Beauty, Joy, Wisdom & Silliness
Homo Erectus / Pronoia
In my previous post, Performance Anxiety, I spoke about the trepidation I was feeling about going back onstage to do my solo show, 108 Beloved Objects, for the first time since 2022. Right after dropping that Substack, I wrote a stern but compassionate journal entry that was meant as a private meditation about my goals for the show. I read it to my friend and colleague Laurie Wagner, who suggested I go public with it. Titled Homo Erectus, it went like this:
That's my aspiration: to stand on my own two feet. To speak with enough breath to complete my sentences. To remember my stories well enough to weave some unexpected threads into them. To look at least passably comfortable in my body. To honor the fact that I'm up there on stage in front of a paying audience who are predisposed to love me and really want to hear some good stories.
It's not surprising that I'm scared. It's been three years since I've done this, and my self-confidence is at a low given the fact that between my back and PD I can barely walk around a table or across the room. Wherever this is going, it's not a destination I want to arrive at — but for the time being I have to face up to it: The show must go on.
I'm not sure what I can do during the coming week to become sufficiently prepared for what's awaiting me next Saturday and Sunday. Maybe tomorrow morning with Laurie will help. Maybe sticking with my voice exercises will help. Maybe taking this a whole lot more seriously than I have been taking it, my time spent fumbling around with Substack, plotting dates with gal C, writing clever e-mails to gal J, making watermelon salad for one garden party after another. Socializing every night. These are all things I want to do, they are part of my nature, but I really need to focus on the things that will serve the show, now less than a week away. I don't think it's going to require an eight-hour work day, but I should put in at least three every morning towards making my mind a more limber place for these tales to unfold.
Advice to myself: Be excited by what you're doing. Be proud of what you're doing. Be grateful for what you're doing. Have fun with what you're doing. And above all, be professional. Be fucking professional. I've done it before and can do it again.
And I must to look forward to doing it again, even after this San Leandro gig. Which makes this set of two performances just a mid-level rung in the climb toward better things, and not the end of the road for my on-stage storytelling. God forbid.
I need not have worried. In truth, the arc of my anxiety was a great illustration of the difference between my two competing mindsets: the nattering of my catastrophizing inner critic, and what my bodhisattva friend Rob Brezsny defines as Pronoia:
“Pronoia refers to the belief that the universe and the people around you are conspiring to help you and bring you joy. It's the opposite of paranoia, where one believes others are conspiring against them. Pronoia suggests that life always gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.”
I decided, after my conversation with Laurie, that as a part of the intro to my shows I would mention, obliquely, my physical condition: “Four years ago, I received a medical diagnosis that changed not only the way I see the world, but literally my ability to move through it.” I would not refer directly to Parkinson’s, which would make people hyper-aware of my symptoms.
During each 75-minute show I told five stories, and didn’t forget any of my lines. I was calm and collected, the audience was on my side, and my unwelcome traveling companion stayed more or less out of my way. And Sunday’s show ended with a standing ovation (my first).
Are those two performances a guarantee of future results? Nope. But at this moment I would sign up to do it again, without hesitation.
In the spirit of “show, don’t tell,” here is a studio version (I wish it were live!) of one of the best received stories I did during my last weekend’s show. It was recorded during a visit to my aforementioned friend Laurie, when I visited her in San Miguel de Allende:
I’ll end this post with my eternal Pronoiac touchstone: The wise and beautiful note I received from my dear friend Kristina in January 2011, on the eve of a scary six-week run at The Marsh in San Francisco. I now read it to myself before every performance:
Well, it is the big day and I know you are buzzing about... Congratulations....you are doing your show again! I know tonight won't be easy, and you are nervous. But it IS exciting!! I wish for you to relax as best you can, open your heart to all the beauty, joy, wisdom, and silliness in your stories. You are there to move people in some way - to touch their hearts or minds in a way that makes them feel a little more alive than when they showed up. A noble and achievable goal. You are surrounded by friends and kindred spirits — which should give you comfort — and you will create something tonight for them. I also hope that you may also be moved as you tap into your soul, and tell the stories of your interesting life and all those you've met. You are a storyteller — and tonight you get to do the thing that you were meant to do. No matter how many people are there, or whatever bumps you might feel — connect with yourself and tell your stories.
Kristina, you nailed it. Onstage or off, with or without Parkinson’s (or any other malady), that is the essence of what storytelling is all about. Has always been about. So: begone anxiety, welcome, pronoia — and onward with the show.
Jeffji - I am always so honored that we get to work together in all the ways we do - in Nepal, in our writing and in our lives. We are good, old friends. I thought about you before the show. All this vulnerability and your courage in the face of it. I bow to you, friend. The show was so rich and I was so happy for you.
You know I've always loved, respected, admired your writing (and I think 108 Objects a delicious masterpiece), but there's a special quality about what you're putting out lately, can't put my finger on it... I did notice, before I read this report from San Leandro, that I was more excited to see what you had to say than I ever remember being before -- and that's saying a lot! Congratulations on finding a way to wring something valuable for yourself (and your audience full of people like me) out of this latest unenviable chapter of your incredible life.