wu wei

Funny how I blind myself
I never knew if I was sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose,
I'd tell myself what good you do
Convince myself

It's my life
Don't you forget
It's my life
It never ends

- Talk Talk "It's My Life", 1984

Intersections can be fascinating. I have found myself watching the flow of traffic moving in those four distinct directions, everyone intent on leaving this place and moving on to the next, recognizing that the destinations of some are remarkably similar to the recent location of several others, and noting that within all of that shuffle so many are really in the same place. In metaphors by-ways, highways, crossroads, and other means of point A to point B are used to signify one's present position in life. Here is never good enough.

Today I find an intriguing intersection of time. I see these quite often, but usually keep them to myself. I find significance in measuring and taking note of time, as I see it, whether or not there's anything tangible about it. I grew up listening to "Time in a Bottle" and watching Quantum Leap, so my concept of time has a wide birth. Only with our conception of time can we view synchronicity and supposed coincidence. We need such borders to see the overlap.

One month from today my play opens. For me that's crunch time. We are getting down to the wire. I see all of these dots bouncing about throughout my mind, and slowly each becomes connected, and together we are creating more and more viewable images. But there's so much more work to do. Last week the poster was completed. This is the first line of attack in any promotional campaign, and I think of the difficult trek it was to even get there. The original poster designer became revved up by the idea of working on the show, back in early June, but all subsequent communications lacked response. The second choice artist wasn't even known to me until after that struggle of wills and patience, but the end result assures me that she should have been first.

Today also marks ten years since the completion of my first feature length screenplay. I had dabbled in writing scripts for many years prior. I ran out of interest for many of them after about ten or fifteen pages. This was the first one that involved extensive research, revision, and revelation. This was my baby, and the one that got whipped the most by the Hollywood perspective. It was deemed many harsh things, all of which became badges of honor that I would ultimately wear happily. It was accused of being too rough, too raw, too edgy, too left of center, and maybe appropriately too long. I did have some cheerleaders and fans, who wanted to work with this ballsy novice, and a couple interested investors, but I had a really poor business execution given the faith I put in an enthusiastic, charismatic, but ultimately flaky partner who was intending to help me get the film made.

What did I know? I was still grappling to find my voice. Translating it from my mind to the page never quite came across how I wanted. About five years ago, I completely dismantled the material and started to develop the more comfortable novel version. It languishes with many other original bits and bauble, awaiting the intersection of time, interest, and inspiration.

This morning I had a brief Facebook chat with a good friend who I met at the height of the above script's fateful trip to the screen. He sold his first play, a Civil War musical that uses royalty free period music and is geared toward kids - his preferred audience. I updated him on the progress of the current play. I recounted the time when I was anti-theatre and could only see myself working in film. I viewed theatre as musically cheesy and dramatically boring. My theatre experiences were clearly narrow, but I also wonder if I might just be a really bad audience and far better suited for the other side of the stage.

cabin pressure

In times of change, learners inherit the Earth, while the learned find themselves beautifully equipped to deal with a world that no longer exists.
-Eric Hoffer

I overspend on a cellphone whose main usage is sending text messages. I sell cellphones as part of my job, although I care very little about silly technological toys that create distractions that I don't desire. I used to write letters and send cards for birthdays and had an extensive Christmas card list. Since I'm working on a play the extent of e-mails I have been writing has increased exponentially. Certain interactions have been reduced to commenting on Facebook. This must be why seeing someone you know out and sharing a dozen words can feel satisfying.

Modern life has become a peculiarly abbreviated matter.

I got an e-mail from my dad yesterday. I can't recall how much I mentioned in the past, but my family has been fractured for some time now. Last Thanksgiving my sister broke up with my parents after a heated argument, although, from one standpoint it just looks like the silent treatment. They both refuse to speak to the other until x, y, or z happen. It's a Mexican stand-off of stubbornness that might well be indicative of the appropriate direction for these relationships, but I am not certain anyone involved has any resolution on the matter. My brother and his family have kept an arm's length from them since the whole turkey day debacle that I was thankfully a thousand miles away for. So many things are heard through hearsay and suspicion. Backhanded motivations and indirect dealings are but two concepts recessively attached to my family's DNA.

My dad sounds very sad and unsettled. He describes a world that he has little handle on. He made a weird Jell-o analogy, but I get the point. Everything he thought he understood is blatantly askew, especially as it has to do with the family. Despite everything that came before, I haven't pushed my parents out of my world as well. I decided some time ago that sometimes it's more a matter of approach. I see the human frailty in them, and it allows for far more eye to eye.

Overall, I am careful to keep poisonous influences out of my life. Once you realize the power is yours to maintain the quantity of unhealthy relationships in your life, Pandora's cute little box is stretched open wide for good. But you've got to pick your battles.

learning curve.

Nothing assures you how much you've been looking ahead until you're given the chance to look back, and everything feels unfamiliar. Even though I had considered just letting them burn up in the figurative house fire that was once my reality, I recently got a hold of books and books of parsed through old pictures. Most of them were taken during my 35mm period, clinically representing various holidays, events, and plenty of random fill-time - many of them surprisingly date stamped.

I had wanted to be a filmmaker since before my voice cracked, and the still camera became the settled for alternative. As I flipped the filmmaker’s spirit was clear, though often in weak soft focus or inadvertently less candid than intended, with interesting, odd angles, noticeable cross-cutting, and a quiet objective perspective. I showed up periodically with painted on grin, but the main meat of the ones I took show an outsider's point of view. Sappy movies always seem to offer voice-over and sound design for these unnecessary exposition moments where a character is strolling down the cul-de-sac of memory. I didn't have that.

I remember one Christmas in the early 2000s when my brother-in-law had filched an antiquated video camera from his place of employment. I used it to film my niece as she grew. I always loathed the camera person speaking on home movies, because I felt the acoustics were unnatural. Add this standpoint to my general mental and emotional disposition of the time to a Christmas video from that year, and you might garner that I was quickly able to displace myself from the holiday altogether.

I was taken aback by how many pictures of my parents there were and how with all of the rough ground my relationship with them has traveled, how many of them I felt the need to keep. Then there was the whole collection of my nieces and nephews, save one, growing up at distance. I added a bundle of those to the stack that began to seem like something akin to an image flip book. Then there were the reunion pictures of one sort or another - all of them before the advent of Facebook, thus more cherished, at least at the time.

So many pictures passed before my eyes from this period recently. I wished for at least a few loops of archived audio to sneak into my brain, but nothing came. I couldn't for the life of me remember a single conversation had during any of these occasions, nor in many cases any details besides those present in the images.

I chose a stack to keep and parted with the rest.

dining in

Following conflict upon conflicts, out of town trips, recasting, illness, and bombardment and threats to shut the show down, after half a month I had my full cast assembled in one location for the first time Saturday night. Plus for the first time in weeks, we even had full access to the theatre as opposed to random last minute living rooms and far too public venues. Before the first lines of dialogue were delivered, I knew to expect the truth of how bad off the production could be five or six weeks out from show.

I have been working tirelessly to keep the absent actors in the loop, and have given directions they can use in their own at-distance preparation. And I have done what I could to keep cohesion with the show for those who have been most consistently available, so as to seal the gaping hole blowing cold air in toward our show. The instant connection at first meeting of two of my actors, and the positive rhythm of their first official read together, proved to me that much of this effort has seen results.

If the production showed its pulse on Saturday then last night's rehearsal revealed its heart. My girlfriend and I had everyone over to our apartment, for one of three remaining off-site rehearsals, due to the geezer man's show being in Hell Week at the theatre. A comfortable, welcoming home, a little bit of food and alcohol, some apropos music, and a fantastic script were elements of the recipe for two and a half hours of interlaced stories, laughter, and true discovery of character.

going public

The theatre had their second and a half annual new season fancy-casual Gala last night. They have been holding them as long as I have been directing shows there. It's a time to remind the community of our existence, give 'em free food and drink, ask them for donations and to buy season tickets, and introduce them to the upcoming season of (now) nine shows.

Each director is assigned a table to present and promote their show. Though at times nerve-wracking, this is a favorite aspect of mine. Something about it reminds me of grade school alternative options to doing the written report. If that's the case, then half of the kids should get failing grades. Or maybe I'm just an over-achiever. I just find it insulting when those who represent not only shows being put on by the theatre, but the theatre itself don't seem to put in a lick of effort.

The mingling masses shuffled on by, getting the chance to give the first whiff of public air to the show's poster art, which turned out beyond my wildest expectations. Since the show's focal plot point is a dinner party shared with friends, invitations to the show were available for everyone. And if they listened closely they could get a listen to my specifically chosen blend of tunes revolving around themes and moods of the primal existence, whether it be traditional African or Native American music, Shriekback's animalistic Nemesis, or Oingo Boingo's Island of Lost Souls-inspired No Spill Blood.

My other contribution as a director for the season is to submit a short scene from the show to be performed. My poor show is still healing from all of the wounds it has sustained so far. This is not the time to put my actors up to the scrutiny of the local public, so I made the decision to completely recast the show for the scene on the spot. The casting was an uphill battle, as has been my ability to get my complete cast in the same room together, so what better tongue-in-cheek means of poking fun at this scenario then to have some new blood join in. It's like a cover band. Although in this case, my lead actress - finally back from her trip - read for her in-show husband. My girlfriend, who'd been reading that actress' part in her absence, switched off and read for her close friend. A random much-too-old woman who was curious about the show read for the lead and I had a well-humored friend of mine read not for the fourth character, but as the enigmatic narrator (i.e. he delivered the italicized portions and directions in his best audio book voice).

What a fun evening!

never surrender

An ill-wind comes arising
Across the cities of the plain
There's no swimming in the heavy water
No singing in the acid rain
-"Distant Early Warning", Rush

After Tuesday's mess of a rehearsal, we came home to a neighborhood-wide power outage. Sitting in the glow of candlelight with my sweetie offered the chance to find a lot of clarity. Though the storms continued throughout the night, by morning skies literal and metaphoric were far clearer. I woke up ready to tackle the hell out of this bruised and battered masterpiece.

It's said that every production has one under par performance, wherein the rote and familiar passages practiced and practiced just don't deliver the same punch. The collective heart tends to be elsewhere. On the first show it was the evening our review was published. The words were glowing, but one of my actors couldn't wrap their head around what could likely be construed as a backhanded compliment. That drop in energy affected everyone. The second show didn't have a night like this. Each successive show was more intense, more well-attended, and more well-received than the last.

I contend every show, instead, has one rehearsal fitting of this description - its point of no return. On the first show, our stage manager was sick, leaving me with double duty, our unpredictable actress was late, and my male leads were running lines from an entirely different show, and my fourth actor was busy texting in relation to some drama or another. I could not get the focus together. So I cancelled the rehearsal on the spot, to the utter surprise and chagrin of the actors, who quickly did the bad child turn-around. This was the turning point that headed the show in a more positive direction. Every one of us put in much more effort after that night, to the overall success of the show.

On the next one, I was going through the end of my marriage, which I feel added just one more level of crazy to the proceedings already rife with mental instability. Abandoning town and the then current orbit for some much needed sanity, I left the show in the hands of my quickly promoted already overly vocal and opinionated stage manager cum assistant director. This irresponsibility toward my show, though entirely necessary, filled me with embarrassment. My first night back after my brief sabbatical was the key turning point for the show.

When your sails are losing wind, it's time to turn the boat. Since productions are in ways living, breathing entities, far bigger than any one person, taking the power back over the beast is not only a necessity but an invigorating reminder of one's own spirit. The faith hiccup lasted all but a breath, but long enough to cause some worry. Everything has since been moving in a very positive, productive, forward direction. Yesterday was the best day of the week, full of accomplishment, connection, good food, and a joyous love of life!

Salud!

thunder road

The shadow of the lone detractor to my show lays heavily on the production. This prudish little man's pungent, outspoken rejection of our show, and claims that it is obscene and not fit for the standards of our town or our theater has left a poisonous aftertaste throughout the whole situation. The production has been having its difficulties without his raising his pussy flag in protest.

Last night's rehearsal was the first we got to actually share in the theater, given the above director's current show that has taken precedence. The whole place is under construction and transition, from the leadership on down to the internal structure of the theater. Walls are temporarily absent, sawdust lingers on the floor like entrails of termites on parade, nails, screws, cords, and power tools lay about as if Home Depot had a twister.

The day had progressed so well beforehand. I had a surprisingly satisfying conversation with my mother, I accomplished a fair amount about the show and around the house, and my girlfriend and I had a delicious meal at one of our favorite joints. The fact that the above director's assistant was still warming up the theater with his presence when we arrived offered a bit of sandpaper rub to the wound. He almost seemed surprised that we were gathering for our rehearsal. It would be nice if our time there could be respected.

But that wasn't the end of it. It's already known that our lead actress is out of town. There's nothing I could do to prevent this. The rest of my troupe seemed no better, with one distracted by happenstance of a dead car battery before rehearsal, another by work and other responsibilities overspilling into this and other rehearsal time, and the other by the contents of the flask in his pocket.

And then it started to rain. It started to pour down as if we had all neglected to follow the weather report, and this would be a storm to knock out the power, and we would all hope that sawdust tastes as good as they say. The roof of the theater has never been known to take kindly to a hard rain. It's one of the reasons that any actor who seems to exhibit difficulty in the projection department is always forewarned about what an audience would get from them during a rainstorm show.

Maybe with my lead out of town, I should not have bothered to meet with the remaindered cast two days in a row. I like to gather to collect our thoughts, run through to help actors learn their lines, and generally grow a rapport. As much work as I have put into this show already, the time moves forward, but it keeps feeling like the show is un-preventatively on pause. I can just hope that the literal rain offers us a bit of a metaphoric fresh start.

food poisoning.

I was up above it
Now I'm down in it
-nine inch nails

I knew as soon as I saw her name pop up in my email yesterday morning that I would be losing one of my hard-found four actors for this tightly woven ensemble piece that has taken quite a beating so far. As we are fifty plus days out from show, the last thing we needed was to be back down to a 75% cast. Interestingly enough she was also the last to confirm. I don't fault her. I know she had anxiety about the show. It wasn't expressed this way, but I predict the material might be a farther reach for her perceived talents. I could see it in her, though. I know with work we could have gone some amazing places with her performance. She called out a variety of conflicts, which are completely understandable. I have no cause to let my show have negative affects on the rest of someone's reality.

A mad scramble laid across my Monday at work, leaving the casting situation dangling precariously for a mere seven hours. In acts of desperation, one can very quickly muster up loads of determination. I have my heart and soul invested in this show, and as the old adage instructs: it must go on. A slight change of direction led me to tentatively cast a multi-talented actor friend mine, who I invited out to our rehearsal under the auspices of essentially reading for the part.

The more I reconfigured things, the more right she felt for the part, becoming a reminder of the unexpected blessings found under various levels of duress. As our lead is away during our first week of rehearsals, I had my girlfriend read her part. The newly created other 75% of the cast melded beautifully, as did my girlfriend's complete understanding of the direction I am taking the show, because her reading was frequently spot-on and allowed the other actors the chance to really pull some great punches.

And this show knows from floggings. The complete truth was revealed as our read-through wound down into chatter, laughter, and wonderfully evolved enjoyment of each others company.

My stage manager also happens to be the head of the board of directors for the theater. This is mostly coincidental and also because I consider her amongst my trusted friends. As it turns out, the head of promotions for the theater and the director of the show ahead of mine sent an alert out to the board members in the hopes to have my show pulled from the season. Suddenly all of the sabotaging, all of the passive-aggressive toned emails, and the condescension started to make more sense. He had no intention of respecting my need to share usage of the space or my goal to have a crisp, enthusiastic support team who will equally promote my show as his.

Since it was clear that the production has been periodically treading water, I can thank him for helping to poison the well. Adding insult to injury will only make Papa Bear angry. And as this whole matter just adds additional layers of truth to the pudding of the show. I'll just stir a few more times and move on.