Dinasaurs & Haircuts: A Performance Monologue
Lauren Crux
I dream that a teacher I am not sure I should study with tosses a huge rattlesnake at me; it bites me in my side. I wake up terrified.
*
Blind dates are so problematic. Your friends mean well, so when they say there is someone they want you to meet, you say, Sure, why not? But after the first date it's clear, Why not, and you are left thinking about your dear friends, What were they thinking? So when my friend E.G. invited me to participate in her archive project with the GLBT Historical Society—"I have the perfect match," she said—I was hesitant. But the idea of working on a community-based art project about lineage—the kind of lineage that resides outside of bloodlines—well, I was intrigued, and I do like a good collaboration. Then E.G. added, "She was a performance artist."
In order to "meet" my archive, E.G. and I rendezvoused at the San Francisco GLBT Historical Society office one afternoon. She showed me to a room with a big table and a door that closed, where I could have some privacy. Off she went to get my archive. She returned with a beige file storage box, and a grey archival clothing box containing something black and something green. She set them on the table—"Here you go, here's your archive." Then she walked out, and closed the door. My room with its big table and closed door felt small and much too quiet.
A life in two cardboard boxes.
I took out my camera, my notebook, my pen. Took a drink of water, looked around. Looked through my notebook. Put the battery in the camera— what's that cartoon? A woman standing by the roadside in a simple skirt and blouse, low heels, suitcase by her feet, holding a sign that says, "Anywhere but here".
If I had been at home, I think that I would have felt compelled to dust, or go pour boiling water on the weeds in the driveway, or Furminate the cats…
Yoga class: Exhale, and on the slow inhale, raise your arms. I open the lid of the file box of Janny Mac Harg. Plain manila folders. The first one my eyes focus on, right in front, is labeled, Old Lesbians.
I am old.
In linear time, I am in the last third of my life. At mid-age it's fun to quip, "Hey, I'm half-way to dead;" but to announce, "Hey, I'm two thirds to dead," doesn't have the same catchy ring. But I am two-thirds to dead, and that's if I am lucky, because who knows when a great arsenic lobster might drop out of the sky and land on my head.
Inside the manila folder, labeled, Old lesbians, I find the hand-written verses of a song about being old and losing our body parts—a uterus here, a kidney there, a new hip, a knee—I see that Janny Mac Harg could make fun of the most frightening things. And yet, I am not moved.
There's a lull in the evening, and your blind date says, Shall we take a walk? You're a good sport and say, Yes, I'd like that, knowing you need something else to happen to salvage the evening. This date is not going well.
I wander off to the bathroom. I find the break room. I make a cup of tea, eat some stale Costco pretzels. I read a current issue of The Advocate. I look at the other two artists E.G. has invited to be here today, Elliot and Tina. They are busy out there at their tables working with focus and zeal. Oh well. I return to my room. I open the grey archival clothing box. Artifacts.
Because photography is my comfort zone, I take a few photographs of Janny Mac Harg's black performance evening gown: it's old, a little shabby; there are stains on it. It smells a little like cardboard and a little like nothing. Suddenly a poem of mine surfaces and reaches out to her:
All That Is Left
at the bottom of the well
a marble
some coins
an Easter egg
a Band-Aid
The other piece of clothing in the box is an emerald green satin lounging jacket. I love emerald green and lounging. The fabric inside the jacket is white, with those rust-coloured stains old clothing acquires just by lying around. I put on some white archival gloves, unfold the jacket, gently lay it down on a drop cloth. I take off the gloves, create a few more photographs, then I do the same with the evening gown. I photograph the brooch on Janny Mac Harg's dress, the archival gloves lying against her dress, the gloves by themselves, the folder labeled Old Lesbians, the beige and grey boxes. I like these photographs. I even like the colour of the image in my viewfinder—yellowish, honey-warm.
I open up another folder in Janny Mac Harg's file box that reads: Drafts, doodles, finished & unfinished… This sounds fun. I read some of her poetry. I read more of her poetry. It's not very good poetry. I correct myself; it's not the kind of poetry I like. Yes, that's better.
In the file box, I find tapes of her cabaret performances. One is labeled, Aging Is Not for Sissies. I ask E.G. if there is a tape player and voilà, she has one ready. I pop the cassette in, the first three chords bang out. I sit up and take notice. Mac Harg's voice belts," I'm old…" The audience laughs, I laugh. She has a big deep voice, and plays a big piano; she fills the room with raucous sound and wit, and tenderness. Now I get the poetry; it's cabaret lyrics. She is deft. She is good at one-liners: "I take care of my hair by gluing it into position." She tells a good story. Channeling Tallulah Bankhead, her alter ego, who is having a very bad day; Tallulah is weary of life, ready to end it all, and so she sticks her head in the oven. However, a good friend who has dropped by kindly points out, "But Tallulah, darling, it's an electric oven …"
Things are picking up. You know that's how it goes sometimes with dating; your date does something, the smallest gesture, an off-hand comment, the way she tilts her head as she listens to a piece of music she likes, or how she cheats when working a crossword puzzle, and suddenly, you're in love. This woman is fabulous.
My date, Janny Mac Harg, was a Commie, a queer, a crone, an adult child of an alcoholic, a co-alcoholic, a recovering alcoholic; a rabble-rouser, an activist, a curmudgeon, a songster, an artist. She had a great spirit for performing. She was loyal, stubborn, and irreverent. She pissed people off. She told dirty jokes. She wore long dangly earrings, a red leather jacket, had a fondness for martinis, and liked to smoke.
*
Sometimes I feel like a dinosaur among haircuts, and from time to time I do ask myself some questions: Am I still a lesbian? Is our post-modern understanding of the fluidity of gender and sexuality and identity making my identity irrelevant? Is the word Queer truly inclusive, or does it serve to erase me? Or, am I already erased? Am I soon to be a relic—(Oh look, an old lesbian, how quaint)? I am so fond of lesbians; I like to hold them in my arms, to touch them, feel them… It seems as though it took me so long to get here. Back when I came out, we didn't exist then either. We have not had a long run. I'd like to linger just a bit longer.
*
Janny Mac Harg loved women, loved being a lesbian, and loved her lover, Evie. She embraced being old. She loved her friends, her family, her therapist. She loved the Communist Party, but when they discovered she was a lesbian, they kicked her out and broke her heart. And when the end came, this fierce stubborn woman, with the big voice, was so frail that a strong gust of wind blew her over.
If I am archived, please, no manila-coloured file folders, no beige or grey boxes. Use new contemporary folders that come in peacock colours with boxes to match. And I want the folders to have titles like Rants, Ravings, & Creative Digressions. Others for Miscellaneous Brilliance, and Patriarchy as Surrealism. And definitely one labeled Lost and Found.
What are the important questions? Can a butch who wears a long silk scarf still be considered a good butch? What does it mean to know that categories don't really exist, yet, to always find yourself attracted to femmes? Are all smart women conflicted? Is enthusiasm a feminist methodology? Can one be cool and not have a tattoo? And what about my hair, should I dye it, buzz cut it? Do I want an archive box, even if it is—orange? Do I want it here? What size box, how many? And what's going to go in it? My phone bill, my notes to myself, my favorite book of poetry, a self-portrait, my favorite pillow? a fingernail clipping? a single memory, or a story—a story for Janny:
In my late forties, I was in Santa Barbara for an appointment with a homoeopathist. I left her office and stood for a while leaning against a tree, looking out at the street. I was having a melancholy day—one of those mid-age, Who the hell am I? and Why is the sky blue? kind of days. Across the street I saw three old lesbians; they looked to be in their 70s or 80s. They had their arms around each other; they were having a good old time. The one in the middle walked with a cane.
I crossed over and followed them down the street hoping to have a conversation, but not knowing how to do it. I wanted to ask them something, but I didn't know what it was.
Consciousness walks on tiptoe through what happens.
So much is felt, so little of it said.
The women stopped at their Volkswagen Westphalia van and proceeded to fiddle and fuss, then load themselves into the van. It was now or never: I either had to walk on pretending I hadn't been stalking them, or gear up my courage and open my mouth--
Excuse me, I saw the three of you and I could tell you were dykes by how you walked down the street. You were laughing and talking and touching each other, and you were so alive and happy. I could tell that you were old dykes with your silver hair and your 70-year-old wrinkles, and I am feeling lonely, and afraid, and outside myself, and I don't know any old dykes and I want to ask you, What is it like? Do you feel desire and longing, and are you sexual? Are you afraid of your wrinkles, and of the cane you use? Do you have many friends and lovers, and where do you live, and how do you live? Are you afraid of dying? What are your dreams? Do you sleep at night?
Would you hold me in your arms for just a moment?
But that's not what came out of my mouth.
I walked over to the woman who was standing outside the van, the one who seemed to be in charge, a woman with green, green eyes, a crinkly smile, and a soft German accent, and I said with all the casual aplomb I could muster: "Excuse me, how do you like your van? I'm thinking about buying one of these, and I wondered how you liked yours?"
And the woman with the green, green eyes, considered me carefully, and then replied, "Well the dogs and I have traveled all across the country in it. We like it very much."
Then she stepped up close to me, too close, looked me up and down slowly, and added, "I don't suppose you're old enough for me to ask you to travel with me, are you? No, I don't suppose you are."
On May Day, 1990, Janny wrote something to her friend and teacher, Ida Red: "When and why did I change?" She described her past, the descent into the abyss, years of isolation and avoidance. She thanked Ida for the gift of helping her to write again, to come to life again, then concluded: "But in my daily life, I feel like a mouse—facing a snake."
I dream that a teacher I am not sure I should study with tosses a huge rattlesnake at me; it bites me in my side. I wake up terrified.
*
Blind dates are so problematic. Your friends mean well, so when they say there is someone they want you to meet, you say, Sure, why not? But after the first date it's clear, Why not, and you are left thinking about your dear friends, What were they thinking? So when my friend E.G. invited me to participate in her archive project with the GLBT Historical Society—"I have the perfect match," she said—I was hesitant. But the idea of working on a community-based art project about lineage—the kind of lineage that resides outside of bloodlines—well, I was intrigued, and I do like a good collaboration. Then E.G. added, "She was a performance artist."
In order to "meet" my archive, E.G. and I rendezvoused at the San Francisco GLBT Historical Society office one afternoon. She showed me to a room with a big table and a door that closed, where I could have some privacy. Off she went to get my archive. She returned with a beige file storage box, and a grey archival clothing box containing something black and something green. She set them on the table—"Here you go, here's your archive." Then she walked out, and closed the door. My room with its big table and closed door felt small and much too quiet.
A life in two cardboard boxes.
I took out my camera, my notebook, my pen. Took a drink of water, looked around. Looked through my notebook. Put the battery in the camera— what's that cartoon? A woman standing by the roadside in a simple skirt and blouse, low heels, suitcase by her feet, holding a sign that says, "Anywhere but here".
If I had been at home, I think that I would have felt compelled to dust, or go pour boiling water on the weeds in the driveway, or Furminate the cats…
Yoga class: Exhale, and on the slow inhale, raise your arms. I open the lid of the file box of Janny Mac Harg. Plain manila folders. The first one my eyes focus on, right in front, is labeled, Old Lesbians.
I am old.
In linear time, I am in the last third of my life. At mid-age it's fun to quip, "Hey, I'm half-way to dead;" but to announce, "Hey, I'm two thirds to dead," doesn't have the same catchy ring. But I am two-thirds to dead, and that's if I am lucky, because who knows when a great arsenic lobster might drop out of the sky and land on my head.
Inside the manila folder, labeled, Old lesbians, I find the hand-written verses of a song about being old and losing our body parts—a uterus here, a kidney there, a new hip, a knee—I see that Janny Mac Harg could make fun of the most frightening things. And yet, I am not moved.
There's a lull in the evening, and your blind date says, Shall we take a walk? You're a good sport and say, Yes, I'd like that, knowing you need something else to happen to salvage the evening. This date is not going well.
I wander off to the bathroom. I find the break room. I make a cup of tea, eat some stale Costco pretzels. I read a current issue of The Advocate. I look at the other two artists E.G. has invited to be here today, Elliot and Tina. They are busy out there at their tables working with focus and zeal. Oh well. I return to my room. I open the grey archival clothing box. Artifacts.
Because photography is my comfort zone, I take a few photographs of Janny Mac Harg's black performance evening gown: it's old, a little shabby; there are stains on it. It smells a little like cardboard and a little like nothing. Suddenly a poem of mine surfaces and reaches out to her:
All That Is Left
at the bottom of the well
a marble
some coins
an Easter egg
a Band-Aid
The other piece of clothing in the box is an emerald green satin lounging jacket. I love emerald green and lounging. The fabric inside the jacket is white, with those rust-coloured stains old clothing acquires just by lying around. I put on some white archival gloves, unfold the jacket, gently lay it down on a drop cloth. I take off the gloves, create a few more photographs, then I do the same with the evening gown. I photograph the brooch on Janny Mac Harg's dress, the archival gloves lying against her dress, the gloves by themselves, the folder labeled Old Lesbians, the beige and grey boxes. I like these photographs. I even like the colour of the image in my viewfinder—yellowish, honey-warm.
I open up another folder in Janny Mac Harg's file box that reads: Drafts, doodles, finished & unfinished… This sounds fun. I read some of her poetry. I read more of her poetry. It's not very good poetry. I correct myself; it's not the kind of poetry I like. Yes, that's better.
In the file box, I find tapes of her cabaret performances. One is labeled, Aging Is Not for Sissies. I ask E.G. if there is a tape player and voilà, she has one ready. I pop the cassette in, the first three chords bang out. I sit up and take notice. Mac Harg's voice belts," I'm old…" The audience laughs, I laugh. She has a big deep voice, and plays a big piano; she fills the room with raucous sound and wit, and tenderness. Now I get the poetry; it's cabaret lyrics. She is deft. She is good at one-liners: "I take care of my hair by gluing it into position." She tells a good story. Channeling Tallulah Bankhead, her alter ego, who is having a very bad day; Tallulah is weary of life, ready to end it all, and so she sticks her head in the oven. However, a good friend who has dropped by kindly points out, "But Tallulah, darling, it's an electric oven …"
Things are picking up. You know that's how it goes sometimes with dating; your date does something, the smallest gesture, an off-hand comment, the way she tilts her head as she listens to a piece of music she likes, or how she cheats when working a crossword puzzle, and suddenly, you're in love. This woman is fabulous.
My date, Janny Mac Harg, was a Commie, a queer, a crone, an adult child of an alcoholic, a co-alcoholic, a recovering alcoholic; a rabble-rouser, an activist, a curmudgeon, a songster, an artist. She had a great spirit for performing. She was loyal, stubborn, and irreverent. She pissed people off. She told dirty jokes. She wore long dangly earrings, a red leather jacket, had a fondness for martinis, and liked to smoke.
*
Sometimes I feel like a dinosaur among haircuts, and from time to time I do ask myself some questions: Am I still a lesbian? Is our post-modern understanding of the fluidity of gender and sexuality and identity making my identity irrelevant? Is the word Queer truly inclusive, or does it serve to erase me? Or, am I already erased? Am I soon to be a relic—(Oh look, an old lesbian, how quaint)? I am so fond of lesbians; I like to hold them in my arms, to touch them, feel them… It seems as though it took me so long to get here. Back when I came out, we didn't exist then either. We have not had a long run. I'd like to linger just a bit longer.
*
Janny Mac Harg loved women, loved being a lesbian, and loved her lover, Evie. She embraced being old. She loved her friends, her family, her therapist. She loved the Communist Party, but when they discovered she was a lesbian, they kicked her out and broke her heart. And when the end came, this fierce stubborn woman, with the big voice, was so frail that a strong gust of wind blew her over.
If I am archived, please, no manila-coloured file folders, no beige or grey boxes. Use new contemporary folders that come in peacock colours with boxes to match. And I want the folders to have titles like Rants, Ravings, & Creative Digressions. Others for Miscellaneous Brilliance, and Patriarchy as Surrealism. And definitely one labeled Lost and Found.
What are the important questions? Can a butch who wears a long silk scarf still be considered a good butch? What does it mean to know that categories don't really exist, yet, to always find yourself attracted to femmes? Are all smart women conflicted? Is enthusiasm a feminist methodology? Can one be cool and not have a tattoo? And what about my hair, should I dye it, buzz cut it? Do I want an archive box, even if it is—orange? Do I want it here? What size box, how many? And what's going to go in it? My phone bill, my notes to myself, my favorite book of poetry, a self-portrait, my favorite pillow? a fingernail clipping? a single memory, or a story—a story for Janny:
In my late forties, I was in Santa Barbara for an appointment with a homoeopathist. I left her office and stood for a while leaning against a tree, looking out at the street. I was having a melancholy day—one of those mid-age, Who the hell am I? and Why is the sky blue? kind of days. Across the street I saw three old lesbians; they looked to be in their 70s or 80s. They had their arms around each other; they were having a good old time. The one in the middle walked with a cane.
I crossed over and followed them down the street hoping to have a conversation, but not knowing how to do it. I wanted to ask them something, but I didn't know what it was.
Consciousness walks on tiptoe through what happens.
So much is felt, so little of it said.
The women stopped at their Volkswagen Westphalia van and proceeded to fiddle and fuss, then load themselves into the van. It was now or never: I either had to walk on pretending I hadn't been stalking them, or gear up my courage and open my mouth--
Excuse me, I saw the three of you and I could tell you were dykes by how you walked down the street. You were laughing and talking and touching each other, and you were so alive and happy. I could tell that you were old dykes with your silver hair and your 70-year-old wrinkles, and I am feeling lonely, and afraid, and outside myself, and I don't know any old dykes and I want to ask you, What is it like? Do you feel desire and longing, and are you sexual? Are you afraid of your wrinkles, and of the cane you use? Do you have many friends and lovers, and where do you live, and how do you live? Are you afraid of dying? What are your dreams? Do you sleep at night?
Would you hold me in your arms for just a moment?
But that's not what came out of my mouth.
I walked over to the woman who was standing outside the van, the one who seemed to be in charge, a woman with green, green eyes, a crinkly smile, and a soft German accent, and I said with all the casual aplomb I could muster: "Excuse me, how do you like your van? I'm thinking about buying one of these, and I wondered how you liked yours?"
And the woman with the green, green eyes, considered me carefully, and then replied, "Well the dogs and I have traveled all across the country in it. We like it very much."
Then she stepped up close to me, too close, looked me up and down slowly, and added, "I don't suppose you're old enough for me to ask you to travel with me, are you? No, I don't suppose you are."
On May Day, 1990, Janny wrote something to her friend and teacher, Ida Red: "When and why did I change?" She described her past, the descent into the abyss, years of isolation and avoidance. She thanked Ida for the gift of helping her to write again, to come to life again, then concluded: "But in my daily life, I feel like a mouse—facing a snake."
Credits & notes:
LINEAGE: Matchmaking in the Archive is a community project developed by E.G. Crichton as first Artist-in-Residence for the San Francisco GLBT Historical Society. One by one she has been matching living individuals to the archive collections of ordinary/extraordinary individuals who have died. Each participant agrees to spend time with the material and to invent a response in any medium. The body of creative work emerging from this process is bringing our archival history off the shelf in unexpected and powerful ways.
… the kind of lineage that resides outside of bloodlines … E.G. Crichton
…Furminate the cats-- the Furminator, the latest in cat (or dog) grooming. A device that culls out the under-fur, the stuff that makes for major allergies, if you tend to be allergic.
…half-way to dead … thanks for this phrase to Karonne Carlson.
… who knows when a great arsenic lobster… borrowed from Stephen Dunn, "Sixty," in Different Hours— …some people/ ?forget to live as if a great arsenic lobster?/ could fall on their heads at any moment.
…patriarchy as surrealism… I'm not sure, but I think I stole this years ago from Robin Morgan. The file is so full, I have to start a new one.
… enthusiasm as a feminist methodology—from a performance by Joanna Frueh.
Consciousness walks on tiptoe through what happens.
So much is felt, so little of it said.… Anne Stevenson, from Arioso Dolente
… the kind of lineage that resides outside of bloodlines … E.G. Crichton
…Furminate the cats-- the Furminator, the latest in cat (or dog) grooming. A device that culls out the under-fur, the stuff that makes for major allergies, if you tend to be allergic.
…half-way to dead … thanks for this phrase to Karonne Carlson.
… who knows when a great arsenic lobster… borrowed from Stephen Dunn, "Sixty," in Different Hours— …some people/ ?forget to live as if a great arsenic lobster?/ could fall on their heads at any moment.
…patriarchy as surrealism… I'm not sure, but I think I stole this years ago from Robin Morgan. The file is so full, I have to start a new one.
… enthusiasm as a feminist methodology—from a performance by Joanna Frueh.
Consciousness walks on tiptoe through what happens.
So much is felt, so little of it said.… Anne Stevenson, from Arioso Dolente
About the author
Lauren Crux is known primarily for her solo performance in which she works to create hybrid forms, blurring the boundaries between story-telling, monologue, movement, performance art, text, video, sound, poetry, photography, and sculptural elements. Grounded in the mundane, she explores how we manage this "drunken stupor" we call life—the messiness, the confusions, the contradictions, the struggles, the banality, the "divine play," the fun, the goofiness. She also co-creates and participates in numerous community-based collaborative art projects and group performances. Born in Vancouver, BC, home base is now Santa Cruz, California.
She earned her MFA in interdisciplinary studio arts from UC Irvine late in life (she has another degree and career as a psychotherapist), where they took a perfectly respectable writer and photographer and turned her out as a [dis]reputable performance artist. Since that time she has written and performed four solo shows (Two Truths & A Lie; OUTTAKES; On Being Cool: and other digressions; and THREE: a curious and irreverent look at the things that keep us awake at night). A version of her recent performance/monologue, Dinosaurs & Haircuts, exists also as an art object/book, designed by Reid Benes and which she self-published. www.laurencruxartist.com
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
She earned her MFA in interdisciplinary studio arts from UC Irvine late in life (she has another degree and career as a psychotherapist), where they took a perfectly respectable writer and photographer and turned her out as a [dis]reputable performance artist. Since that time she has written and performed four solo shows (Two Truths & A Lie; OUTTAKES; On Being Cool: and other digressions; and THREE: a curious and irreverent look at the things that keep us awake at night). A version of her recent performance/monologue, Dinosaurs & Haircuts, exists also as an art object/book, designed by Reid Benes and which she self-published. www.laurencruxartist.com
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.