As I walked through the cell blocks and out in the prison yard at Eastern State Penitentiary last weekend, I could feel the weight of the prison’s past coming down on me. Being inside those walls felt like being in a whole different universe, I felt disconnected from not only the immediate surroundings of the prison, but also from my own life and experiences. With every step I took I distanced myself farther and farther from myself and moved closer and closer to a timeless state of contemplation and inner peace. Standing inside the cell I felt trapped initially thinking of the hole in the wall where the door would once was as if the door still remained and I truly was contained in the cell. However, as time went on I no longer felt this sense of being trapped in the cell in the same sense, I was able to spend the time with myself and my surroundings. The walls whispered stories to me through the cracks and the dust on the floor filling the silence with the sounds of their past and mine. Looking out the narrow window in the back of the cell I was transported back in time it seemed, able to feel the prison as it was back when it’s cells were still filled.

We are somewhat stick to music. The night before farewell, my friends and I sang on a street near Funan River. It was almost eleven in the evening, but still lots of people passed by, because it was Saturday.  One of my friends said, “Why don’t we sing?” “Shall we?”　“Why not? We are going to different places tomorrow, and we can’t see each other until next summer.” “Next Summer” That was the phrase that touched me.  Next summer is way too far. Too far. Then we began to sing. Loudly. Crazily. Passionately. Sadly. Happily. That moment, all I saw were my friends’ faces, and the light across the river. I shouted out, "If there is world where things never change, where people never say goodbye and never die." It is a little bit strange to say, I didn’t see any one passing by. All I did was singing, as loudly as I can. The feeling was mixed. Some sadness some happiness. After that, I felt sense of release, and I finally started to think about the people around.

For some riding horses is an occasional experience that they may explain as exhilarating or even as “deep play,” however for someone who rides horses on a regular basis it has become a part of my routine, and those special and fleeting moments defined as deep play are very rare, but also very powerful. I can remember one evening in particular when I had decided that I wanted to get a quick ride in despite the fact that the sun would be setting soon. I knew I would not have enough time to tack up before the sunset, so I took my old horse Lacey out of her stall, quickly brushed her off, grabbed a helmet, and walked down to the arena. I often ride bareback, but for some reason this time was better than any of the others. Riding with only a halter and lead rope, I felt synced into my horse, and I knew that the strong trust and connection between us on this ride was special, and would be a fleeting moment in time. After I asked her lightly with my leg to pick up a gallop and we were flying, putting me into a state of euphoria and understanding. In this moment of deep play I was very aware of how exceptional this time was, and this realization made me so appreciative of this time, because I knew it would be over soon. I have only had about five rides in my life that were this special, and I treasure all of them and keep them close to my heart.

It’s a hot day today. It was a hot day yesterday, and it will be a hot day tomorrow. I’m already tired –– canyoning from the day before has gotten to me, and my arms protest even the slightest movement. I hope the one hour hike will loosen them up, because I can’t really afford to be without the use of my arms when I’m rock climbing.

Ackerman defines deep play as “the ecstatic form of play.” She tells us that “in its thrall, all the play elements are visible, but they're taken to intense and transcendent heights. Thus, deep play should really be classified by mood, not activity.” When an intense form of emotion is felt (usually extreme joy) deep play is occurring.

I learn many things on the hike. Our guide, Javi, has taken it upon himself to make us fluent in Spanish.

“Enero febrero marzo abril mayo junio julio agosto septiembre octubre noviembre diciembre,” he says, enunciating each syllable.

“Enero febrero marzo abril mayo junio julio agosto septiembre octubre noviembre diciembre,” we repeat, stumbling over sounds that aren’t ours.

Jessica Bernal

ESEM- Play in the City

The Host

“¡Mija! No no no, you’re not moving your hips, you’re not doing it right.” Usa tus caderas, use your hips. Family gatherings, dinners, parties, whatever you would like to call it, they were nothing without the cumbia, merengue, and bachata music playing in the background. All the worries were left at the doorstep the moment the music blared through the speakers. I’m sitting in the corner of the room, watching as they turn the living room into the dance floor. All the tables we just finished eating dinner on are being folded and stored away, making room for the moment of the night. The moment we all come together and shake it out. There’s no need for alcohol or drugs when you’re high with overwhelming emotion of the rhythm taking over your body.

My legs are jittering in place screaming let me get in there let me shuffle. I can feel the drums, the electric piano, and the shakers, all of it coming together creating this beautiful rhythm taking over my body to the point where the music hosts my body. Deep play is something intimate and exclusive to the individual. It’s a moment of self-indulgence and complete euphoria. When I’m dancing cumbia, I get an overflowing feeling of tingles running from my toes to my arms wanting to prance out of my seat and sway my hips to the rhythm of the music.

Phoenix

Mlord

Play in the City 028

Flux Capacitor

My mother decided when directing A Christmas Carol that she was going to make it steampunk. Steampunk is essentially science fiction if it were written by Victorian-era people. Hallmarks include airships, things covered in gears, and unusual mechanics such as limbs. Since A Christmas Carol is set in Victorian times, my mother made Bob Marley an Industrial Revolution inventor and dressed her narrators in hats covered with gears, mechanical arms, aviator clothing, and more. She also gave the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present a time machine, and I was lucky enough to be cast as Present.

I.

Transcription of deeper meaning is so inadequate.  Unalterably uninterestingly incapable of capturing my true intention.  As if pouring out the most important, memorable, inexplicable moments of my life should easily flow from my fingertips onto the page.  Inability halts my progress but so too does my unwillingness to progress, to write down the personal instances of absolute understanding.  These are my spiritual beliefs; this is my religion.  It is not part of a holy book, a scripture written down long ago in the fleeting, ephemeral and already dying past.  It lives and breathes and insists on secrecy.  Because inclusivity would lead to nothing but misunderstanding; Misinterpretation of the profound intensity that permeates a select few of my most treasured memories.

So…no.  I will not be handing over a description of my “ecstasy”, because it would only be judged.  The intention behind the request and reading of my text simply does not matter because there is no such thing as a truly open mind.  Each perception is colored by the myriad of experiences that influence your every living moment.  There is no escape from the inevitable evaluation of my hard-won wisdom.  A biased measurement of the truth of my words as filtered through your inadequate understanding.  The psyche of the reader and the writer simply do not mesh as one might wish them to, and they each struggle vainly to understand and to make themselves understood.

A small stage in a crowded room, containing a piano, a drum set, and two seats; at the moment, those seats are pushed to the back behind a small brass ensemble. The restaurant is full of happy, idly chatting people enjoying their meals, listening to the jazz music; I’m next. My first jazz performance, and my first performance with vocal improvisation; my nerves had been bad all week, terrible all day. More than once my parents assured me that they would not think less of me if I were not to go, if I were too sick to make it, and how pale you look! Even my teacher had said she’d understand- I can only imagine how frail I must have looked, for them all to worry about my first public improvisation. Far too quickly, the ensemble group before me finished; it was just myself, and three instrumentalists I had never seen before in my life. The only one of them I could see was the pianist, and I was absolutely terrified. The song was Autumn Leaves, and I was to sing it straight once through, before improving it through and then singing it a third time. The music started; there was no going back. The first verse went off without a hitch. So did the second. By the third I started to worry again; next I was to begin scatting. Then the pianist caught my eye. I sang a few notes; not the straight melody, but not too far off. Playing it safe. He took the thread and spun it around, playing it back with a new twist; he was improving as well. Emboldened, I took his idea and ran it a little farther; he took it back, and we played tag with the melody throughout.

I have been to many of the traveling Titanic exhibits.  Different museums, different cities, even in different states.  Never before had I had this type of experience.

It was at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia and my family had a membership there so we had the opportunity to go to a special showing of the exhibit before it officially opened the next day.  We got there Friday night to a special reception in the Institute’s atrium, complete with actors and food that would have been served on the boat.  We mingled for a bit and talked to the actors and then it was our time to enter the exhibit.

I stay in the library on Friday night, with my computer. Silence is everywhere, and there is no one else in my eyes. Friday night, the wonderful night, because others take part in parties or play in their room, the library seems so spacious for me. I sip some hot milk and stare at my screen, there are massive codes here. Where is the position of the black ball? How can I move it? Can I try another structure to draw my picture? Why the light cannot turn on for some seconds? Which color is suitable? Is it beautiful my fish? At this moment, I know my spirit is concentrated in those codes. The spirit is so warm and strong to support me to continue my assignment alone in such a night. I do not care how much time I will spend in this work, and how difficult the work is. Time is passing, the milk is cooler. I just sit here silently, tapping on the keyboard. Sometimes people around me whisper to each other, chuckle to their computers or stand up to buy some coffee. The environment is not absolutely silent. But I do not care. I cannot hear anything when I am writing my codes and cannot move my eyesight away from the screen.