Mix Independent, won't you come spend a little time?

Monday night I had the pleasure of attending Cherry, at Jacque's Cabaret in Boston.

"Cherry" is described as " a night of New," for a reason. It features new performers or veteran performers doing new things. There was a very special reason I was present at this particular show and it was because Johnny was doing something new.

Last week, Johnny Blazes, wrote to a handful of hir friends saying:

As any performer will tell you, and most of you are performers so you know first hand, there are certain things that a performer feels completely comfortable doing onstage.... There is also usually at least one thing that that performer is terrified to do onstage. In my case, sing anything other than opera.

Not sure why. I can take off my clothes, flamenco dance, recite a soliloquy, lip synch like a fifth grader, cover myself in fake blood, fake fur or real whipped cream, without the slightest hint of stage fright or embarrassment, but singing earnestly onstage seems off-limits.

Well. It's about time.

Johnny's letter went on to express fear, and even uncertainty about inviting any of us, but asked that we come out to support this new endeavor. I hadn't seen Johnny on stage in a while due to my own rigorous performance schedule, so I made plans to go.

Jacque's was well populated when I got there. I'd never been before, but I started enjoying myself right away. Monday night featured Becca D'bus, Katya, and Hava Heart, and their lip synching, hip twisting, hair flipping performances were all spectacles in their own right...

But Johnny, as promised, was singing. Earnestly. And it was amazing.

Hir second number was a rendition of Ne-Yo's "Miss Independent," done with all gender neutral pronouns. "Ze does hir own thing," Johnny sang, sidling up to audience members in the small space, "that's why I love hir. Mix Independent, won't you come and spend a little time?"

As Johnny moved, every other person in the room remained riveted. Johnny didn't strip, or juggle or do any of the complex choreography the audience knows ze's capable of. It was just Johnny being Johnny, sharing hir voice in a way that is usually off-limits. I watched with a mixture of love and pride, and was surprised by the end to find my eyes full of tears.
Because that's how performers grow. But not just performers. That's how we all grow. Facing and shedding fears one at a time. And if we're lucky we get to share those moments with people we love.

Congrats, Johnny.

made of bees

I was going through files on my phone and came across a video clip from last spring, or maybe even the spring before, and it reminded me to tell you this anecdote.

I didn't notice anything strange on my way down the street, but about halfway to the corner I saw them. Blocking a section of the street was a swarm of bees. As suddenly as I saw them, I began to hear them. The buzz was phenomenal, otherworldly, and terrifying.

I've hated bees since I was a kid. I got stung on my hand, which swelled up like a balloon rendering it useless for a week. One doctor guessed I was allergic to bees. It made sense since my Mom is allergic to bees, but it's not like I had an anaphylactic reaction. Still, growing up the sound of even one bee humming induced a lot of anxiety.

As I continued my approach I saw that the swarm, although it appeared chaotic, was self contained to the middle of the street. The sidewalk was a safe zone. I inched past.

There was a man standing nearby and watching. He turned to me. "It's incredible, isn't it?"

I hadn't looked very closely, but now I did. "I guess it is," I said, "but so many bees is a bit scary."

He smiled, "there's no way they'll hurt you. They're looking for a new queen. Migrating. they are all very, very focused. You see that branch, covered in bees?"

The branch, black against the sky was animated with crawling bodies.

"That's the site of their new hive. These guys are all communicating with each other about it. Eventually, everyone will settle in. By night time. You watch."

I stood, fascinated, unable to turn away as the black cloud moved up and down in the air, undulating but never defying its seemingly arbitrary boundaries. The swarm was about six feet in length, and began only a few feet up from the pavement, and extended up to the top of the branch. It was impossible to tell how many bees there were.

The man continued to tell me about the bees. He had grown up, the son of a beekeeper, on a farm. He explained that what we were witnessing is an anomaly, and that we were really lucky to be watching. It also meant it would be a good year for local honey.

Then he did something I never expected. He grabbed my arm and said, "come on, walk through them with me. It's perfectly safe." I stared at him blankly. "They won't even know we're here," he added. I nodded and took a breath. If this was a rare thing to witness, I was going to witness it as closely as possible.

With his hand gripping my wrist he walked me right into the middle of the swarm. He continued to talk about the bees. The noise was unbelievable, but even more unbelievable was that, as we stood there bees flew around us in every direction, but never paid us any attention. Bees flew past my head, right by my bare arms, and dodged in between the man and me, but never hit or stung us. I looked straight up and saw the blue sky shaded by their wings, a million black ovals against the sunlight coming through the trees.

We stayed.

Eventually I had to leave to catch my train. But before I did I thanked the stranger profusely.
I'm not afraid of bees anymore.