathie tonight about getting one. Yes, in my narcissistic blur, I’d had forgotten to mention that I was phoning my Kathie and my boys every day. The boys just wanted to know if they could come up here to the cottage in the summer to go swimming. What was the tree house like, etc.? The best I could do was promise a beach and remember/tell them how much I loved them. Oh, and maybe the rest of the package was obvious. John wanted to be driver and all round roadie… “That’s it. Your team is in place. I’ve got my part. That’s it for my bossy help. Performance is Friday night. Maybe you want to write in a paper notebook while I return to my electronic notebook, and fucking ISP.”

The Performances

“ Performance tonight. Write a monologue, write a monologue” . Since when did I write a monologue in one day? Maybe I could finish The Dorm from Fear of Fear that I actually had in a mag. in 1982. (laughs) I went for a walk on the frozen beach. I almost wrote ‘frozen Bach’ as I had my remedies in my pocket. I took a few drops and swallowed 600 mg. of ----. I had realized something. I was doing many things to get better: 1) meditation, yoga, saunas 2) new meds 3) the flower remedies 4) massage/Alexander 5) therapy with ‘Dr. Patch’ 6) changing monologues / changing directions 7) thinking, feeling, acting I was always wanting results quickly. The psychic surgeon needed to pull that pucker, the sweat lodge needed to cure my eye. Now that I thought and felt that subtle changes were already taking place, subtle and maybe slow, I didn’t trust them. Maybe I needed to see how my first performance in K. went. Maybe I needed to see how the first performance in Palm Beach, Florida went. Maybe I needed to be aware of the frozen beach that I was walking on. That cold fact that I was not frozen in the East River. Sounds too Jimmy Hoofaish to me…(pauses, sips cold water) John told me a little of the history of the beach. The man on the point who had mysteriously disappeared, suspected of being murdered by his father who now was also dead. How the police would still come out in the summer looking for the body, at depths over 200 feet. In the same year, a woman was accused of poisoning her husband and then arranging the murder of her gay lover. In Canada, 3 suspected murders in a population of 700 made K. the murder capital of Canada for one year. How the end of the beach was completely empty when the cottage was first bought. It had been Native/Aboriginal/Indian stop over way back when. Now it was every 100 feet a cottage. One almost McCottage, though tastefully done.

the silence in the sand
the crunching of my feet
as I winter walked on

I actually remembered that when I got back to my paper notebook in the warmth of the fire. John Lennon said that it never bothered him that he could not write out anything musical that came to him. He said that if he couldn’t remember it afterwards, he knew it wasn’t any good.

I remembered that one because of the note John had left me: ‘Gone to Montreal. Will try to catch your first gig in K. Had to take car but you’ll figure out how to get around. I hope. We have the care team, don’t we… Milton Erickson, the hypnotherapist (http://www.erickson-foundation.org/), used the following story: A man came in to see him, saying he was an alcoholic, had seen many therapists and done many therapies but couldn’t stop drinking. He had heard of Erickson and come to see him as a last resort. Erickson just asked him to tell him about himself. He was wealthy, married and retired. It came out that his favorite thing to do was to go to his cabin in the Colorado mountains where there was nobody for miles. At this point, Erickson told him to stop as he already knew how the man could stop drinking. He was to get his wife to drive him to the cabin with 30 days of food but no booze. When they got there, he was to take all booze out of the cabin, as well as all clothes, then strip naked, giving all the clothes to his wife who was to then leave and come back 30 days later. The man would have quit drinking. The man got up, and thanked Erickson. Erickson asked him if that was what he was going to do. ‘No, of course not.’ It’s just that of all the therapists the man had seen, Erickson had been the only one to show him that he really didn’t want to stop drinking. Hope to see you soon, John.’

“GONE!!!” I quickly went to check. My clothes were still there, thank god. I sat down and did the only thing that made sense. I cried and put more wood on the fire. This was on the woodpile: ‘my cognitive mantru (aka swimming in MANTRUS) my pants first shoes second my feeling alive my being calm and active

Play this… (in background, I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor plays) thinking, feeling, acting… cognition, emotion, motion…’

I was only down part of the beach, when I figured it out. The neighbours, T & K, would know… and they probably had beer. It reminded me of the classic book The Empty Mirror, by Janwillem van de Wetering that John had (where did he get a signed copy?) After what seemed like a very long time in a Kyoto Temple as a monk, Janwillem gets on a boat and orders a beer… They would and did have beer. They also had another, yes another message: 'Can I call you spud yet…can i? Can i? … I had ‘under 20 minutes’ in the ‘how long to think of the neighbours’ Pool… hope i won. I’m sure T. and K. can help you get to town. And hitching is good around here plus it’s good publicity for opening night in K… hope to make it back in time. Pants first, shoes second… jb'

(light fades – play How to be Invisible by Kate Bush) http://www.katebush.co.uk/katebush_html/lyrics.html … (light returns with Spalding Behind the Desk) Each performance had a story to tell… I had decided to end each performance as up to date as to that part of the tour. I got a ride to my first performance. The venue was tiny. The place was packed. I could see that John had made it and was ‘invisible’ in the back. Every performance would end with at least one Story Left to Tell from the audience. This was the first one. It was given by a man known by most in the community, an original hippie: (puts on a slight Ottawa valley ‘hick’ accent).

1) K.
I had decided to end each performance as up to date as to that part of the tour. I got a ride to my first performance. The venue was tiny. The place was packed. I could see that John had made it and was ‘invisible’ in the back. Every performance would end with at least one Leftover Story to Tell from the audience. This was the first one. It was given by a man known by most in the community, an original hippie: (puts on a slight Ottawa valley ‘hick’ accent). Bringing the hippies and Polish together - My Dog (This story is total fiction – any resemblance to people living or dead, is completely syn…chronic and coincidental!!!) "K. has had it’s share of publicity with being the murder capital one year but sometimes bad things will bring us together. Ever since the hippies showed up and saved this place from extension in 1967, (sound of K. audience cheering in background), the hips and the Polish haven’t really got along. The only thing in common was a shared hate for the fucking city slicker cottagers (sound of booing) and even that wasn’t enough. Not too many years back, there were dogs showing up dead by poison. The vet says it was anti - freeze. I get to meet most everyone due to my job as ‘….. - ….’. I was putting things together and had the asshole pegged. Then my dog died of poisoning. I had to shot it to end the misery. (pauses as he tries to hold back tears). I knew what to do. Like I said, I knows most folks and most folks likes me. My Polish friends were very saddened by my dog not being around. Now the rest is just what I hears. One night, 3 Polish guys showed up at the suspect’s house. I was told that they planned some ‘gentle’ persuasion to start with to get the person to stop killing dogs. The person’s health either was not so good, or baseball bats didn’t agree with him, or both…(cheers in background)… Anyway, this scum died in the hospital. And the best thing of all, was…well there was 2 best things of all… the scum wasn’t an old hippie and certainly wasn’t Polish… And secondly, this was the thing that brought us together. Old hippies and Polish both don’t let anyone fuck with their families or dogs. This is what brought us together. Oh, there was another thing. The cops did fuck all. No investigation, no nothing. Cause we got good cops who ignore the narcs who come to town in the Fall with the heat sensing, dope finding helicopter. I want to salute the local cops for being real. And that’s my story. I might not be a great story teller but for those from not around here, I’d like to ask you to join me in thanking the Polish for being Polish and the hippies for being hip…" …(voice trails off – wild cheers are heard in the background)

(Spalding's voice again) I only performed 3 times in K. By the third night, we had to get the local school auditorium and we packed it. Word had spread to Ottawa that I was doing gigs. A NYC reporter could not be far behind. A tour bus had been found, somewhere in NYC. Was it leftover from Billy Joel, Lou Reed, or Todd Rundgren… I don’t really remember whom. We all got down to NYC. Now that was a shock. And we all got on that tour bus outa town quick. And I miss my friends in K…

2) KRAVIS CTR. PALM BEACH, FL.
The dyslexic pessimist… A person got up and sounding a little more like a Quaker talk than a story: (I apologize for my poor attempt at a Floridian accent). "My story could be called the pessimistic dyslexic. I have been fascinated by your story. I myself have just spent 4 months slowing withdrawing from anti depressants that I had been taking for 8 years. I am not anti anti depressants really. At the time, I really needed them to survive. Now I just don’t. I told my doctor that I could now handle things on my own and he agreed. I’m very happy I did this as I was ready. The odd thing is that I’ve been using a lot of cognitive type stuff to maintain a positive attitude but I’m dyslexic sometimes when I speak. So, for example, if someone comes up to me and asks me ‘how’s it going, eh?’, eh having become accepted Floridian, given the number of Canadian snowbirds in Florida, then myself as a pessimist would have said, ‘Not bad…’, noting the word bad, as opposed to say ‘Pretty good…’. So when I reframe this in a cognitive way it comes out as ‘bad not eh’ which garners some strange looks. And when I flip it to positive, it comes out as ‘good not eh’, which garners confusion, concern and connectivity of lack… And even when I try to be hip, and for example say ‘goes to know ya’ as a hip way to put a twist on ‘goes to show you’, it comes out as ‘ya to know goes’… Try it with your fav negative expression. It can be funny. Rest assured that I will keep up my cognitive therapy as it is cheaper and has way less side effects that anti ds. Except perhaps when I get it backwards as act, feel, think…

3) OMEGA INSTITUTE, COSTA RICA (NOTE: this story is fiction and any resemblance to anyone real, is a pure coincidence - this story is NOT written by (author’s name withheld))
Flashes Hi, my name is … I write detective fiction. I live my summers on an island off… and spend my winters here in the glorious country that is Costa Rica. I know John from the detective fiction gigs we occasionally attend. So he looked me up here and invited me. Now authors are great at not knowing other authors. I’d never heard of Spalding Gray so I read Sex and Death before agreeing to get up here. I agreed by page 2… Here’s a little story of why authors avoid other author’s work. John told me that he was at his cottage one winter, writing to keep warm. He had just discovered the phenomena of the Green Flash. You can google it and see pics. ok, k...see It’s something that happens at sunset but very rarely and usually over the ocean. Just a very split second flash of green on the horizon the split second that the sun sets. Costa Rica is very good for these. So back to poor freezing John. His detective Mulligan is talking about the Green Flash and is slightly obsessed as is his way. But bored as bored with only the writing, fire and sauna to warm his soul, John goes to the K. library and yes, they have one of my fiction books about a political kidnapping in Central America. Such luck John thinks. He gets home and quickly discovers that my hero in the story spends a considerable time waiting and looking for Green Flashes. So sometimes best not to read. Just write. John tells me that his new book has Mulligan in search of the ultra, super rare Blue Flash…I am currently resisting using the idea. Thanks for having me here. Buy my books…and you can also buy John’s at www.johnboland.com Maybe sometime I can tell you how a famous ------ like me throws that in for the life of a writer…

4) San Raphael, California Recipe - How to use a Roux (by Johnny la Roux – pseudonym to protect his fine restaurant)
(Add French accent but strained at times as Spalding is repeating the story with underlying New England accent )
I am a chef here in a very chi chi, upscale French restaurant. In the kitchen, in between heavy drinking and swearing, we make up funny recipes: Ingredients: One large chunk of pure fat Bacon fat A roux sauce - white flour, clarified butter, heavy cream (36 BF) Parsley, Basil (fresh) Take the fat, fry in large amount of bacon fat. Pour on the roux. Pressure cooker for 40 minutes until all the fat is meddled together. Serve with sprig of parsley, garnish with fresh basil. And the name of this dish which would believe it or not, fit the Zone and South beach diets… ‘Mange le/la Larde’ (‘mange le marde’ is French for ‘eat shit’…)

5) AUSTIN TX OMEGA INSTITUTE
ZEN AND THE ART OF INFLUENZA
By A. F. Waddell (she is REAL)

I hardly EVER get the flu.

Not even once a year.

Or so I used to tell people.

Bad idea. I instinctively knew that bragging about my health could have negative consequences, but felt compelled to still boast about my allegedly superior immune system.

"I've got a virus." This is a misnomer. There are many viruses, or viri, potentially at work. And the virus has me, not the other way around.

Viri are now having a party in my body, multiplying, moving and taking new ground. I can feel them. They muddle my brain and settle in my joints, sending zinging little pains up and down the length of my body. The viri keep me up nights. They are a rowdy bunch, having keggers and raves.

But there seem to be advantages to being sick. To wit:

Regular worries and phobias seem to take a back seat. A person lives completely in the now, becoming directly and intuitively meditative, groggily symptom surfing away the days and nights. Influenzal Zen may manifest.

Illness can be a lesson in submission and tolerance (if one is *into* that sort of thing).

Illness may provide one with attention and service from others… Or not.

Illness may provide a conversational incentive:

"Hey! You look like shit!"

"Hey! Why are you puking?"

"Wow. You should have seen me when I had the flu. My case was really baaaaaad."

Hint: When people begin to compulsively compare symptoms, and attempt to outdo one another on the Symptom Severity Scale (SSS), it's probably time for them to broaden their interests and/or get out more.

Zen And The Art Of Contagion:

It's all relative.

The human body can obviously be a host to many, many different forms of viri and bacteria. Microbes don't discriminate. They don't care who you are: They simply seek shelter and food in the form of a warm body. (Read Richard Preston's The Hot Zone. Wait. Don't.)

Consider that a person is lucky to not have a more serious health problem, than flu or colds.

We each cannot choose to live in a protective plastic bubble (unless one is *into* that).

But it couldn't hurt to occasionally wash our hands, and to generally practice safe human interaction. www.afwaddell.com

6) UC, Santa Cruz
In Defense of Denial, (aka) Miso Soup for the Anxious Soul aka Deadon Denial, Perfect Projection, and Considered Compulsions

"I came down from the mountains to see Spalding and he asks me to tell a story. All I know is the kinda way I think up there in the mountains. This is the way I think. I once began writing this as a story or some kind of distorted essay. But I was in severe denial at the time, so I may have forgotten to save it, lost it or just not written it at all. It all began because Salem the cat, on the TV show Sabrina the Teenage Witch, once said: ‘Denial is more than a long river in Egypt’ or something like that. (If this line is indeed copyrighted by Salem, my sincere apologies.) Shortly after, a friend told me 'Projection is a movie coming soon to a living room near you.' I knew about ego defenses and Anna Freud and such, as I have a Masters degree in such things. I even knew that Bettelheim had retranslated some works, indicating that the old standbys of ‘id, ego, super ego’ where manufactured words which really translated as ‘it, I, above I. (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0394710363/qid=1145065979/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/102-3478274-5936152?s=books&v= glance&n=283155) So I shutter to think what denial and projection really mean… I just simply began to explore and appreciate the clear benefits of denial and projection. I am going to leave projection alone here as it would require lengthy thoughts, and besides, you probably wouldn’t understand… But denial, I have many good things about it:
1) it protects you as a child, as let’s face it, everyone seems to come from a dysfunctional family, so parents must be very fucked up. So we need to be protected by childhood denial.
2) Denial is way better than lying. First, you don’t know it’s a lie. Second, it’s guilt free. And third, even if you do know it’s lying, you can later claim denial on the witness stand.
3) Denial also protects you from other icky feelings such as sadness, loneliness and a third that I’m currently in denial about. The only feeling that might arise is anger and you can easily deny that as in “I’M NOT ANGRY” (said in loud voice).
4) You just don’t have to take any responsibility. Fault is not yours. (And you can always project that.)
5) Denial can help keep you in a negative state and as you can see later on, this can be a very positive thing.
6) Denial helps keep obsessive thoughts strong so that compulsive behavior stays in place which keeps depression at bay.
7) Denial is an integral part of depression. The advantages of depression are another story…
8) If you are a politician or a criminal lawyer, denial is like the mother lode of manna. (I have no idea what mother lode of manna means but it’s alliteration at least…)
9) Denial keeps all kinds of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists in business and in many places, that has to be the #2 industry (after marijuana…)
10) and #10 was important but I forget, honest, I forget…

My only crack in denial came from being a perfectionist. Someone told me that it was scientifically proven that positive thinking takes way more energy than negative thinking. So being a perfectionist, I had to choose the hardest way, and now I only think positive thoughts, reject all of the above and deny all negativity. Thanks for listening. Honest…"

7) Luther Burbank Center, Santa Rosa, CA
swimming with aliens
"I am now told that this story can be told. I knew that Mr. Gray once interviewed people who were kidnapped by aliens, by UFOs. That is why I’m here. Yet I will not use the word kidnapped as that has such a harsh connotation. I was taken away on a UFO and I guess it was by an alien life form, that didn’t look like ALF… I first would have thought of it as kidnapping but it wasn’t… I was out hiking in the Sierras by myself. I remember feeling very tired and light headed so I rested against a huge tree. People will say I feel asleep and dreamed but I did not fall asleep as I did not wake up. Or actually I did but in a different way. I was floating in what seemed to be a cloud. Yet the cloud was only what I can describe as pure light. Then I realized that the more I fought it, the harder the air seemed. Once I lay back, the light slowly crept forward. It was as if it was speaking but there was no sound. The light was communicating with thought. That’s the only way I can even come close to describing it. And the light told me so many things. I was asked not to repeat them yet they are everywhere all the time anyway. The last thing I remember was the light telling me that to be separate from the light was an illusion and to let go. I let go and felt like I was falling, yet felt no fear. There was no difference between myself and the light. I was one. Yes and I was back at the tree yet the tree was just pure light. So I walked out on the trail, remembering the greatest gift. The light had shown me my spiritual name, my path and once I got to the end of the trail, I saw a poster for this show, and I knew I had to tell Mr. Gray. As I said I wasn’t dreaming as I never woke up. I am still just pure light. So do not be afraid. The light means us no harm. It is just sort of an alien from another plane. Resistance is anti light, pure light is pure peace…" (As I recall. We went to 2 more places in California but I can’t remember which this one. And what happened to the story from the other one – maybe that dose of -------- is too high? Where’s ‘Patch’ when I need him? Of now I remember…)

8)Somewhere in CA.
(As I recall. We went to 2 more places in California but I can’t remember which this one.)
And what happened to the story from the other one – maybe that dose of -------- is too high?)
Where’s ‘Patch’ when I need him?
Oh now I remember…)

Charmed By Dr. ---

This one sounded a little bit like the mini monologues (of which I did one) that made up most of the film Drunks (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112907/) Or was it this one that sounded like a Quaker meeting… “My name is (withheld). My friend John likes to call me Dr. ---- or just The Professor. I think he thinks I lead a charmed life. And in many ways, I am thankful for what I do and have. To quote http://despair.com/viewall.html - see under laziness…“ success is a journey. not a destination. so stop running…” I’m a world reknown expert in the Physics and Chemistry of -------- at the best research lab in the world at the University of ------ in -------. I am also a full Professor there. I also have my own company that is manufacturing my own invention. http://www.-------.com/ (withheld) (Early predictions had this stock when released matching or beating the return on google – 250 to 1.) I am here because my good friend John told me about it and he had also made me a huge fan of Spalding’s years ago. I managed to arrange a scientific gig at the same time so that it’s paid for but please don’t tell the University… John told me to called my story ‘Charmed’, Let’s get the charmed part over. My invention will revolutionalize all data storage in the world – all computers, all CDs, all DVD’s. I will become a multi millionaire and hope to win the Nobel Prize. That’s the charmed part of my life. I live in a thatched cottage in the middle of a charmed forest where movies filmed. Now the uncharmed parts… I am separated and had to go through a lawyer/court room nightmare to maintain part-time custody of my wonderful son. He is here with me but that may have had to go to court to get permission to bring my own son out of ------. So some people evidently think I am a potential kidnapper. Nice thoughts some people have. And my company. We were just going into production when first, members of the University objected for reasons I can not comment on as, although the reasons do not make sense, I don’t feel like going to court for comments I make. So we were rearranging the project and company launch. I shared a building with another lab that someone must have been pissed off at. They set a bomb to go off at night. Their internet/terrorist training was a bit over the top so the bomb also destroyed our lab. 26 million dollars in lab equipment was destroyed. No one was charged but a detective friend of mine pointed out the prime suspect within 5 minutes of investigating. The end result of such strange karma has actually been somewhat positive. I can’t comment further but check our company site once in awhile. And that is why it says: ‘success is a journey. not a destination. so stop running…' Charmed I’m sure…"

9) Moore Theatre, Seattle
Starbucks vs. Haida Bucks

If you don’t know this story, I’ll tell you briefly and then read a very funny web page that was part of this classic coffee story. On the northern coast of Canada, there is a set of islands called the Queen Charlottes (Haida Gwaii). Parts are a park, parts are declared historic sites by the United Nations. Beautiful place. One of the cities which is really just a small town (pop. 1500) is called Masset. Now to understand the Charlottes you need to understand that this is Haida land, Haida being the original native tribe. Now, the Haida were always known as a warrior tribe, and even now, the white settlers who live in the Charlottes are very clear that they live on land borrowed from the Haida. In Masset, 4 Haida decided to open a coffee shop and called in Haida Bucks as it was run by Haida bucks, bucks meaning young men. Well, a Seattle company you may have heard about called Starbucks took offense to that and went to court, claiming that ‘bucks’ was a trademark. What Starbucks and their lawyers had forgotten was that the Haida are warriors, not known for playing victim and giving up. And the war began. Haida Bucks quickly got a lawyer, a volunteer web designer and tons of publicity. Here is a sample of what appeared on the web (now taken down):

The Difference Between Haida Bucks and Starbucks®
HaidaBucks VS. Starbucks® by Lane Baldwin

1)A small café located in NW Canada - on an island, in a village of 700 inhabitants, value $10,000-20,000(Cdn) Vs. Publicly traded, global conglomerate with locations in metropolitan areas, value - $10 BILLION+!
2)Owned and operated by four Haida Gwaii young men Vs. Run by a team of high-paid executives
3)Building resembles a traditional Haida Gwaii longhouse Vs Shops conform to corporate design featuring green and black color scheme
4)Serves a full menu of tasty food and beverages at reasonable prices Vs. Serves high-priced coffee, tea, and pastries
5)Supports community by offering jobs for others, while the owners must work elsewhere to provide for themselves Vs. Claims to support communities while crushing local competitors with strong-arm tactics
6)Supports indigenous community by being indigenous and providing employment for other indigenous people Vs.Claims to support indigenous peoples while harassing a small indigenous-owned café for daring to use the word bucks
7)Cannot afford legal representation to fight off corporate thugs trying to take their good name Vs. Can afford millions for useless lawsuits to harass local businesses

OK, here's the hard part -- so we made the font larger so you wouldn't get confused: Haida (pronounced Hi-Duh) is not the same as Star Got that? Let's make sure. Haida -- Star -- Haida -- Star. See how easy that was? The two words are completely different! How about that?

(used with the kind permission of Lane Baldwin, webmaster/business person extraordinaire – www.lanebaldwin.com) I’ll spoil the ending. Haida Bucks won. Starbucks would only say that the matter was ‘closed’. (Sadly, Haida Bucks has now closed for other reasons). I heard recently Starbucks had sued a woman somewhere who has a coffee shop and also happens to have the name Mrs. Buck… http://www.dailyastorian.info/main.asp?TypeID=1&ArticleID=29498&SectionID=2&SubSectionID=398&Page=3

10) Vancouver
be here now...
(remember when that was a Ram Dass book before it was a corporate logo phrase – I wonder if they paid Ram…someone please email him…)

And that brings us here to Vancouver. I love Vancouver. I performed Monster in a Box here and I filmed Bliss here. (Bliss is at this link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00007L4OD/qid=1147051063/sr=1-2/ref=sr_1_2/104-8286281-2659930?s=dvd &v=glance&n=130) I was going to have a good friend of John’s tell their story about living a remarkable life with a rare genetic disease but he wouldn’t even let me tell the name of the condition. Perhaps some time. Let me say that, yes, this will be my last monologue and this is my last performance. A part of my life is over and we all move on. So I guess we will have some stories or words here and then I’m going home. Thank you for coming.

We have Rose and ‘my Patch’ from K. here to say a few words before the lights go down.

Loving where we live:
(spoken simultaneously by Rose and ‘Patch’ except where their names are mentioned – those are only by the person named):

“We have all heard about how you are to love your work. We also think it’s a postive idea to work your love. We have both been able to do this by living in the small village of K. though we actually both live on farms nearby. K. has allowed us to meet wonderful people who support our healing work. Please come to visit. Since Spalding blessed us with his start of his tour there, we have had more things going on at the Centre than the previous and current, ever popular Bingo. When you visit, remember that though BC Medical does not pay to see a psychologist such as Patch, when you are in Ontario, BC Medical pays Patch’s bill. And because you visit, heck Rose will give you some free massages or straightening ups. Bless you all. Say goodnight Rose Goodnight Rose Say Goodnight Patch Goodnight Patch…”

(The END – completed and written by John Boland (except where noted) in celebration of the release of the film And Everything is Going Fine (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1122614/) , the documentary by Steven Soderbergh about Spalding)
COPYRIGHT BY John Boland, 2010 Victoria, British Columbia
www.spaldinggray.com
www.johnboland.com

Appendix/Addendum
There has already been what seems to be a Spaldingish type of coincidence/syn…chronization. I hope to some time to be able to write about it but it would involve divulging the location of K. which is not fiction but a real place.