demonize me

“Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials.” Lyn Yutang

Closure.

Closure. I've started this way before. Every writer knows the most unenviable obstruction for their craft is an empty page. And the rule book would suggest that every story begun requires an ending. Though it's true in dramatics, this is less true in life. Each tale we weave is far larger than our prediction and much of it goes on under our keenest radar. Most of the points of passage we tend to spotlight are but transitions and not the key beginnings or endings we convince ourselves they'll be.

My sister and parents have been having a veritable war of veiled diplomacy for some time now. A turning point in their relationship left all of the chaos, all of the drama, all of the unresolved feelings up in the air, and in their ways and from their individual perspectives they await the crash landing. Missing that clean ending puts all three of them on edge, and heightens their need to be in the right.

I once heard it said that there are three sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth. My parents are convinced of one set of stories and my sister assures herself there is another. She is certain to recount these tales again and again ad nauseum on most occasions that she and I get together. It's one of the more frustrating things about spending time with her. One thing that never changes is her perspective. It is forever stalled out in bitter tragedy.

If I had it to dictate now, perhaps I wouldn't have lived the childhood I did or I wouldn't have dwindled under the shadow of those formative years, but every life has its share of stumbling blocks and inevitable potholes. We have to off-load the things that make our journey unbearable. Eventually we just have to bid farewell to that drugged up, useless passenger, that monkey on our back. Turning inward is the only way the outward will ever change. You can't force the hand of others, you can't correctly suspect the motives of others, and you certainly can't alter who someone else is, except yourself. You only get one lump of clay to play with, alter and morph. It might get brittle and it might get dented, but those are the places we find character, art, and meaning.

The empty page suggests that every road leads everywhere. As a writer, the possibilities are dizzying. Every possible outcome can come of this. What is true in art echoes in life. I used to get caught up in future thought. I would seek results of actions, trying so hard to choose the ones that would bring me to my goals, avoiding those that would lead me away. We can't choose our strings. We just have to learn to navigate them, and pluck despite the rhythm caught in the tether, fighting against the power of accidental frets.

These are our demons. I don't mean the Paranormal Activity brand of demons. Well, not exactly. I once thought we had to travel with them. I figured we had to tote them wherever we went. They were our crux, our Achilles heel, the bane of our existence. Well, I say, set that funeral pyre aflame with all of the things in your life, in your soul, in your heart, you don't need that don't help you thrive, that don't motivate you, that just don't matter.

I've had my fair share of monkeys, clawing at my back, weighing me down, pinning me to the past. I say, excise your demons. They are your responsibility. When it comes to these things people like to project blame. It's similar in a fashion to guilt. People may send you on a guilt trip, but you're the one who packs the bags. Own up.

Be your own solution. Poison that monkey and feel the brutal pain, the emotional exhaustion, and then the relief of having cut that umbilical of sorts, the thing that's cutting off your life energy, and sapping your spirit. There are myriad ways things manifest in your body over time. Just let that dead zombie monkey corpse that means you harm punch its way out of your body however it will.

What outcome do you want? In contrast, while a writer begins with endless possibilities, endings need to be bought, raised, owned, and earned. We allow beginnings to start nearly anywhere, but we need to be convinced and sold the safety of the foundation at the other end of the arc.

Closure doesn't always wear the colors you expect it to. It doesn't always show up on time. Sometimes it rears its head in those quiet moments between notes. It comes when the silence is comforting and allows for more than an opportunity to hear that cacophony of disconcerting white noise that muddies everything. And it comes when items of nostalgia begin to take new form, or consequently none at all. The same can be said for the people in our lives. We only get one chance to live this life. Do it with vigor. And prance along to what's next.

♫ enjoy yourself
take only what
you need from it ♫
-"Kids", MGMT

bite me

Halloween lurks just beyond the other side of the weekend. It breathes across the nape of my neck, offering itself inside out and exposed with chills and the allure of things forbidden and dark. My beloved and I have been devouring more than our share of the unsettling, the offensive, and the creepy, given both our propensities toward the strange, the dark, the twisted, and the visceral. This cinematic marathon has been a welcome change of relaxation, though heightened and enticing, following the close of the play. My literal season of theatre, drooping end to end across the full length of summer has been gnawing at me ever since we closed.

This part of October offers the opportunity for many to don a mask, a costume, or a disguise. Often times the inner beasts of our souls come out, as quiet waives bare their inner whore, I.T.s show off their true comic doppelgangers, executives' ties becomes nooses, and others merely continue to speak from alternating sides of their mouth.

As the third show of the season opens at the theatre, the larger picture of the behind-the-scenes dramatic flow is evident. The first show received much notice, as it launched the season and was directed by the promotional chair of the theatre and was easy to swallow Jell-O for the local blue hairs and nostalgic set. The new show has gotten additional press, promotional push by the aforementioned idiot senior who shat all over mine, as well as the theatre as a whole who seemed bewildered and distracted while mine was in production.

Watching all of these primarily under-appreciated cult classic films, my recent play experience feels akin in many ways. Frankly, my small core team and I put on one hell of a piece of theatre. The fact that so many people missed it is a loss I am resistant to remedy, even though I did film two of the best performances. There is a call to share it with many of these folks at a favorite local hang-out, but my figurative middle finger goes up in response.

This show didn't need to be the commercial bomb that it ended up. The common expression leans toward a ball being dropped, but in this case we were on the loosing dodgeball team, getting constantly plummeted. So, much like the hasty manner in which we were instructed to tear down our set following the last show, the theatre has moved on to its new baby, wiping away clean the memory of this recently aborted one.

As I walked through the dim, quiet theatre taking clinical pictures of my set before the last weekend, I could still feel the energy of the space that continued to draw me in. I crave and feast on the creative, exploratory moments shared in this venue. These walls can certainly speak louder than any of the people currently inhabiting them, as the building is the only consistent part of its thirty year history.

The fear that guides so many away from the dark recesses of the human spirit are the same ones that people consistently seek out around this time of year. Making so many people uncomfortable, so uneasy, and so out of their element (in some cases, in life changing ways) will be what I can take with me from all of this.

cargo cult.

As the butterfly flutters each person who we encounter offers the opportunity to have meaning within the fabric of our whole, or at least a temporal segue. There are people who thrive on those moments of first glance, first touch, and falling in love. I feel their social equivalents must exist. They are the people who must meet new people, steadily adding to that base of their acquaintance stew, in a matter to make themselves feel more prepared for their own social apocalypse.

I once had a whopping 500 friends taking up residence on my FACEBOOK account. That's more people than fill the House of Representatives. It's five hundred people having five hundred first names and five hundred birthdays, experiencing five hundred different life stories. No one can have five hundred friends. Not all at once, anyway. For a brief time this all made perfect sense, as the ticker inched its way up and up in seeming social surplus. This was a period fraught with frequent forecasts of heavy flurries of named strangers, notable passersby, and CLOSE ENCOUNTERS-sized MIA returns of those once known.

A body at rest tends to stay at rest. The collective we operate the same way. Human stasis can grow roots or it can grow mold. There is a wonderfully misleading warmth gained from surrounding oneself with a multitude of familiar faces, in the way that there's a heightened excitement upon starting a movie with an all-star cast. Unfortunately commonly these films are overwrought, clumsily assembled, tipped over by ego, and lacking in pure soul as everything rides on its empty star power.

I'll admit it. Taking out social insurance has its benefits. Sometimes that conversation we have at the local pub with a limited view acquaintance who staggers far on the outskirts of our orbit or that out-and-out stranger who puts a word in edgewise can have more meaning then all of that recalling, recounting, and nostalgia bullshit played out with someone with whom we now share zilch.

Real life more often resembles a subway terminal with people passing one another, sharing little more than a nod or a brief communal acceptance of the weather. We share in these small moments together more out of necessity and coincidence than out of a single thread of connection. We weave in and out of one another's worlds at such a high rate that most relationships in our lives can be chit-marked off as failure.

true colors

A friend to all is a friend to none.
-Aristotle

True friends stab you in the front.
-Oscar Wilde

A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
-Walter Winchell

in digestion

Every commentator gets their chance to have a post-show wrap-up. They're used for sporting events, fashion functions, and political debates. They come in many shapes, sizes, and hues, but they are all the opportunity for one voice to suggest the overall meaning, quality, or key points. They are the conclusion paragraph to the proverbial high school essay.

Monday night, my play's debriefing was held at the theatre.

My stage manager went back to wearing her Presidential cap, as she, my show's sexy, second in command, and I sat awaiting the arrival of anyone else. The next show's set is in stark contrast to mine, with an empty black stage save an over-sized desk. The lighting was harsh and dropped shadows on Mrs. President, who chose to sit behind the desk instead of any of the other ninety-eight seats in the building.

The technical director of the theatre showed up after we had already begun our discussion. I am not sure if it was a discussion, in the clearest terms, though. A cast member and friend of mine suggested it be less debriefing and more dissertation.

Given all of the battles I faced during the production of this show, whether from outside forces, the theatre itself, or any of the other folks in the room, the four pages of notes I prepared were all intended to steer directly clear of anything that could be construed as personal attack. I have come to discover that the timing of this show was poor, the conflicts of most of the theatre's Board members was notable, and I decided to let it slide that many were having an off three months when it comes to offering aide, support, and common courtesy.

So, I had pages of thoughts, observations, and suggestions that I - as a seasoned director at this theatre - felt could help other productions this season and in the future. Many of these were echoed by the technical director, who also happened to be my key set doctor on the show. Was the response of our supposed esteemed-so-nominated-for-a-local-leader-award President to jot these things down to give them their due, consider them, or even table them for the following night's Board meeting? You can probably discern the answer from the phrasing of the question that the answer is a big fat NO.

No, let's not sit back and digest it more. Let's not take any of the perspective of one who has just been to war to help better arm the troops in the future. We'll go ahead and simply get defensive, proving that this meeting was scheduled in hopes to receive endless streams of accolades and praise for how smoothly everything is running compared to year's past. The fact of the matter is that the disorganized, pseudo-leader-free days functioned in similar fashion, albeit two differences: fewer rules and fewer people wearing big titles.

bitter. sweet.

Look around me
I can see my life before me
Running rings around the way
It used to be
-Wasted on the Way (Graham Nash)

As the darkest of storm clouds gathered above the theatre, the cast and crew of the show disassembled the tangible pieces of our play, packing things away and cleaning up the remnants of our short-lived presence there. Under the shadow of the approaching rain, a palpable sense of urgency to clear out and move on was felt by all.

From a numbers position this show was a total failure. One can never fully grasp the why of failings, but it doesn't hurt to ponder. Our three weekend schedule was up against big name plays, a hippie music fest and other local concerts of note, Gator home games, and the like. Following all of the controversy that started up the rehearsal process, the theatre attacked my show with kid gloves and blinders, most notably the so-dubbed Promotions Chair person. The lonesome task of promoting the show with everything else fell quite heavily on my henchwoman and myself, yet even those efforts wore through with holes as positive Facebook event respondents with familiar names (friends, acquaintances, and frequent enthusiasts) ultimately numbered fifty plus in no shows. The mind becomes boggled by streams of disappointment.

Then again, from a creative standpoint, I feel this play was the most assured work of my career. Though I bypassed the budget several times over, straight from pocket, I put every red cent on the stage in highly tangible ways. The audience was instantly engulfed by a set that offered nothing extraneous, but set tone, suggested what was to come, and sold itself as a livable space. The production also offered me the chance to work with actors in new ways I hadn't explored before, thus helping us create an ensemble cast dynamic of actors who knew their characters inside and out, and shared much underlying chemistry with those they've supposedly known for the better part of twenty years.

Oh, how quickly our show's flame flickered out. Our swan song may have been the strongest performance of the whole run, as choreographed and tailored stage elements properly aligned with audience response. It was one of only a couple occasions that we received standing ovations. The production had been pinned down and against many an odd for such an extended period of time, only to be cut off at the knees as it began to rise, dusting itself off, building up confidence and steam. This beast of a show was tranquilized before it could truly have a profound impact. The old philosophical quandary about a tree falling in the forest would apply well to this one.

mmm hmm.

Art is never finished, only abandoned.
Leonardo da Vinci

primal scream.

I learned long ago how burning bridges can be akin to professional suicide. For a lot of these nosedives I have fortunately been on the sidelines, observing, taking in the lessons others couldn't see plowing straight toward them. There's one industry friend of mine who I worked with on several projects who has never conveyed a single negative word about any show that has come along the pike. I have often seen this position as living in shameful denial while reaping the benefits of experience and a steadily bubbling résumé.

Tonight begins the final weekend of my play. There will be three more performances, and then this temporary dysfunctional family will scatter to the wind, focusing on other things, memorizing new pure moments, locking another one away in the mausoleum of memory. For a show so intimately about the nuanced and the obvious flavors of food, sex, love, and life, the absolute last thing I want to do is leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth about this unfortunately rushed but tightly woven experience. Once all of the warts are scraped away and the animal is skinned, what lies beneath is a work of art to make one proud.

I have such apprehension about the whole debriefing meeting set to occur on Monday evening. To quote the play: 'why are you asking me to criticize you?' I think the world already has far too many meetings, conference calls, and jam sessions, that a pow-wow with this forced outsider can only have a couple of extreme results, either possibly pounding on principles or on future opportunities. The iBoss died this week. I feel that the previous week he was loathed, yet in death he's a prince, a champion of our entire culture. Clearly no one can play it straight. No one can comfortably speak their mind. There's always merely a time and a place. My mom would always refer to that as picking your battles.

What's the answer? The Zen in my motorcycle maintenance has me taking deep breaths. I have seen this show develop so organically that I feel as if I can easily deconstruct it all down to its finer points, whether it be the dispositions of others or each layer of every metaphor. One must occasionally wonder about how far reaching ripples can be felt. My opinions are strong, but perhaps the bravest thing to do is add another line to my résumé and move on. Sometimes the best thing you can do is let people discover things at their own pace.

sacrificial lamb

it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors
- Oscar Wilde

I'm not a particularly political person. I don't get energized by things the government does, by elections, by political rally, or by seeing talking heads in pressed suits exchange rehearsed ideas on C-SPAN. I have tried in the past to make my voice heard. It hasn't always been my voice, but the prescribed one given to those I was surrounded by - the assumed, popular position. But honestly it's simply not my bag. I'm glad for political uprisings over the years, giving votes to those who need now rock it, and the like, but politics are simply not my arena.

Though reasonably apolitical, I have a strong definition of ethics, boundaries, and principles. It comes as no surprise that there would be a literal sacrificial lamb in my current play. I think most people simply play politics. In the same way I work for a giant corporation (Radio $hack - so you don't have to scroll back through) who have been in existence in some fashion for ninety years, I am but a peon way the hell down the food chain. Some months ago they tossed out a survey about the overall conditions of the job for all employees to take, should they wish. Since we had to log in to the computers to take it, I can hardly guarantee the anonymity of the affair.

medusa ode

give me head with hair -
long beautiful hair

Our culture has a peculiar fixation on hair.

How we wear our collective hair is trended by the up and comers, those trailblazing follicled fools, whether they be the Fab Four, Kid, Play, Jennifer Aniston, or that Bieber boy. Flip through old pictures or magazines, and immediately the heads act as a date stamp. Without fail, unkempt hair is uncouth and faux-pas, unless you're Robert Smith, Tim Burton, trial VJ Jessie, or post-jizz Mary. Bald is beautiful when it's not busy being sad or pitiful. Tell us culture at large, whether our sisters and wives be shaved, shaped, or merely maintained.

Skip the shower, bypass the shave, put away those tools of torture, says one set of multi-generational pseudo-political motivations. One era is replete with baby-faced fellas and another finds beards galore. I have heard it said that in an economic downturn, the beards grow in counter-balance. However, living in a town with so many indie kids buying their holed ball busting denim and manicured personalities at retail, those beards just become an ironic addition.

The carbon copy look is quickly called personal expression. Show me a tattoo and I'll show you a parlor offering BOGO to get the preachers and extreme couponers through the frosted front doors. Piercings, tattoos, weird and wild hair are all passé. There's no rebellion, no revolt anymore. People don't express anything new in these means. Now it's all become passive aggressive tendencies on social networks.

human nature

“The problem with people is that they're only human.”
-Bill Waterson

People can surprise.

Saturday night I stumbled into the theatre ready for our play to compete with the Gators v. Alabama game, hoping to find more than tumbleweed. I have seen plays at this small all-volunteer community theatre play to audiences of two before. The show must go on, as they say, but at an overall disservice to all involved when the cast outnumbers the audience. Our matinee last week held the worst house to date at seven audience members.

It's disheartening to see so much hard work and artistic passion become so ignored. This show deserves to have crowded houses and to push people away at the door. I don't financially benefit from this, but the theatre does. I know what kind of show I have assembled and it breaks my heart to see it in the shadow of the safe, hackneyed, sell-out show put on at the start of the season by the old man who wanted our play pulled from the season.