theatre – Constance Kuntz

My ASMR Journey — Yes, I know it’s a corny title.

Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t know about you?

Most people don’t know I like ASMR. I should probably keep it that way…

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (ASMR) started popping up on my radar during the pandemic. I was curious so I did a YouTube search and landed on a video of a woman eating a pickle directly into a microphone. The slobbery audio instantly repulsed me. I was so utterly grossed out that I slammed my laptop shut. In that moment, I assumed all ASMR was nasty and probably pornographic.

A couple years later, I entered my perimenopause era. Sleepless nights, hot flashes and frequent headaches became my new normal. Sorry for bragging!

Nowadays (Nowanights?), when I can’t sleep (and my husband needs to rest), I pop my earbuds in and scroll Instagram reels until I can no longer keep my eyes open.

Most of the reels entertain me just enough to take my mind off my symptoms. Though not an ideal way to fall asleep, I consider the distraction a perimenopausal win. But a couple months ago, something better than a distraction happened. I experienced a brand new sensation: cooling peace.

An ASMR reel by Erica Tokach, also known as @reiki.fairy, played on my phone. Tokach casts from a reiki studio, speaks in a very soft voice and incorporates reiki into her work. Her reel instantly relaxed me. I felt something I rarely feel: pleasantly surprised. I had no idea that the internet could be healing! I would later learn the aforementioned “cooling peace” I felt has a name: “tingle.”

“Tingle,” I’d like you to know, is a word that embarrasses me. At least it used to. Now I associate the word with healing and have spent the past month researching various triggers and learning about their purposes.

I also later learned that the sounds that cause the “tingles” are called “triggers.” I had always thought of that word in a negative context; e.g. “a gun trigger” or a “trigger warning” or “getting triggered.” Now I associate it with peace.

***

After I landed on that initial reel, I started to sift through Instagram in search of more ASMR videos. Many are downright repulsive — the sleazy, pickle-eaters are still out there! But some of the ASMR artists are legitimately calming and I’d like to share three safe, vetted options with you:

@reiki.fairy invites her followers to heal, feel calm and be proud of themselves. She brings a touch of wisdom and unprecedented kindness to her reels.

@safespaceasmr whispers in a calmly lit room and incorporates a touch of humor into her reels. Her, “I heard you have a headache” reel has helped alleviate my headaches.

@mattgangi films his reels outdoors but speaks in an inviting “indoor” voice. He incorporates a groovy, organic vibe into his reels.

I can safely say that these ASMR artists have improved the quality of my sleeping, which is to say quality of my life. If you’re interested, find them on Instagram.

***

For those of you who don’t me, I am a playwright and theatre artist. I am in a constant state of writing, reading and creating things. For the past several months, I have been writing a new play called The Power Room and one of its characters is a talented, young shaman. My goal is to create a play that has a true healing touch on the audience. I want the audience to feel physically and mentally better through this character and this play.

Part of my research involves reading about the craft (mysticism), visiting witch-owned shops and events, spending a lot of time in nature, and testing my craft (theatre) in a variety of different spaces. One such space is Tuesdays@9 Chicago, which is where I work.

Last Tuesday, I performed as A Host of Golden Daffodils. When I perform as “The Daffodils,” I lead with comedy and segue into poetry and spoken word. This time I ditched the comedy and performed an experimental poetic ASMR set. I wanted to see if the combination of light poetry, witchcraft and organic triggers would have a healing effect on a live audience.

Would the audience feel peace? Or would they be repulsed? Would they see value in it? Or would they think it’s stupid? Would they feel healed? Or would they be uncomfortable?

Based on the feedback I received, my piece of experimental theatre worked. I made new discoveries about ASMR’s “place” in theatre and have new ideas about how to focus the intentions and poetry. I’m so grateful!

Now I’d like to test the ASMR a little bit more. If you have seven minutes, could you put your headphones on and watch this video from my ASMR event? To give feedback, simply leave a comment in the feedback form below or email me at connievkuntz@gmail.com.

Intended to be watched in a quiet space with earbuds. It’s experimental and weird.

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Thanks for reading and, if you had the time, watching! -Constance

Riled up

I once saw a solo show written and performed by man who spent more than 20 years of his life in prison.

I marveled at how confident he was in front of the audience. Most of us in “the theatuh”* go through years of education, formal training, and trust-building exercises to achieve such ease. With zero formal education, he carefully guided us into his carceral experience. It was impactful!

Excellent storytelling aside, the fact remains that this man, like millions of Americans, was overcharged and lost several years of freedom and safety in a thoroughly unjust justice system.

When I got home, I was fired up. I told my husband I was never going to vote again because Democrats and Republicans are responsible for our horrendous prison system.

“How the hell can I vote in a system that’s so broken?” I asked. “And why the hell isn’t prison reform our number one political issue!?”

I threatened to “go Libertarian” and proclaimed it was “high time we live off the grid!”

Spoiler: I still vote, I’m still a registered Democrat, and I still prefer cities and convenience to rural settings.

Storytelling…it riles me up.

Some more personal theatrical, cinematic, and literary history

In 2002, I saw a play about convicted serial killer Aileen Wuornos. She was a prostitute who shot seven of her johns to death in 1989 and 1990. At the time of the play, Wuornos was on death row for the murders. After learning about the rape, abuse, and humiliation she endured in her young life, I left the theater angry that she was the one in jail awaiting execution.

Theatre…it riles me up.

A few months later, Wuornos was executed by lethal injection. About a year after that, a film about her (starring Charlize Theron) was playing in most cinemas across the United States. The movie wasn’t as good as the play (they never are) but millions of people like me were outraged at the unfairness of it all. However, it wasn’t until I started writing this blog post that I realized that Theron and other folks in the movie-making industry made millions from Wuornos’s tragic life.

Exploitation…it riles me up.

***

Approximately 14 years ago, before it was a Netflix series, I read Piper Kerman’s book Orange is the New Black. It was upsetting, yes, but also insightful and even inspirational because there was a long list of resources for women prisoners at the end of the book. I was so moved that I dressed up as Kerman at a local “Come Dressed as a Literary Character or Author” event.

Me as author Piper Kerman. Look at that snatched waist!

A few years after I read the book, I watched the series. I was once again outraged and disturbed by the injustices each “inmate” endured. And today, as I write this, I am just now realizing how Netflix and the television industry has profited from the stories of the overcharged, wrongly charged, and wrongfully executed. The overcharged, wrongly charged, and wrongfully executed have not profited one cent and the prisons have not been reformed! Am I riled up? Yes. But…

A little personal history and personal hypocrisy

A few years ago, three completely separate then-friends of mine — people I had invited into my home — went to prison for crimes involving children. Though my family and I were unharmed by them, it was a very disturbing and shocking slew of events.

Betrayal…it riles me up!

And betrayal scares me. What else were they capable of? I suddenly stopped caring about prison reform. I wanted them to go away forever and never again come near my family.

Am I a hypocrite for cutting them out of my life? Or was I forced to make clear boundaries in order to protect my family? Or a little of both? Or a little of both and something else? Jesus hung with prisoners. Hell, he was a prisoner. He was crucified as a prisoner alongside prisoners.

Should I have supported my “friends?”

WWJD?

I did WAMWD. What any mother would do. Cut them off.

A little political history and political hypocrisy

Republican nominee and twice-impeached former president Donald Trump, the biggest hypocrite this country has ever seen, was recently convicted of 34 felonies. It’s unlikely he’ll serve even one minute for his crimes. If anything, the conviction has only endeared him to his base. They’ll vote for him on November 5 and Trump will vote for himself.

If he wins, we’ll have four years of mind-numbing rhetoric.

If he loses, will he incite another riot? Will another police officer die? Will more Americans die while the “normal grandpa” kicks back at home?

To think I once said I’d never vote again is beyond pathetic and ironic, but I felt that way. I did. Hypocrisy, change, and the human condition will always blur the lines of my personal politics. But I will not let that stop me from voting blue, and only blue.

Where we are now

I audibly gasped when Biden announced he would not be seeking re-election. I was on my laptop and immediately slapped it shut.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

“I don’t even want to talk about it,” I said. “I’m too pissed.”

“Just tell me.”

“Guess.”

“Biden dropped out.”

I nodded my head and sobbed.

Politics…they rile me up.

Fandom or Fan Dumb?

It took me a couple days to deal with my Biden grief. I knew I would support Kamala but at first I wanted to hear who her running mate would be and I wanted to wait for the official nomination at the Democratic National Convention. For a hot minute, I half-wondered if Illinois Governor JB Pritzker was going to run. But once President Biden addressed the nation, I felt better. He has that affect on many people, not just me. His resounding praise and endorsement of Kamala Harris made sense and I decided I was all in, even before the DNC.

It may be a dumb way to put it, but I’ve been a Biden “fan” for a long time. Among many things, I love the president’s compassion and that he created a cabinet that actually looks like America. I love that he brought Amanda Gorman to his inauguration. I instantly became a fan of the national youth poet laureate before she uttered one word of her poem. When she clearly enunciated, “Mr. President, Dr. Biden, Madame Vice President, Mr. Emhoff, Americans, and the world” in her greeting, I knew I had to pull my car over and just listen. And when she recited her poem, “The Hill We Climb” I sat there in my car speechless, dumb with hope. Only Biden could give us that moment.

***

I’ve been a Kamala fan ever since she showed up on my political radar in 2019. She’s sharp, tough, and experienced.

Before becoming the vice president, Harris has served as senator, prosecutor, and attorney general. I don’t agree with every move she makes; her record as a prosecutor and attorney general conflicts with what I say I want for prison reform, but she said she has a unique plan to end the war in Gaza.

“The war in Gaza is not a binary issue,” she said.

Neither is prison reform. Neither is immigration. Neither is education. Neither is my political journey. Neither is life! But when it comes to voting, let us vote in a very binary way: ALL BLUE.

Harris is racking up all kinds of support. She’s raised millions on top of the millions she’s inheriting from Biden’s campaign funds. The Obamas endorsed her and over the past few days, my social media filled with renewed democratic hope. I felt hope with Obama, I felt hope when Gorman read her poem, and I feel hope for Kamala.

My family supports Kamala, too. We have a goldfish named after her, for crying out loud. Actually, the fish’s name is Vice President-elect because when we got the goldfish, Harris was still the vice president-elect.

Stretching the binary

A couple days ago, I heard Kamala say her platform will be about the middle class and abortion rights. Fine, but I want to point out that she used the word “binary” when she talked about war. If she sees that war is not a binary issue, she probably sees that nothing is! I believe her nuanced and intentional use of the word is a signal to how she’ll inform and include everyone in our country. I am so sick of the Republican “there are only two genders” hate speech and insipid DEI comments.

Oh please let Kamala win.

What I want for prison reform

Nobody asked, but I’d like carceral life to include weekly nature hikes, pet ownership, access to good libraries and music instruments, performance opportunities, and daily trust-building exercises. It’s what I want, not what I expect.

I’m not riled up. I just thought I’d put it out there.

In conclusion

Most of the time, I’m riled up. I’ve spoken with many a friend and family member about this. Alas, I remain…riled up.

Thank you for reading. Vote Blue! -Connie

*None of us in theatre pronounce it “theatuh” but blogging…it riles me up.

Photo Credit: Vice President-elect is the goldfish closest to the surface of the water.

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Election 2024 – Vote Blue!

The Gong Show

Daily writing prompt

What was the best compliment you’ve received?

View all responses

When I was 24, I stage managed the musical The King and I at Paul Bunyan Playhouse in Bemidji, Minnesota. Part of our set included an enormous gong that was struck with a felt mallet at key at dramatic and comedic moments. You really can’t have The King and I without a gong.

And you really can’t have a gong without a mallet.

In the 90s, I bunched up tube socks around my ankles.

One tech rehearsal I was made aware that the mallet was missing so I quickly fashioned one out of a tree branch, my tube socks and some gaffer’s tape.

I brought it to the director for approval. I remember watching the muscles in his forearm twitch as he tested the weight and movement of the mallet.

“It’s the right size and it’s a good weight,” he said.

When he finally struck the gong, he was pleased. He said, “You’re an artist.” He handed it back to me and walked away.

Did I immediately fall in love with the director? Naturally! Did I instantly commit my entire being — even more than I already had — to theatre for the rest of my life? Absolutely! And did the director’s compliment render me so unfocused and flustered that I proceeded to screw up the rest of my tech cues at that rehearsal? Of course!

There are two morals to this story:

(1) Don’t compliment nerds. We cannot handle it.

(2) Every home should have a gong.

We have one and it regularly gets “gonged” for dramatic and comedic effect. We’ve had it for years and I think of my “sock mallet” every time it gets gonged.

Thanks for reading! -Connie

My bio inside the program for *The King & I*. I never noticed the ad for the “certified sex therapist” until today!

Spoiler alert: Hamlet dies and so does Ophelia

Today’s prompt: Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

I’d rather share about someone else’s moment of love.

It was the winter of 1997 and I was stage managing Hamlet at Park Square Theatre in St. Paul, Minnesota. It was a huge cast and the actors portraying Ophelia and Horatio were dating.

In case you are unfamiliar with the play, Ophelia (spoiler alert) goes nuts and dies. Horatio, on the other hand, is generally stable and a survivor. He’s Hamlet’s best bud. Super loyal. When (spoiler alert) Hamlet dies, Horatio says the famous line, “Good night, sweet prince.”

Back to Ophelia. At her funeral, Hamlet’s mom Gertrude famously says, “Sweets to the sweets” as she sprinkles flowers on Ophelia’s corpse. This signals the other mourners (and there are dozens) to pass by the dead girl and pay their respects in all the typical ways.

Older characters like Polonius move slowly as they shake their heads with old timey grief.

Young maidens scuttle by, carefully avert their eyes, lightly sniffle and generally keep their shit together.

Ophelia’s brother Laertes, on the other hand, weeps dramatically and threatens to throw himself into the grave cuz he’s a dork.

King Claudius (Hamlet’s step-dad) acts corporate and solemn cuz he’s a prick.

Funeral scenes can be a lot of fun. If you’ve ever seen or done Oklahoma! then you surely agree that “Pore Jud Is Daid” is delightful, haunting, hilarious and sad all at once. But in Hamlet, Ophelia’s funeral…meh…it was pretty much what you’d expect.

Except for the following aforementioned “positive example”:

The actor portraying Horatio gave the dead Ophelia’s foot a little squeeze as he passed by her during the funeral procession. It wasn’t blocked — it was never discussed, rehearsed or directed. It was just something the actor started doing once the show opened. He’d pass by the deceased, squeeze her little foot, and move on. It was so sweet and tender. I’m telling you I could feel the love! Not just the respectful love Horatio had for Ophelia, but the love the actor portraying Horatio had for his girlfriend the actor portraying Ophelia.

I always felt that one little squeeze encapsulated Horatio’s character. Horatio saw it all, felt deeply about it all and he lived to tell about it. That little squeeze summed that up for me.

It was a good show — I love Hamlet — but the foot squeeze was the moment I found most impactful. It made Ophelia’s death that much sadder, and somehow heightened the sensitivity of the play for me. Good stuff. And I know that moment only existed between those two actors. I’ve seen may stagings and film versions of Hamlet but only one production had the foot squeeze.

***

A year or so later, the couple married. Not long after that, they had a baby then moved to the north woods of Wisconsin to live off the grid and I haven’t seen them since.

I just googled their names and they’re still living their dream. I love that for them and I love that I got to see the foot squeeze.

A good-hearted woman

Today’s prompt is What are the pros and cons of procrastination?

I’ve mentioned in previous blogs I’m pretty lazy. I can sleep anywhere, anytime. It takes a no less than a gallon of coffee to get me going every morning. But I’m not a procrastinator. I don’t think there is anything “pro” about it. Whether it’s writing, chores or paying bills, I’m a “do a little bit every day” kind of person.

I wasn’t always this way.

When I was in my early twenties, I procrastinated. Though I was driven to do theatre, the pay was lousy and my bills piled up.

I applied for a loan from a place called “The Associated.” It was located in one of the suburbs. I had a beater car and drove there on fumes convinced I was wasting my time.

I knew they wouldn’t give me a loan because I had seen movies where a good-hearted woman goes into a building of architectural renown. She enters the stately building with her head held high. She is wearing a tasteful dress, hosiery and pumps. Lipstick.

A secretary escorts her into a private office that has a shade on the window. The good-hearted woman sits down and explains her financial situation to a pragmatic meanie who is sitting behind his desk.

“My hands are tied,” he says. “There’s nothing I can do.”

He aggressively stamps DENIED onto the paperwork. She says she understands, thanks him for his time and walks out with her head held high and her heart filled with goodness.

It wasn’t quite like that for me.

When I drove to Eagan, Minnesota, I chain-smoked half a pack of Virginia Slims all the way up to the door of the sleazy strip mall storefront. I flicked the butt of my ciggy into the parking lot (yes, I littered) and walked through the door. I smelled of cigarettes and flop sweat. Some kind of beep was triggered upon opening the door. A modern “doorbell” had replaced any need for a secretary. I quickly scanned the room. There were a few cubicles and desks. A man stood up and said, “You must be Constance.”

He walked over to me and passively shook my hand.

“Constance, I’m Aaron.”

He escorted me to his cubicle with the paperwork already prepared. He congratulated me and said I was approved. He explained to me I’d have a couple months of a “grace period” before I had to start paying the loan back. He showed me where to sign.

It had a ridiculously high interest rate — I think it was more than 20% — but I signed it with a sense of relief.

Of course I quickly fell behind. When I couldn’t pay my monthly installments on time he started calling me every day. If I saw “Associated” on the caller ID I didn’t answer. Too chicken.

“Call me back, Constance,” Aaron would say. “Today.”

It was the most off-putting male attention I have ever received but one day I finally answered.

“Hello?” I answered the phone with the grand innocence of a good-hearted woman.

“I see you’re having trouble, Constance,” he said. “Would you like another loan?”

I was stunned by his generosity!

An idiot, I let the feeling of relief wash over me and I took out another loan.

Within a month, my bills started piling up again. This was procrastination at its finest. It took me several years to climb out of that debt and here’s the beauty of it: I had nothing to show for it! I was doing mediocre theatre, wasn’t taking care of myself and didn’t have a clue about how to plan for “the future.”

Eventually, my beater car died. I couldn’t afford another car so I started riding my bike everywhere and the quality of my life started to improve. I stopped smoking, became super fit and found my focus. It took a few more years, but I pedaled my way out of debt, started doing better theatre and by the time I was 29 realized I wanted to write plays. Lots of good changes.

I’ll tell you something: I didn’t particularly enjoy my twenties and am not sure how anyone actually does. But I loved my thirties. I grew up, I guess you could say. I found love and health and adopted a “do a little bit every day” approach to life.

A lot of people think they “can’t write.” Some will only write when they are inspired. It’s a free country and people can do what they want, but there is one thing I believe about writing: anyone can be a decent writer if they simply write a little bit every day. And you can keep a clean house and pay down debt with the same mentality.

It’s 8:30 and I have to go to work. Ironically, this blog took longer than usual to write. And it needs an edit but I don’t have time. I didn’t procrastinate. I just didn’t like going back to this awful time in my life and it took me a long time to write about it. But it’s over now.

Thanks for reading.

Running late but not procrastinating,

Connie

Begin the Blogine?

The historic Route 66 “begin sign” on in Chicago. A fitting image to begin this year’s Bloganuary challenge?

Today’s Bloganuary prompt is, “What do you want to achieve in 2023?” My answer: a better vocabulary.

In 1991, I stage-managed a holiday musical revue called I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas for Carolyn Vincent Productions at the Plymouth Congregational Church in Minneapolis. Like many churches (I would come to learn), it had a small stage that lent itself to Christianity and shitty theatre.

During a rehearsal, the cast, producer and director were talking about including the Cole Porter song, “Begin the Beguine.” I had never heard of the song.

“Begin the what?” I asked.

“The beguine.”

“How do you spell it?” I asked, for I was taking rehearsal notes.

“B-E-G-U-I-N-E.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You know. A beguine!” said Jennifer, an impatient actor.

Nobody provided a satisfactory definition; there just wasn’t time for that sort of thing at the Plymouth Congregational Church or apparently in the past 32 years because it dawned on me this morning that in all that time I have never looked it up.

Until this morning. It’s a rumba-like dance.

That’s beguine pronounced “buh-GEEN” with a hard g. I also learned there’s a separate definition with two different pronunciations!

"Beguine -- pronounced BAY-geen or BAY-jeen: a member of one of various ascetic and philanthropic communities of women not under vows founded chiefly in the Netherlands in the 13th century." -Merriam-Webster

Now doesn’t that sound like a rip-roaring good time?

Maybe not, but I’ll tell you what is. Listening to a recording of Sammy Davis, Jr. sing “Begin the Beguine” is pure perfection. I’m listening right now and I highly recommend adding it to your playlist. Here’s a video of the legendary crooner.

With that, I’ll sign off for the day. Happy New Year and thank you for reading my blog.

Under vows as I endeavor to achieve a better vocabulary,

Connie

P.S. Blogine is pronounced Blog-EEN, not “bluh-jeye-nuh.”

P.P.S. “Begin the Beguine” never made it into the show.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the…

Artists! Yes! Happy Mother’s Day to all the artists who are interested in performing at the Rockford Fringe Festival! I freaking love you creative mothers! Keep those submissions coming!

Look: I know it’s Mother’s Day, but I simply don’t care. I can’t think of anything else except the Rockford Fringe Festival. Once I *know* I have a lineup and have the festival organized and safe, I will resume being normal. Until then, I am strictly fringe. I have fringe on the brain. Fringe fever. Frinnnnnnge.

Reminder: It’s easy to submit your script or pitch. Just fill out this jotform. And hurry because there are a limited amount of spots available. The artist lineup will be announced on or before June 15.

Thanks for reading. Happy Mother’s Day! -Connie

P.S. Please like / follow the Rockford Fringe Festival on Facebook.

Good old Marshalls

Fern needed some black clothes for her orchestra concert so we stopped at Marshalls today. I only shop there once or twice a year. Whenever I walk in, I usually think the same thing.

Good old Marshalls.

But today I had a new thought.

Has that sign always said ‘Rockford’ on it?

Many years ago (1996-2001), I worked for Marshalls; the one in the City Center in downtown Minneapolis. I do not recall our sign having “Minneapolis” on it but maybe I just missed it because many things happen at once when you work at Marshalls.

Working retail has a bad reputation but it’s a decent place to earn some money and benefits if you’re a writer or really any artist. You see, feel and experience so much. But it could get rough at ‘my’ Marshalls. I got spit on, hit on, shoved and yelled at.

Good old Marshalls.

I witnessed two horrific immigration raids in 2001. And one Sunday, a couple guys held up the closing staff. They tied up the women, pointed guns at them and stole several thousands of dollars in cash.

Good old Marshalls.

I saw an employee (a woman) get arrested for stealing panties and a manager (also a woman) get fired for misappropriation of funds. I can’t remember any men ever getting in trouble there but I remember many men who were nothing but trouble.

Good old Marshalls.

But there was so much fun to be had. Marshalls was staffed with awesome people (mostly women) from Minneapolis, of course, but also Mexico, Sudan, Japan, Russia, Tibet and other countries I’m forgetting right now. We laughed a lot. I worked side-by-side with all ages, starting with 16-year-olds all the way up to Barbara, a septuagenarian who drank shots of Listerine throughout her shift. In many ways, I grew up there. I learned so much about what my dad referred to as “the human condition.”

I certainly don’t regret working there but I will never go back to retail. I paid my dues, thanks. But I don’t mind shopping there once or twice a year because it’s a good place to find a bargain. Fern bought the pants and sweater you see in the photograph plus a pair of strappy, high heels for $50 and some change. And she’s going to look great at her concert.

Good old Marshalls!

Thanks for reading my late night blog. -Connie

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