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.

re: design

1 pt. feline curiosity
1 pt. time constraint

result - incidental new page design

I will be back soon for more pseudo-consequential wording.

I hate smartphones and the smorgasbord of idiots who use them, but I am a tad curious about the layout options that have availed themselves due to that whole mess.

yin. yang.

The first weekend of the show simply flew past.

The opening night left me in a bit of daze. Going out for drinks, appetizers, and inadvertantly the twentieth anniversary of Nirvana's Nevermind record capped off the show's coming out soiree. I leaned between blissful enjoyment and deer in headlights shock that the presentation as a whole didn't fully meet my desire. The second night was brilliant. The audience was on fire, the difficulties only I saw on the first night were ironed out, and I finally got a glimpse of damn near the show I soldiered to put on in the first place.

And yesterday was our matinee. Few involved with this dark, twisted, adult show felt the theatre should have scheduled us for a post-church hour matinee, but there three of them sat on the schedule of our mere nine show run. The house was miniscule. For a bit I was beginning to worry we would have no one show, because the rain would keep them away, all of the other conflicting events would pull them elsewhere, or that the thought of mid-afternoon erotism amidst all of the Blue Laws would have them running for the hills. Though the audience was quiet, they were mostly pleased with the show. I saw plenty of soft bits of laughter, smiles, and pleasurable tittering. Everyone put on one hell of a good show, despite the turn-out.

There was even one old, crotchetty man who stuck it out. He moved seats after intermission and sat pouty and full of grimace. Most people dealing with his level of discomfort, displeasure, or disappointment - whatever it was - would have left during the intermission. The rough shows I have done are well-known to lose people during intermission. Assessing the room at the start of show offers plenty of chance to figure out who it might be. I can't for the life figure out why he hung out. I take it as a badge of honor that he took the opportunity to tell one of my show's personnel that it was 'the worst play' he'd ever seen. Extreme response demands emotional impact. I am not in the least offended. I just know I did my job. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I arrived home to discover an on-line review that offered overall glowing, albeit brief, observations about the show, including one that referred to me as 'amazing'.

Now I have the chance to bring life back to a sense of normalcy, slowly declutter the apartment, and pull all focus away from the art of the thing and instead take some of this freetime to promote the hell out of it. What's the point of putting on such a divisive play if only four handfuls of people are going to get a glimpse?

human behaviour.

Summer has come and gone. The boys of summer have packed up their gear and shuffled back to reality. Yesterday was the first day of fall, as well as the opening evening of my play. The appropriately titled Hell Week did not fail to meet its inherent demands. My last minute set doctor, if you will, came down with what was thought to initially be strep throat. My sound designer continued to miss the mark, offering half-hearted cues, leaving me to assemble everything show worthy by myself. And my lackadaisical stage manager decided to finally bring her 65% to the party as well as loads of very unattractive personality hues. Every tech night of the week felt like a marionette show of a sort, as getting people to communicate with one another without my urging or to notice obvious problems without my shining a light on them became all too common.

For this whole show I have been spread thin holding my faith in others, but then spread even thinner as their investments were shown to be fleeting. If I knew I would need to do nearly everything from the beginning, including in some cases doing actual basic thinking for people, I would have prepared many things prior to the point of being nearly too late. I gave my cast a black-out night on the evening before the show. I was not fully satisfied with the results of our full dress rehearsal, but since only one of the actors had become privy to all of the odds I have been working against this whole time, the last thing I wanted to do was keep my cast around while final touches were being put to the set and the tech department. Overworking my actors or letting their morale or energy levels waiver too much works against the success of performance and the show in my mind.

Our first night's house was medium-sized and reasonably responsive during the performance. We got a slew of exceedingly positive critiques. The cast nailed their performances, and as expected pulled out punches I knew they were saving for a paying audience.

The basic structure of things as they ran were the weakest points to me. My stage manager could not find it in her heart to put the board president hat away for the evening. Her concerns were not related to being a stage manager, who would warm up the theatre before everyone arrives or stay to ensure everything is wrapped up properly, but one who sees the few things she does as a piece of cake. She quite often leaves remnants of said cake behind for others to sweep up. I feel she wears figurehead titles, and for some reason people can't see through her weaknesses with power, control, and leadership. We opened house late since she forgot the tickets, although the way the bookkeeping is done here chit marks work just as well.

And then she wanted to curtail my pre-show playlist to get rolling with show, even it was her fault we got the late start. I have very definitive ways I set tone and mood in my shows, and for those arriving early it plays through the set and music, which specifically had its own share of problems besides. I like to take an audience on a voyage of sound, color, emotion, meaning, and full of dramatic umami. Our first audience experienced it with an immediate hiccup and dead air, equivalent to when an actor clearly forgets a line and stands looking awkward and out of character, or when wonderful comedy occurs and everyone bites their lower lip in an effort to keep from laughing and embarrassment ensues.

I don't know if it was that the show wasn't ready for an audience or if I just wasn't ready to let it go. In ways I felt my baby was being tended by some incompetent teenager. I have been working so tirelessly that the point of exhaustion has been left behind many miles ago. Instead of attending opening night, I should have been wrapped up in blankets, getting more than my of late allotment of six hours of shut eye.

I have high standards. I have invested blood, sweat, tears, cash, time, and effort on this production, and since it reeks so well of my soul I have equally high expectations for it. I think I look forward to night two far more. I have never had a show that was not completely ready for show on opening night. This puts my cast and my art in a very vulnerable position. This has been the most challenging production I have undertaken to date, but in so many ways my most satisfying and certainly the one with the greatest learning curve. Leave it to putting on a show about human nature to truly discover endless variations on the foibles programmed deep within us all.

my tribe

This play has been my most harrowing undertaking yet. In some ways I attribute this to the material, and how the core themes and meaning of a show bleeds heavily onto the flow of production. Things are far beyond gloves merely coming out. This one has tested ideals such as loyalty and conviction, and pitted us against them in an all out battle of wills. I have seen Darwinian truths as illness, innate inadequacies, and other intrusions have left an inordinately small collective of villagers building the camp. I have found myself harshly protective of my family and quick to question the motives of outsiders. In three days this season long gruesome trek of a show will hit the oasis, lap up laughter, applause, and cringes from what we can hope will be a welcoming band of foreign villagers.

anima cruelty

pol·i·tic (adj.)
1. Using or marked by prudence, expedience, and shrewdness; artful.
2. Using, displaying, or proceeding from policy; judicious.
3. Crafty; cunning.

Undertaking this new play certainly looked like a much more pleasurable journey four months ago when I waited with bated breath to know whether or not my show had been selected. I was never told directly, which was contrary from expectation. I found out when the theatre's website was updated, thus beginning the first of many communication failures.

The theatre continues to refer to this as a transitional year. From my stance, it has been one that has left my show out in the cold time and again. So much energy, time, and personnel were expended on the season opener, leaving mine to feel like the second child who wished there were more old pictures of them in the photo albums and that the collection of clothes weren't all hand-me-downs.

I knew that there would be challenges in having the Board President on my team as stage manager, but since I had considered her amongst my friends and since she seemed to enjoy the show so well, I went forward with it. I have now found myself working with a person who is quick to switch hats from stage manager to condescending President with aplomb. I can handle it. It's my actors have taken the most abuse. I know it's one of many things that have driven them to have difficulty putting faith in her and her abilities.

The Vice President was present following my first evening of auditions, and against all of my creative and professional judgment suggested I highly consider casting the actress who auditioned that evening. They were wrong for the role in so many ways, whether it be age, appearance, or the noticeable resume-fanning inability to actually be directed. He said it would be a politically strong move. It would inspire members of our main community theatre competition to come out.

How could I have known at the time that this would merely be a taste of things to come? The Board members meet once a month and I have it on good authority that my show was brought into question during at least one of those. In fact the minutes from those meetings are still not posted on their website, as per the requirement. I know that there were plenty of behind-the-scenes attempts to intrude on the progress of my show.

They were propelled forward by the theatre's Promotions Director. His squeaky clean family show opened the season. I suspect that he offered himself to that title to have the reins over his own production. He hasn't seen fit to contribute to the promotion of my show. I have worked myself ragged trying to inspire a promotions team to get the word out about my upcoming production. I can only do so much, and even without the assistance of the above individual, I have still had to jump through hoops to get where I have.

His second in command on that play is the theatre's nit-picky, but seemingly experienced Technical Director. He flashes his resume and credentials faster than you can ask the time of day. He's young and full of young dispositions. I have loathed his presence and had difficulty navigating all of the hurdles he has swung my way. I hashed it out with him last weekend. We are both cooks who realize there are not enough sous chefs to go around.

Since my set designer went (still) MIA, I decided to move ahead without her and to commit to my own design with a good friend of mine who is handy with construction-related matters. I have slowly but surely been adding touches after touches to my set, and it is really coming together. I am out quite a bit of cash and some of my house looks a tad rifled through. All of this is the cost of doing local theatre, and a particularly fun aspect.

He decided to add a piece of input about the set - a decent one. Basically the equivalent procedure of someone telling Wyclef Jean that Lauryn's lyrics needed one time. Whoever that was had better have gotten full credit for songwriting, because that's where I am. Immediately I get this unrequested sketch of my set, word for word from my own set-up plus this guy's slight additions, an opportunistic email checking on what sort of playbill credit can be expecting, as well as a call from the VP of the Board wanting to make sure I am doling out credit appropriately.

It looks like no one can understand that I might actually have a perfect handle on everything. I am over-extended, but my boat is not sinking. The few people I have working with me have given their all, and things are going remarkably well. Last minute ride jumpers are really rubbing me the wrong way. I am caught between having a dishonest credit scroll or missing out on one small touch that would add another bit of oomph to the proceedings.

The politics that have sponsored all of this is pushing me more and more away from continued involvement. Not everything needs to be put to a committee and I don't think it's right that someone who has been out of the loop should be able to hop in and start pushing people around.

Only eleven more days until this play limps across the finish line to opening night, back strong, head up high, and wearing its bruises proudly.

get fierce.

It could be said that I choose physically and emotionally draining productions to present to an audience. None of the plays I have directed nor any of the scripts I have written or developed have been walks in the proverbial park. Much like the material I find myself drawn to, I am challenging. I realize this. I present others with challenges and hurdles whether through allowing others the chance to find a canvas to stretch their own art or by my often esoteric, dry wit that has been known to bypass some folks altogether. I hold expectations high but attainable above myself and others. I question the authority of others and I attempt to lead by strong example. As opening night on the new show draws near, I find again the recognizable motif of every production I have ever managed: I have around me a very different cast of characters than I had at the start. As the echoing dramas continue to bounce across my show, I can reasonably attest to those who might want to join up in the future, if you're looking for an easy ride, you'll need to look elsewhere.

final countdown.

As I sent out the emails requesting information from my cast and crew for their playbill bios, it really hit me just how few people are really involved in this production. The unprofessional disappearance of my former set designer left a gaping hole that I have been working tirelessly to fill over the past several days. The Labor Day holiday weekend has conflicted with not only my rehearsal schedule, but also my efforts to have my street team hitting the pavement with posters. The town is not painted heavily enough with our striking posters for my liking. I am ridiculously over-extended with my hands far too deep into nearly every aspect as opposed to overseeing the work of others, allowing me to then focus my attention on the right things.

Last week I looked to a few of the board members at the theatre for support, only to be knocked back with attitude and defensiveness. I loathe the feeling that I am more alone with more people in the proverbial room than I have on past productions. There are more rules and regulations, but with that comes more egos and ever more drama. The regime that have taken over the theatre, though leaking good intentions, are wrong to make such knee-jerk judgments of me just because of their bad experience with a now banned director. I come armed with my own bag of tricks, and a decent reputation. I am glad to know just who I can depend on, but I am sad to see that it's not this recently assembled board. If this is the way of it then I am not sure that I wish to bring my talents to another production there.

wrinkled tenacity

te·na·cious
adj.
1. Holding or tending to hold persistently to something, such as a point of view.
2. Holding together firmly; cohesive: a tenacious material.
3. Clinging to another object or surface; adhesive: tenacious lint.
4. Tending to retain; retentive: a tenacious memory.

I have been dubbed tenacious on multiple occasions during my lifetime. Sometimes I find it to be a hex and a weighty hindrance. The production of my current play is certainly no exception.

Let's re-cap:

My efforts to find a stage manager who was not also a convicted rapist brought me to a first-timer whose main qualifications were that she is the President of the Board for the Theatre, so therefore full of vigor, love for our theatre, and dependable. Having to train someone to do something that Google really does go on and on about is one thing, but then to have them commit themselves to a supporting cast member role in the current play whose schedule and run was sure to conflict aplenty. I convinced her to drop-out, but it wasn't the last time I heard of her attempting to divert attention from the show. On the days she's there, though she is in her late-forties, she can often come off as a teenager with ADD. The cast doesn't much like having her around. Maybe they can tell she was vying for one of their parts for which she is exceedingly over-aged.

The casting process took not only three sessions of miserable auditions, but a forthright smattering of hunting behind the woodwork with just the right tone of begging to assemble the first four for the ensemble. The fact that one of them dropped out early in the process was only compounded by the fact that the first half of the month of August took skill, tact, and extra special ideas for what the word rehearsal could mean with half of my cast on some semblance of vacation. Fortunately my efforts to re-cast were greeted with a strong replacement, for was a hard sell, but a workable choice.

As if this wasn't enough, the newly crowned Promotions Director of the Theatre was making underhanded efforts to have my show pulled from the season. My stage manager via President of the Board decided it appropriate to announce these shadow dealings in the presence of my cast and sexy understudy at the second ever rehearsal. It tainted and toned many of the subsequent ones, and has been one of the hardest things to unfetter ourselves from, as pot-shots from the sidelines do not always bring confidence from the populace. Just when I thought that this whole matter was done, I got the first direct e-mail from the guy a few days back with rambling, generic promotional ideas that I am privy to given my previous experience. He also thought it necessary to make extensive jabs at my production, my poster, my uphill battle, and put our shows in direct competition with one another - numbers-wise.

Then there's the new transitional Board of the Theatre, who were once four or five people who wore what seemed to be fancy titles but did very little. Now they have fancy titles and (in some cases) the egos to match. None of the key members have ever actually directed a show at this small, underfunded theatre, yet they have come up with rules and by-laws, and who-ha to abide by that in a few cases is a welcome change but primarily comes at a cost - quite literally. For one, they would prefer we assemble backdrops instead of painting the walls and assemble flooring instead of painting the floor. There has been a long history of painting the damn space. It's cheap enough to keep it in budget and to ensure we non-professionals can actually get the job done. It doesn't end there, but that one segues all pretty to my next part.

I had a brilliant set designer on my last show, who I was able to have commit to working on this one. Her excitement and interest level were high a month and a half ago, and then even a month ago. I had no idea at the time that this would be the last time I would hear back from her. I sent periodic update emails as the rehearsal process evolved our conversations about the set, and I shared suggestions as to when we could meet to chat these things up on a more one-on-one level. I got zero response. I tried multiple e-mails, Facebook, texting, and even phone calling to a full voice mailbox. I know she's alive. Facebook assures me she's actively in town. My poster artist used her as the model on the poster for my play for God's sake! This is what we call dropping the ball and then kicking it in my face.

We are twenty-two days out from show. I have no set designer. I have a slight construction team at the ready, but no captain. Producing and directing the show are quite enough without having to take the reins on this duty as well. If it ended there, we might be able to wrap up this pretty package, but at present we will have naked actors on the stage. I had a talented clothing designer on-board for a short while, but since she backed out I have only had one other person issue interest - albeit with the caveat they have someone else as partner. Whatever it was before, at this point it can't be the most challenging position on the team. Nothing can be. When things get to this point it's more about pragmatism than ideal vision, which is one of many concessions I make since the reliability on others is mostly unavailable and my expectation to have many beyond myself pre-plan has been thwarted.

The counterbalance to all of this is a brilliant play on the page and an even better one with our execution, a cast who have begun to find some cohesion and connection, a perfect promotional poster and a core team of folks willing to walk the streets, an energized and dependable F/X make-up guru, and my girlfriend who has understudied, filled in for, and otherwise contributed to so many facets I can't even come up with an official playbill title for her.

Cheers to not being driven to drink heavily throughout all of this!

[clink]

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!