Poetry & Song

I used to write poetry. And songs. 

A lot of them. 

I remembered a lot of them—they still come to me from time to time, the songs I’ve written. And never recorded or published. They still come to me. 

And tonight I read them again. And they were there for me again. 

A year ago I wrote a few songs again. And I remembered me again. 

And I felt like I was floating off the earth. Until gravity asserted itself. And I crashed. Hard. 

But the poetry was still there for me. 

The songs. 

They always are. Even though I forget them. They never forget to be there for me. 

Maybe that is flow. Maybe that is enlightenment.

Maybe I am still that girl. 

Sometimes it feels like she’s gone completely. Sometimes I would give anything to have her back. And then that scares me. And I grounded myself in now. And i lose the flow. The music is gone. The poetry. The rhyme. 

And then I go back to simplicity. And it’s there again. And I want so much to make music, to sing, to dance. All the time. And to do nothing else. 

And then i see my babies and I remember they are who I dreamed of. dreamed for. Sing for. Dance with. 

And all I want to do is sing and dance and write for them. 

That’s my sweet spot. That’s my heaven. That’s love. And truth. That’s me.

Thank you for coming here

I attended the viewing of a young man who had been in a Sunday School class when my hubby and I were the teachers. 

He had been one of the less-active members of the class. I remember one of his parents telling me that he really liked brownies. So I took him brownies one Sunday after he'd missed class. 

He wasn't really involved when he was in class, and he would sit hunched over and look at the floor most of the time. 

When I heard he had passed I was very very sad. He died from suicide at age 20. 

I walked across the street to the chapel where the funeral would be starting in less than 30 minutes. His mom and dad (step-dad) were there. They had divorced since I last saw the family.

I remember talking to his dad once about the life choices that his teenagers were making. I remember his comment, "You can do everything 'right,' but..." He trailed off and left the thought there. 

When I walked into the room where the casket was I felt a sense of foreboding. Then I saw his parents and real, live actual people that i knew and recognized and I felt better. I got in the line leading up to the casket. 

And then it was my turn.

I looked at his youthful, soft face.

It was still round with baby fat.

He looked so peaceful. Different.

He looked so little. 

His mom stood nearby. I walk to her and said, "You have a beautiful, beautiful boy."

She gave me a bug hug and said, "Thank you for coming here."

I don't know why but the "here" caught me and seemed to linger in the air.

Thank you for coming. Here. 

Like she was going to give me something.

Or like I had come so far out of my way to be with this group, when I had only just walked across the street.

But I still think of it. Thank you for coming...here.

To this place. Where I am. Where we are. Where he was. We will be here for a while. Maybe a very, very long time. This is a very different place than where you are, where you live. You're lucky. We are lucky you are here.

After that I went home to be with my children and family. I was more grateful than ever that they were there.

I have been to funerals, and very sad ones, for children, mothers, young people who had many years ahead of them. 

But I was very very grateful that I went...there. And not because I felt like I had done anything great. But because I knew that was where I needed to go that day. Where someone else was. 

"It may not be on the mountain height, or over the stormy sea.

It may not be at the battle's front my Lord will have need of me.

But if by a still, small voice he calls to paths that I do not know,

I'll answer dear Lord with my hand in thine, 

I'll go where you want me to go."

This is where I have often gone...to where it may feel foreboding, dark, and sad. I find that when I am called, or when I take the opportunity to go, those feelings are always flooded out by the feeling of connection, gratitude, and grace. 

"I'll go where you want me to go, dear Lord,

Over mountain or plain or sea

I'll say what you want me to say, dear Lord,

I'll be what you want me to be."

(Written 11/13/2022)

Maybe Jesus Jones Knows What He's Talking About

"Right here right now
There is no other place I wanna be
Right here right now
Watching the world wake up from history."  -- Jesus Jones

I have always had a hard time dealing with the concept of the here and now.  I mean, I get it technically, like on a timeline.  And I live it, I guess, every day, and all the time.  Like right now.  I'm experiencing the now. Right...now.  And again...now.  Now.  It's now...NOW.

But I like to know how the here and now came to be the here and now, and that's all based on yesterday, and the day before that, and all the days before that.  And I like to think about the way the here and now might affect tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days after that.

But really, that's why acting is so different and therapeutic for me.  Because it's a chance to live in the now.  Right now. Without the pressure of how the now really came to be or what now might mean later.

My first acting teacher taught me that.  We were sitting in a small, dark, studio of a classroom in upper Manhattan.  I was a fresh-out-of-high-school-18-year-old of a girl.  I remember just  sitting there in the dark.  My acting teacher would make us sit there and just listen, eyes closed, completely still, and just listen.  To the sounds of our breathing.  To the cars passing the windows.  To the sirens.  To the horns honking.  To the students walking by, outside the door.  And the breathing of the person next to you.  The fans blowing.  And the sound of your own thoughts--those were loud.  Really, REALLY loud.  Louder than all the other things put together. 

While talking with Rivers Cuomo the other night, (the fact that it was while I was sleeping makes the conversation no less poignant than it would be otherwise,)  he was sitting on some cement steps coming up from a basement porch.  I was facing him with my back to the door of the apartment.  It was as if I was leaving the house for the evening.  And he said something that hit me like it had never hit me before, he said, "You know what's the most important thing? The most important thing is what's..." And without missing a beat, I said in sync with him "right here, right now." 

So since our little chat, I've been pondering the right here and right now.  What is happening right here right now?  Who is with me right here, right now? 

But what I experienced there in that acting class, that day, for maybe the first time, was Now.  The silence.  The meditation.  The Now.  I had never experienced quite that way before.  The presence of myself, and everyone in the room, but none of it at all at the same time.  The Now.

And now, here we are.  Today.  Now.  In the now.  And what are we hearing?  What are you hearing?  When  do you listen?  I mean, really, really listen.  Who are you listening to?  Whose voice are you hearing in the Now?  What is it saying?  Are you hiding from Now so you don't have to hear it? 

(Written 10/18/2018 12:17am)

Gratitude and Blessings of Tithing

Welcome back, everybody, and thank you for joining us here on The Jas Show. 

Tonight's thoughts center around gratitude.  Let's break that down...grat-i-tude...

"Grat."  Like gratis or great. 

Wordreference.com says it's latin for "pleasing" or "thankful" or "favorable," so I guess it could be all those, too.  Maybe it's that pleased or favorable feeling we get when we accomplish something or get what we wanted, and so we end up feeling thankful for it.  Like in con-GRAT-ulations, meaning "with pleased oobilations," oobilations being the joyful "celebrations" or really, states of being. So, again "congratulations" are statements "with pleased states of being."

Still, it seems like something is missing, perhaps a sense of humility, there in our definition of "grat."  But gratuitous starts with grat, so maybe not.

"I" (pronnounced "ih.")  It's just there.

And "tude," which we all know from the word "attiTUDE, " meaning, mental and emotional state put together. 

So, grat-i-tude could be summed up as the soulful state of humble thanks.

And that's what I'm feeling tonight. 

Over the past year I have sustained an income of about $800/month (give or take) and booked about 1 job per month through my agency. 

This month (since the time Cigi had a job change) I have booked 1 job per week.

Pay tithing, cuz it works.  I'm just saying.

(Written November 2018)

My Memory of September 11th at 7am

I was in bed.

When I think back on the morning that's what I remember.  I was 19 years old and I was sharing a room with my 12-year-old sister.  Her bed was close to the doorframe with the foot of her bed almost touching the door when it was open fully.  My bed was against the opposite wall, under the window and parallel to the matching bed which belonged to my sister.

I remember feeling pathetic.  Why was sharing a room with a 12-year-old? And, especially after living on my own for the past 6 months in one of the biggest cities in the world? 

I remember opening my eyes to see light filling the entire room.  I remember seeing the colorful silhouette of my mother against the stark white walls.  I remember thinking, "Why is she standing there?"

She was saying something.  She was trying to make me hear what she was saying.  She was trying to help me understand.

I remember thinking that what she was saying made absolutely no sense at all. I was wishing she would just stop talking and walk away.  I remember I wanted to go back to sleep and wake up when it was fully day, when I could make sense of what she was saying.

"New York is on fire," was her explanation.

I knew that was wrong. 

What?

"An airplane flew into the World Trade Center.  And then another plane flew into the other one." 

The end of the World.

 "It's on the news."

I got out of bed and went to the living room.  On the TV I saw the 2 buildings I'd just seen with my own eyes 3 weeks before.  Then, they'd been lit up with lights over 100 stories high.  Today they were lit up with flames.  Falling.  Crumbling. 

How?

(Written September 2018)

Evita: The Stage Show I Never Saw

When I was turning 13 I told my parents what I wanted for my birthday was to go see the musical Evita.  I'd recently finished my first stage-musical (at church) and had also tried out for the audition-only elite show-choir at my high school and made it, so musicals were on my mind.  I had seen an ad for it in the newspaper (that's how old I am) and was entranced by the picture alone.  I knew this was my thing, and I asked my dad if we could get tickets.

Evita tells the story of a Latin-American woman who went from poverty and hopelessness to becoming a national and global leader, politician, and quite possibly the most influential and powerful woman of the 20th century. 

My dad, after a few days came back with the thought that maybe we could go to a show, but maybe a concert.  And a few days after that he told me he had bought tickets for him and me to go see Boyz 2 Men. 

Now, I liked Motown Philly as much as the next girl, but...

- 1 powerful Latin-American female politician / 4 black dudes from Philly who can sing

- Don't Cry For Me Argentina / I'll Make Love To You

- Themes of devotion, faith, family, nationalism / themes of living in the 'hood, getting it on

So we went to the concert, which was fun and nice and all.  The only thing I remember from the concert was how uncomfortable I felt as a 13-year-old standing next to my dad as the dudes on stage sang about "making love to you" and handing out roses for five and a half minutes, and then how they disappeared into a rotating box when they exited.  It was a cool magic trick, but nothing like what I imagined the magic between Che and Evita would have been. 

Imagine how I felt when the movie version came out just a year later.  It was like someone had given me a paper cut an poured lemon juice in it.

How many things do I have in common with Evita (the character, not necessarily the person?)

Latin American Female - check
Born into poverty - check
Father with two families - check
Left home to go to a big city and make her way in the world - check
Slept my way to the top - NOT a check
Creates opportunities for people with limits - check
Started as an actor - check

Likes to sing and dance - check

I think if he had known a little more about the person I would be now, he just might have let me go see the show and get it out of my system. 


(Written: Fall 2018)

36 And Still Dealing With Acne

I hate the fact that I'm 36 and I'm still dealing with acne.

I get these big, painful things that look like zits on the side of my face.  But really, they're baby monsters.  And then all I want to do is pop them to let the pressure and puss out, but they just won't pop.  Which is how I know they're not aliens.  Because, as everyone knows, aliens do pop out of people's bodies.  But what bugs me the most is WHY DO I GET THEM?  I'm not going through puberty, and sadly, this is the most developed I'll ever be.  I eat pretty healthy, though I do like the occasional pizza and ice cream party.  And by occasional I mean about twice a week.  So that could have something to do with it. 

(Written: Fall 2018)

Thoughts On Race, Ethnicity, and My Ongoing Identity Crisis

I always wanted to be blond.  Except when I wanted to be black.  I wanted to be one or the other.  It's like the scripture "i would that we were hot or cold, but because you're lukewarm, I shall spew thee from my mouth" or something like that. 

I always felt out of place and not white enough.  And not Latina enough.  And not curly enough.  And not straight enough.  And caught somewhere in the medium-bronze, slightly skinny, not to tall, nut average-IQ type area.  

And it's frustrating.  

Do you know how many musical theater roles there are that are specifically written for brown, LDS, comedic, thirty-something, small-chested, college-educated, 5' 8", mothers-of-four with short hair who can cry and tap dance?  Not many.  But this also means I don't have very much competition.  So there are pros along with the cons.  

So the challenge I see ahead of me is to write those roles into existence.  

And brown is so tricky.  We are technically called "women of color" but what do you think of when you hear women of color?  Black women.  Right.  And brown women, who aren't quite white and definitely aren't black have one of two roles to choose from: stripper or housekeeper.  No really, though.  

How many of my lighter-skinned friends have ever been described as "exotic?"  How would that make you feel?  Let's be honest...you'd be like "yesssss!"  Only, not when there is an expectation tied to it, like dudes thinking you're up for dancing in a bikini.  I think the discrepancy actually comes from a confusion between the words "exotic" and "erotic."  And also the fact that strippers are commonly known as "exotic dancers."

So here's my dilemma: i am an exotic dancer.  My name is Jasmine and I tap dance. Exotic. Dancer.

When I worked at Hooters people would ask me all the time if Jasmine was my real name.  

Now I go by Jas.  And you know what's so funny?  When I introduce myself as Jas, I feel a lot more connected with people.  I feel like Jas is my real identity.  Like Jasmine is the formal version of me that has to be contained in a box and never make faces at the camera.  But Jas is loud and outgoing and fun and fun-loving and accepting and silly.  

The girl goes, "are you a dancer?"  And I'm in NYC going to musical theater school where part of my training is in ballet, jazz, and tap, so I'm like, "yes."  And she's like, "then, you might like these boots..."  Needless to say, I bought the glittery lace up ones.     

How about "ethnically ambiguous."  What does that even mean?  It means that no one knows quite what you are, and they don't really care to know quite what you are, they're only interested in knowing what you're NOT.  You're not white, black, Pacific Islander, Asian, or Native American. Or Mexican.  (Because Mexican is its own race, obviously.)  So you must be ethnically ambiguous.  That's not even a thing. It's not a real thing. Did you know that?  It's a term made up by the acting and modeling industries to categorize slightly-tanner than white-skinned people with almond-shaped eyes.  I had never known I was categorized as "ethnically ambiguous" until 2016.  Before that I was either Latin-American or White.  Or both.  But now, I'm like, "other."   

And we're talking about color here.  I'm too dark to be Belle, but not dark enough to be Aida.  Too dark to be Mother, but not dark enough to be Sara.  Too dark to be Eva Peron, but not dark enough to be Daniela.  

  

(Written: Fall 2018)

God as my Therapist

When I'm talking to God, I'm sure I sound crazy.

I'm like, I hate this house.  I really, really hate this house.

I mean, I'm so grateful for this house.  So, so, SOOO grateful for this house. 

And I need a change.  I need a fresh start, I need something new.  We're in a new stage of life, and I need something that fits this life instead of the old life.  And as much as I love this house, I need to move.  But remember, I want to move, but I don't want to sell the house, I just want to rent it, cuz, I mean, I never want to get rid of this house.  As much as I want to leave, I never want to not have it. 

And I think God listens and then just looks at me a little bit sideways and nods his head and lets me keep talking. 

(Written: Fall 2018)

Unintentional Eavesdropping

I was at the church, the stake center in Glendora.

I was walking down the unlit hallway, probably going to or returning from the restroom, but who knows i could have just been walking the dark hallway for no apparent reason.

I overheard a girl in the foyer talking with some of the guys and girls. She was telling them something about me not even attending Julliard. The feeling and sentiment was that it wasn't a big deal that I was going to theater school and living by myself in NYC because i wasn't attending Julliard. So, you know, no big deal, not that exciting or promising or whatever.

I stood there in the shadows listening. 

I don't know why it hurt so much to hear that.

Maybe i was insecure about not being at a more prestigious school. Maybe i felt like i was wasting my time and these words and opinions of someone else confirmed that for me.

Maybe I just really already didn't love this girl and hearing her stupid little voice was just annoying. 

Well, whatever reason, it bothered me. 

And that's when I decided. I would not respond. I would simply show up.

I took the rest of the steps into the light of the foyer. Everyone kinda stopped and turned to see me, caught in the act of listening, totally caught off guard. They knew what she'd said. She knew what she'd said. Did I know what she'd said? 

I never would give any of the the satisfaction of knowing the answer to that question. 

The funny thing is that a year and a half later I found myself chumming it up with this girl's mom who randomly worked at a place i frequented while serving a proselyting mission out of state. Her mom immediately loved me when I told her where i was from and that i did in fact know her daughter and that we had worked together on a musical that never did actually make it to the stage. 

The other funny thing is that this girl's roommate is now my cousin by marriage. That same cousin is married to my former home teacher from the same time frame. The more i think about it, the more weirded out i am about how small the place i come from really is.