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.

"This is much worse than what I thought it would be!" "Why is nobody else on the road?" "But it's actually better if no one is here. A stranger walking behind me would creep me out even more..." "No, this is too scary! I don't want to do this any more..." "Come on, you can do it!" My mind was playing wildly as I was walking alone down the downhill street, beside the stone wall, and below the Benjamin Franklin Bridge on my way to the "17 Border Crossings" performance. Since my printed Google map walking route included walking across the highway, which didn't seem accessible, a nice lady showed me the "real" way to Race Street Pier. Excited for the unknown and playful journey ahead of me and nervous for being alone, I set off my own little adventure, assuming the show was at the Pier and might be outdoor.

Following the lady's instructions, I found walking on a path with nobody around at night was terribly terrifying, especially because the other side of this down-sloping road was a high stone wall separating the highway. A voice was screaming "No" inside of me. But nothing kept me from walking ahead. Finally seeing the big "Race Street Pier" sign, I cheered for the almost end of my "misery". I didn't realize how courageous I was until on my way back to the train station with Tessa and Taylor, when they said "I would definitely go back if I were walking on this street by myself. How did you even do it? "

Pulling at my hair. Peeling the unruly dead skin on my hands. Biting my lips until they are perfectly soaked, perfectly smooth, perfectly bleeding.

A ray of pale white light exposes me. Am I on stage or in a laboratory room being observed and monitored and waiting for an anatomy? Not much of a difference here. I’ll do it myself.

I examine my body.

Female, 18, 5’’3, yellow skin, black hair, black eye. Oh, Asian. What does it mean to be Asian or Chinese? Traditional? Taciturn? Fortune cookies?

Two moles on my shoulder. One on the left, and one on the right. Ah, perfect symmetry! Is symmetry always perfect and harmonious and tranquilizing? I experiment with my brain. Two systematic and logical left brains, or two artistic and creative right brains? Not functioning very well.

My hand passes through my skin, my muscle tissues, my veins, and reaches my heart. Sadly, it’s not perfect. Some spots are darkened and hardened. Cut them out and start fresh.

According to Diane Ackerman, play requires “daring, risk, concentration, the ability to live with uncertainty, a willingness to follow the rules of the game, and a desire for transcendence”, and deep play “starts focusing one’s life and offering ecstatic moments”, is not always pleasant and positive, needs hard work and may not look like play.