Gregarious Expressions

Ponte dei Sospiri

I wrote this poem in May 2016 in exchange for a print of Bruce Bicknell’s painting of the “Bridge of Sighs” in downtown Scranton that connects the Fire Department headquarters with the Municipal Building. Bruce and I often talked about the classic movies we were watching on TCM including the 1979 film A Little Romance (1979) — I found the legend about kissing under the Venetian Bridge of Sighs at sunset wildly romantic. At that time, I was still very much in love with J after despite numerous heartaches and the cyclical disappointment of complicated circumstances. My rational mind encouraged me to move on but my heart held fast. Ten years ago, this piece read a little desperate — a stubborn refusal to accept the apparent reality. Today, less than 24 hours before J and I are to be married, the poem takes a different tone. They say you can’t change another person and I haven’t tried, but that doesn’t mean a person will not find the courage to change themselves. Our story is not over; we continue to grow, but for now, it appears the wait was worth it. —ag

Bridge of Sighs*

The inhale came before I knew to pay
attention while my thoughts hypnotically
traced the curve of his muscle
— this is my rhythm now.
Whirling in the early-morning fog,
his skin swelling against my gratitude
until bliss dissipates in pragmatic glare.

Now aware,
I am here under the bridge,
still waiting.
I have been waiting there this whole time,
patiently or not,
watching shadows slip from West to East,
gradually into withdrawal.

I cannot leave,
but they taught me to let go.
The release of my longing rattles windows.
I heave desire into concrete cracks where
weeds strain to find nourishment in the
alkaline fertilization sprayed by city dogs,
the drunk and the destitute.

The body sighs 15 times an hour
— every five minutes or so
but it’s easy to lose track on dreary days when the urge to move
from the place we have been
to any place else
is so strong
I’d rather walk in the rain,
letting drops smear mascara
in a camouflage collage of tears I can’t erase —
a contaminating glitter stuck to everything.

The pedometer says we’ve traveled miles,
yet here we are,
returned to where it began.
I only walked around the block in fear I might
miss something.

But he did not come while I was gone
in that lull when my faith had faltered,
embarrassed by the so Godot of this routine.
No notifications.
No missed calls.
No oaths or promises to justify my conviction.

Yet, I still trust that if it is meant to be
nothing will stand in the way,
not even my inability to stand still.
Given enough time they will all line up
— the kiss, sunset and tolling church bells
(if not a gondola)
or we will make our own mythology.

And it doesn’t matter
how long the wait has been,
when the destination is eternal love and bliss,
no endurance is too much.
Why would God have guided me
to this Electric City,
its glow dim after decades of struggle,
If I was not meant to wait for him;
to wait for love?

—”Bridge of Sighs” by Alicia Lynn Grega starts on page 71 of her book Dystalgia.

*Humorously, the “sigh” of Bridge of Sighs refers to the moment prisoners crossing the river to their windowless? (underground?) cells on the other side paused to take what might be their last year view of the outside world and the beauty of Venice.

March 26, 2026 0

no war poem

Abstract painting echoing grave-shaped sunspots.

No one wants to admit to bombing the girls’ school in Iran
but we’ve seen their graves gaping at us
on the doomscrolls
orderly rectangles dug in rows
waiting to swallow the bodies of
165 school girls and staff
most between ages 7 and 12.

Ohh uoh,
Schoolgirls of Minab,
you shouldn’t have to pay for this

There are no words.
No protest poem can avenge you;
your souls are not replaceable.
Weren’t you meant to do great things?

O uo uuh anh …

Words don’t work anymore.
They’ve been twisted and hollowed-out
captured and released from meaning.
It’s all just sounds now.

uuh ohh uuuu …

What am I supposed to do?
I can’t write a war poem.
It’s hard to do anything I’m supposed to.

When I close my eyes I still see the graves
hovering like sunspots through the blue light.

-ag, 3/6/26

abstract digital painting created by alicia grega to illustrate the poem — “Tears for Minab.” Digital painting by Alicia Grega.

March 6, 2026 0

Western People

Three men and two women posing at a reception event

I’m still a little stunned in the wake of our trip with Scranton Fringe to Ballina, Ireland. Although I’m not blessed with Irish ancestors myself, most of the Irish-American in Scranton can trace their roots back to County Mayo in the country’s rural Northwest. In many of these traditional villages, they are bring back use of the traditional Irish Gaelic. We were fortunate to have sightseeing time built into the trip and spent several photogenic hours in Westport and at Downhead Patrick in Ballycastle, the Ballinglen Museum of Art, Ceide Fields neolithic archeological site, and on along the coast to Belmullet. My first time leaving the U.S. after so many years of hardwork, struggle and sacrifice as a single mother, it was personally a soul expanding experience. We saw six rainbows! I always thought the rainbow was a mythological character in old folk tales but in October, the weather changes back and forth from sun to showers so quickly, real rainbow sightings are almost a daily occurrence! Who knew? There are quite a few images and videos from our trip on my social media accounts.

Working at the Ballina Arts Centre and meeting the lovely audiences who came to support our shows was the professional highlight. It’s going to take some time to process the last 10 days. In the meantime, I had to share this lovely bonus prize that came to our attention as our plane landed at JFK yesterday and we turned off Airplane Mode.

They got Maureen and I reversed in the cutline here. I am on the left between the Ballina Mayor and Ireland’s Minister of Culture and Maureen is on the right-hand side, but neither of us could care less about that. The people who know us know who we are and those who met us will remember it was Maureen on the stage and me behind the scenes. It was definitely a career highlight that makes me newly grateful that I didn’t give up my passion for the arts while anchored by the practical choices I’ve had to make to survive.

Thank you, Ireland, for your tremendous hospitality! I hope to see you again before too long.

October 29, 2025 0

Paradise Found

It’s not unusual for Norman Fischer to offer a literary aside mid-dharma talk.

There’s nothing strange about him citing Milton’s Paradise Lost to the Mountain Rain Sangha on the May 3, 2025, “Dongshan Stories” (regarding several koans of the venerable Zen teacher) episode of the Everyday Zen podcast to which I subscribe.

What’s weird is that I didn’t hear the words I’m about to quote until three months later, right in the middle of a production inspired by the very same text (see “Dream on the Farm: Paradise Lost”, FarmArtsCollective.org). I know, it’s a popular text. Not such a great coincidence? Shhhh … I’m with the theatre people and we like magic. We make magic out of imagination and practiced skill. That’s art.

After bringing up Milton’s gorgeous language in the middle of the dharma talk, Norman says, “Adam and Eve eating the apple was not a mistake. It had to happen.” In order to mate and reproduce and propagate the human race,” he says. He’s been speaking of shame and sexual lust/desire.

He continues,

“Maybe this is what the Zen Masters are trying to tell us: don’t forget that part of us is always still in the garden of our simply being here. Of our simply, innocently being alive- beyond our shame and our worry about good and evil. We are simply here. Always right here. Maybe our practice is learning the way back to the garden, which is paradise, not utopia. Paradise- not a figment of our imaginations, but the real actual world once we can fully appreciate it as it is.”

It’s an astonishing sidebar to the writing in my journal which I don’t have time to share right now. I’m too busy living because the living is the work. The words are a fragmented documentation that may, in the end, exist more to free my memory than to mean anything to anyone else. -ag

August 1, 2025 0

The Ferment: Creativity and Burnout

Two years after opening a file in FadeIn, I finally finished the first episode of The Ferment. This was a couple of weeks ago and I’ve been letting it sit before making some more edits before sharing the script with my colleagues. I’ve been writing episodes two and three simultaneously, so it won’t take too much longer to finish the next two. I’m giving myself until the end of June.

In the meantime, school has been as much work as I’ve come to expect — teaching seven classes for the fourth semester in a row. I am cutting back in the fall. I’ve made a promise to myself and to my art. Not trying to be a downer, but it was my birthday last week and I’m very aware I might not have as much time left as I’d like … maybe dying early from workaholicism is preventable. Or can at least be slowed down.

Trying to take a little break today (burnout is rumbling on the horizon), I made another image in the poster series for The Ferment that I also started two years ago. I’ve had this idea written on a post-it for close to a year.

So … I’m slow. Why is everybody in such a hurry all the time? It’s not a race.

Here’s what I made today and what I made last week. Images for a bit … and then I’ll get back to the words (as soon as the semester is over, unless I use writing as a procrastination tactic.)

Peace & Blessings – ali

April 17, 2025 0

ICYMI – 2025 Poetry Out Loud

It’s April and that means National Poetry Month! While you wait impatiently for those buds to burst open, refresh your brain with some powerful wordplay recited by some talented high school students!

WVIA’s broadcast of the 2025 Poetry Out Loud regional competition is streaming online. I was happy to volunteer at this event again, this time as the “prompter.” That means my eyes were looking down at the text while the students were reading in case they needed a line. I was happy to be home to catch the event broadcast this year so I could see what I missed!

Congratulations to all the students who participated in their schools and this regional competition. It takes courage to stand up and use your voice with such intention. I’d love to see more NEPA students participate in this program. One of my recent fears with all the federal government cuts is that programs like this will end at the state level. If there are no federal programs, no state champions are traveling to compete at the national level. Not going to go on a political rant here, but we need more investment in programs like this, not less. As a public speaking professor, I assure you more poetry recitation in high school will help students become better communicators.

I’m sharing this screenshot even though I look like an exhausted zombie in my 30 seconds on screen – I’m afraid it’s fairly accurate minus an extra chin (angles are everything!). We recorded this in early December just as the fall semester was coming to a close. I was clearly ready for my long winter’s nap.

-ag

April 7, 2025 0

Recent TnR appearance

This conversation is a couple of weeks old now and will likely sound irrelevant already. Oh well. For the record, there is value in capturing a moment in time as much as there is in the generic symbolism of the timeless. These TnR program segments give me the chance to talk through whatever challenges are gripping us at that moment in time. I’m glad they exist and hope some listener somewhere exists and agrees.

I devour vast amounts of media daily and have to hold my tongue about a lot of it all day long as I interact with students. Contrary to MAGA propaganda, teachers aren’t forcing their personal beliefs on students. All good educators encourage students to find out for themselves – do the research and then think critically about it. They were raised to take tests and to find the right answer. But the real problem is that there isn’t one right answer. Go.

March 1, 2025 0

Never been to Choteau

In a gratitude message posted to Substack newly independent journalist Jim Acosta (later CNN) referenced Dan Rather’s unforgettable interview on David Lettermen after 9/11

I found a clip of Rather remembering that moment that was quite vivid but could not find a clip from the actual interview.

What I did find was a transcript of Letterman’s monologue from that night. Right before the end, Letterman throws in a heartwarming story about a little town in Montana named Choteau. This is what he said:

“I’ll tell you about a thing that happened last night. There’s a town in Montana by the name of Choteau. It’s about a hundred miles south of the Canadian border. And I know a little something about this town. It’s 1,600 people. 1,600 people. And it’s an ag-business community, which means farming and ranching. And Montana’s been in the middle of a drought for… I don’t know… three years? And if you’ve got no rain, you can’t grow anything. And if you can’t grow anything, you can’t farm, and if you can’t grow anything, you can’t ranch, because the cattle don’t have anything to eat, and that’s the way life is in a small town. 1,600 people.

“Last night at the high school auditorium in Choteau, Montana, they had a rally — home of the Bulldogs, by the way — they had a rally for New York City. And not just a rally for New York City, but a rally to raise money… to raise money for New York City. And if that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about the… the spirit of the United States, then I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

Image of snow-frosted mountain in the Rocky range outside of Choteau Montana. The sun is low in the sky, perhaps just rising, and there is high contrast in purples and blues with the white, bright snow

The crowd applauded and I teared up reading it. But the reason for my tears was that I’m not so sure those small-town Montana residents could ever feel the same about New York City in post-Trump America. Has he destroyed our love for each other? Our ability to support the suffering and vulnerable through times of unfathomable crisis?

When the recent wildfires in California burned up so much of Los Angeles County, there were people who applauded to hear the “rich Hollywood liberal elites” had been punished (I’m not going to search X for lingering evidence – we all heard about these posts on social media if we didn’t see them first hand.) Of course, the reality is Altadena was a middle-class neighborhood – small homes in close proximity which helped the fire spread. No one deserves to suffer such a tragedy. How could they be so callous?

I’m not saying we should go back to 9/11 and press the reset button or anything but … we’ve been a kinder, more compassionate people in the past. That means we can get there again. I’m not going to tell other people how to behave but … I don’t think selling our souls to gain favor with the King is going to work out for anyone. -ag

February 2, 2025 0

Accidental promotion

I was trying to figure out if I could get the $25 off an American Express gift card and into one of my accounts for future use.

Am I careless or maybe I’m afraid given the chance … I will lose it? This is a quiet trauma of my life. So many moves. So many hellos and goodbyes to so many different people. I can’t remember it all and I am afraid of forgetting. Someday I will read my seventh-grade journals and I won’t shrink back in horror because I won’t recognize myself. It’s like The Notebook with crates of disturbing purgings, half-finished writings, thank you cards and kind letters from people who love me enough to have bothered, theatre programs, printouts of poetry and recipes, receipts, production histories, travel ephemera …

A puzzle of memories to piece together when it all looks brand-new again. A life’s final project.

That was a tangent I let happen because I was curious to see the words emerge.

The point of this post is to say, I found my PayPal business page and the profile has changed. I uploaded the content requested and now this exists –

https://www.paypal.biz/AliciaGrega

I’m not actively seeking additional work at this time. I’ve still got my hands full teaching seven classes at five schools again this semester and can’t hope to free my schedule before June. So I really have no business putting this out into the world right now. Except that I am a professional who hopes to add more Gregarious work in the future as I turn down my course load and make more time for my creative writing and theatrical goals. Common Play Factory has been a fragment of a dream until now. I can make something real that will help people grow and heal and learn and connect with the arts and storytelling and collective production explorations.

At this time, I am hoping to model professional efforts for my students. Not all of my experiments with digital media will coalesce into content worth storing in those crates for the rest of my life … to the annoyance of those who watch me move my life about in boxes.

But I think I’m finally on to something.

I still believe I can make something that matters. Hopefully several things.

I am creating alongside my students this semester. Writing the same poems. Creating more digital content.

Took me well beyond 10,000 hours to feel this confident and secure in my voice. Now that I’m here, it’s hurting not to write. Words keep forcing themselves out of me when I should be doing other things. Don’t worry, I will grade the assignments. “First things first” as Covey coined. But I’m not going to leave my art out of my life. It would be unhealthy.

It’s never too late. We must make ourselves ready for when the challenge arises. Sun Tzu-style – make ourselves stronger and smarter and more skilled while we, in time, win without fighting.

Maybe I’ll revise my CV creatively to reflect the hours spent absorbing life’s details and stories and music, how energy moves us, the hours spent playing with and building with language, the hours spent writing badly, and designing badly to sharpen skills into a more powerful tool. I’ve been wanting to make an infographic.

-ag

January 26, 2025 0