Our Officiate comes to Visit

Out of all the possible advice I could give to newly engaged couples — and I have a lot to give — there are three top pieces:

1. The wedding is for you and your future spouse, NO ONE else.

2. Brides should create many collages of their dress before buying/settling on one.

3. Make your Officiate matter.

That last one is today’s topic:  Your Officiate.  Care about them.  Choose someone who cares about you very deeply.  We chose D Scott Ferguson, a musician who toured for a year with my husband, when they became very good friends.  Even though at any point in time, they live 3,000 miles apart, there is a great bond between the two.

A couple of months after Dan and I started dating, when it became clear that we were in it for the long haul, there was one step I had to take.  Some people have to meet the family, some people have to pass the best friend test, some people have to love the right movies, and what did I have to do?  Talk about Sondheim with D Scott.

If you know him at all, that’s kind of like talking Sondheim with Sondheim.  But I had proclaimed myself a Sondheim fanatic, so I had to prove myself.  D Scott didn’t demand it, Dan didn’t demand it.  I wanted to.

I believe the response was, “Well, she does seem to know her stuff.”

*Whew!*

A year and a half later, I’m on the phone with him discussing our marriage vows. 

 He sends us examples of what he likes from the typical ones and we find some mix  of the norm along with our own D Scott, then I throw a strange flower/herb ceremony I created into the mix, and D Scott miraculously merges it all into a flowing conversation with our family and friends.

Via his voice alone, we became husband and wife.  We just knew we were going to be fine.  How could you not feel that way, when faced with such a loving man who cared so much about his friends’ happiness, that he became ordained just for this moment, this one time in our lives.

Two days ago Dan chatted with D Scott because he is visiting in December and staying through February!  I have never been happier that Mary Poppins was touring through the Ahmanson–it means three whole months of time with our Officiate.

And today, on the third anniversary of such a wonderful day, I thank him.

The Three C’s: or, Egg-za-what?

WARNING: The following entry contains some disturbing images.

I had always had some form of eczema, which is basically a highly irritable skin inflammation.  The year I graduated from college, though, it was so bad for so long that by New Year’s Eve I had to wear sunglasses.

In New York.

Because I had woken up one morning to a brand-new area of irritation, and looked like a red raccoon.  I could barely close my eyes (read: blink) because that caused the creases to uncrease and get irritated all over again.

And itchy.  It itched so much that I felt like a scratching addict.  If I had thought there were other people like me, I would have started Scratcher’s Anonymous.  I know what you non-eczema sufferers think: just don’t scratch.  Don’t do it.  Do whatever it takes.  Wear socks to bed.  (That actually makes the scratching better.)  Withhold.  (Have you ever taken a lit cigarette away from a smoker?)

Here’s the problem and the irony:  The sensation of scratching, even –especially– when it drew blood, felt so good.  It feels great.  I mean, it was better than anything.

So here I am, at a party in Brooklyn with frickin’ sunglasses on, and it’s because my eyes look like a cheese grater ran over them.  At this point the ezcema was bad for a few months, and all due to stress.  I wore turtlenecks to hide my neck, wrapped gauze bandages around my knees and elbows (it’s always worse where there is a crease), and had so many random spots all over myself that I know for a fact that more of my body was irritated than was healthy.

It hadn’t been that bad since I was three.  Eighteen years before this New Year’s Eve.

The hardest part is that no one understood.  I didn’t know anyone who had even heard of it.  I could barely spell it.  When I went to the clinic at my temp job downtown, the doctor was no help.  He just told me that alcohol irritated it and I should stop drinking and smoking (I was indulging in both pretty heavily at that time).  He knew what could cause it, but had no idea how to fix it.

At a particularly difficult time that January, I had gotten so bad that I simply couldn’t stop scratching ever.  And I didn’t care.  My skin looked so bad that I just didn’t care anymore.  I had to scratch, had to feel the skin opening under my nails.  Most of my clothes had blood spots on them.  It was an addiction, a burden, my secret, what kept me from going on a date or opening up to anyone.  I would go into public restrooms and wait impatiently, burning, until I was alone in my stall, and then I would scratch.  I would wear loose pants so I could get anywhere I wanted.  I would tear off restrictive clothing so I could get to that area that eluded me.  I would focus on one spot until I was nearly out of breath and then another itch would just — be– out of– reach.  I used my clothes to get a deeper burn.  I wasn’t happy until flakes fell at my feet.  My right hand was deformed, curled up into a claw shape because it was so dry and my fingers couldn’t stand to rub against one another.

It was horrible.  It was uncomfortable to sit, uncomfortable to stand, everything I did seemed to make it worse.  I couldn’t sleep.  Everything my skin touched made me want to either scratch or scream.  It was my evil secret, because no one knew what I would describe.

“Egg-za-what?”

Until a director I was assisting (still in New York) saw me scratching and saw how I acted differently than just a few months before, when we’d worked on another project together.  I opened up to her, showed her my arms and my neck, and without provocation just started crying.  She suggested I go talk to an actress in the show.  This actress, she suffered from eczema and used to be as bad as me.

I nearly ran down the stairs.  I didn’t say anything to this girl.  I just showed her.  She looked at me and said, “Scratching is better than an orgasm, isn’t it?”  I tearfully nodded yes.  “The main think you have to do,” she suggested, “is relax.”

As all the reasons why that was impossible careened into my brain, she went on:

“The three C’s,” She said.  “Cortizone, Chamomile and Cotton.  Wear nothing but cotton against your skin.  It’s non-irritable.  Go to any drug store and buy Cortizone.  The gel form is great and suppresses the need to itch.  Drink chamomile tea before you go to bed.  Refrigerate the tea bags and put them onto your skin if you feel the urge–that need–to scratch.  Chamomile itself is a natural itch suppressant.”

It seemed so simple.  I got out of rehearsal and ran to the drug store to buy Cortizone, ran to the grocery store to buy Chamomile.  I ran to the train and my ride was longer than it had ever felt before that afternoon.

It worked.  I was so worried that the Cortizone would burn, but it went onto my wounds like salve.  I overused it that day.  I drank a lot of tea and soon realized that chamomile made you sleepy, as well.  I threw out all the main clothing pieces I owned that weren’t made out of cotton.  I became conscious of my habits that inflamed my skin and stayed away from those that hurt it.  I started wearing clothes that showed me off again.  I no longer worried what might happen when a guy went from touching skin to scales.  It was amazing.  That was ten years ago.

My eczema still flares up every now and then, mostly when it’s very hot or I am not drinking enough water.  I am aware of it, though, so it’s easy to control.  The same rules apply: just go back to The Three C’s.

If I hadn’t been able to talk to that one person that day, my suffering would have continued until who knows when.  Talking to her outside of rehearsal burns so brightly in my memory that if I ever see her again, I would just have to hug her.  Pass on the advice: The Three C’s!

Dreaming about Macbeth

Need I say more?  I’m beginning to dream of rehearsal—mostly the incredibly sick feeling I get in my stomach before a rehearsal.  The release of any real ‘plan’ and channeling the Shakespeare Zen inside me that will let it flow.

Macbeth RE-EX in the Park

OK, enough new age speak.

Even though it is true………the days we have been the most successful are the ones when the energy of the ensemble dictate our direction.  When I adjust our goals based on what I feel they feel.  When I truly give up the idea that a “Director” must have all the answers and must be the one speaking most of the time.

Truth be told, this Macbeth RE-EX workshop is really just an extension of how I normally run rehearsals–except I have no time restraints.  The Porter rehearsal we run entirely based in sound effects, the Macduff/Malcolm then Hecate/3 Witches is over beer and bruschetta and coffee at an outdoor cafe, in the park we were all a little distracted but when it came down to working the scene, everyone just clinched the focus needed.  They just found it.  They had it.  They allowed everything around us to inform our next choice in rehearsal and with each other.  We completely disagreed and ranted a bit.  We had a rowdy dinner party while Macbeth went from seeming a little too drunk to downright crazy in front of our eyes.   Then the quiet came with Lady MacDuff and no one uttered a word.  The poor child of MacDuff was left on the floor of their nest/cage, a place I had always seen as a deep hole in the ground from where Lady MacDuff just stared up at the world, a bit like a hole burrowed into the earth for safekeeping, but where creatures are actually just sitting ducks.

And so I dream about it.  And wish we had more than one or two rehearsals a month.

But then, the time within the process is more enriching than any other I have experienced.

You know your own degrees; sit down.

At first and last, the hearty welcome.

As I Like It

Sometimes I lose sight of how lucky I am to work at The Antaeus Company. Instead of spending my Sunday watching RSC televised versions of Shakespeare, I get to go to a theater and hear seasoned, skilled Shakespearean actors speak the text. Devon Sorvari and Tamara Krinksy initiated this reading, and chose such a great ensemble. It only confirms what my husband and I spent the morning discussing: Shakespeare is meant to be heard, not read, and it’s always better live.

As You Like It; down & dirty reading at Antaeus

Richard II Quote Found During my Kings of England Odyssey

How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of kings. Richard II, 1. 3

I would love to collect more quotes on being a King.  Ideas?  Suggestions?

Those Wacky Plantagenents

I just realized that I spent all of last week studying up on the Kings of England by watching movies and didn’t even know it.

In chronological order: Becket (Henry II–first man to be called “King of England” instead of just “King of the English”), Robin Hood (King Richard I the Lionhearted and Prince –later King– John Lackland) , Braveheart (King Edward I Longshanks), Medieval Lives(In the episode “The Kings,” discusses how very different Richard I, II &  III actually were from the mythology which surrounds them)– and at Antaeus, our Company studies King Richard II on their Company Shakespeare Night.

What I learned that I didn’t know or things I connected:

Prince John is the King John of Shakespeare

Richard II killed his father Henry II so he would become King instead of his younger brother John.  Prince John did try to usurp his brother but when King Richard I died without issue, Prince John took over and ended up ruling for quite a while and doing a pretty nice job.

Henry II is the grandson of William the Conqueror, who is always known for the Battle of Hastings in 1066 (that date does stick out from my memory of world history class).

King Edward I Longshanks’s son Edward II was very much as portrayed in Braveheart, wimpy, and his reign was self-proclaimed : disastrous”

I’m learning much more, obviously, the further into this newfound game that I travel.  I’ve just spent too long working on classical theater to allow my ignorance of the Kings of England to go any further.  You just have to hunker down and really pay attention, like learning a new language, and apply it frequently so you don’t forget.  Plus, it’s fascinating to watch or read these stories and connect the dots, understand characters knowing the different versions and the playwrights’ relationship with the King of his time. I think that understanding the source material and all of the versions can really help with character choices.  Trying to figure out how to leap into the Henrys and rest of the Richards.  Open to suggestions!

It’s a dramaturgy wet dream.

Vroman’s Bookstore, Pasadena CA

I decide that I need a little quiet.  I can only find a little quiet while I

am alone in public.

Prefer it to be outside.

It must come from years of the bus and the train,

carving out quiet moments

in high school,

college

(not as successfully)

and

in

New York City.

It’s easier to be alone in New York City than anywhere I’ve ever known.

I don’t  know

if I can be quiet

and alone

without distraction.

Jeep trying to parallel park.

Passenger on phone

Woman in long skirt floats by with flowers

two middle-aged women laughing across the street outside the sushi place

Groove acoustic above me in the cafe area where I sit

ferrari took the parking space the Jeep wanted

For an hour: two college students flirted about God

two grey-haired women found the guy to my left

“There he is.  He is still relaxing.”

Toddler runs ahead of his well-dressed family: flip flops flip flopping on the sidewalk.

Now just the groove

Scratch of old guy’s pen on other side of cafe

7 year-old dragging his sneakers explaining his thoughts to his smiling mother and focused father.

green light

more cars drive by

retreat

retreat

fall back

shadow

no notice

white noise

alone

quiet.

some thoughts on writing

One of my favorite parts of the novel POSSESSION (not the movie, which I couldn’t bring myself to see) is when the aspiring writer is told that in order to improve her writing, she must constantly write.  I think that is really true—when I was in high school, I wrote constantly.  Some of it was oK, most it was downright depressing and a good percentage of it was for pure shock value.  Much of it struggled for a unique voice. 

The one thing I wrote that I most thought was in my inside voice, my very secret and private voice, was lost in the internet ether.  I suppose I could dig through emails to old lovers and find the segments that were delivered to them, but more of me wants to keep it hidden.  Why did I stop writing it and not bother keeping it?  It was a story I no longer wanted to tell, at least not to its original recipient.  It was a story of who I was, in no uncertain terms.  A story with all my faults highlighted and no remorse or empty excuses.  just me, straight up.  It can be hard to take.  I find it hard to take and I am essentially the person who created me.  It can be hard to be.  We really do create our own stories, because we are the ones who choose which parts of our memory stick with us, and who we tell what about ourselves.  If all my friends were together and shared what they know about me, they wouldn’t find 100%.  And I remember saying that in something I wrote in high school, and being proud of it, vs. now, when I feel it may be a confession.

The people next to me outside the Starbucks are talking about writing, too, although the girl isn’t sure that she is interested in the guy yet.

2 minutes later……oh yeah.  Definitely not interested.

OK, I owe an update on The Indy Convergence

I know I never finished up my time at The Indy Convergence on this blog.  I don’t even know if I finished my time there.  With so much on my plate back here, I still often think of my time there and utilize a collaboration technique I learned, or simply find myself with random pieces of Patchen poetry lingering through my head.  And we’re already trying to have an Indy West dinner.  So my time in Indy isn’t done.  I can tell.

But here, I combined a day of intense work with clutter-clearing my photos.  So I found some beauties.  In an effort to be humble, and maybe as penance for just posting 44 photos of myself on facebook, I am going to share the most awkward photos I have of me.
I totally know this girl, who thought a neon yellow bow matched the gold in her leopard print jumper?  The insane lengths to which you go on the days you don’t have to wear a Catholic School Girl uniform.

Not enough.  Who can ever forget the ill-fated perm?  Did Whoopi Goldberg mate with a Chia pet?

And that was my perm on a GOOD day.

I am still trying to remember why on earth dressing like a mime sounded like a GOOD idea.

The Artist’s Duty

The only way that I express these last few days is–conveniently—with a poem from Kenneth Patchen, who is the subject of The Umbrella Project at The Indy Convergence

The Artist’s Duty

So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame

To extend all boundaries

To fog them in right over the plate

To kill only what is ridiculous

To establish problem

To ignore solutions

To listen to no one

To omit nothing

To contradict everything

To generate  the free brain

To bear no cross

To take part in no crucifixion

To tinkle a warning when mankind strays

To explode upon all parties

To wound deeper than the soldier

To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

To verify the irrational

To exaggerate all things

To inhibit everyone

To lubricate each proportion

To experience only experience

To set a flame in the high air

To exclaim at the commonplace alone

To cause the unseen eyes to open

To admire only the absurd

To be concerned with every profession save his own

To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty

To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator

To lift the flesh above the suffering

To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

To HAPPEN

It is the artist’s duty to be alive

To drag people into glittering occupations

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence

To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence

To burrow beneath the subconscious

To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason

To obey each outrageous impulse

To commit his company to all enchantments.

The Last Weekend at Indy

It’s hard to explain the last weekend.  A combination of keeping on top of things at home, as well as moving quickly forward in all creativity, which fuels everything at home, thus inspiring more creativity……and onwards and onwards.

A circle is the best way to describe the last couple of days.  The yoga fueled the writing which fueled my work at Antaeus in Los Angeles, which jumpstarted my work on the Voices From Chornobyl script — a 6-person version–I felt a bit tired the entire weekend, but in the I’ve-been-up-way-too-late-for-too-long-yet-my-energy-is-high kind of way.

Some highlights:

• Singing “Summertime” in Ellen’s Remembering Your Voice workshop.  What a great song.
• Being led through a shamanist ritual where I met my spirit animal—or just made up a cool story to go along with the drumming.  Either way, it was fun.
• Moving a lot further in Yoga than I could two days ago
• Running a workshop on Social Change Through Art — getting people to articulate their views on how their art does or does not elicit social change, and creating an understanding of why we must be articulate in the importance of art in society
• Got out a lot of stress on the drums
• Tried a new IPA brew: Dragonfly.  Highly recommended!
• Will be playing Friday Kahlo in a humanist adaptation of EVERYMAN by Suzanne Karpinski
• Every day being homesick and appreciating how I love my family, even though I am so far away

Looking forward to the next week—five days to get this whole thing together!

First day — Yoga, Chornobyl & Poetry, oh my!

The first day of the Convergence held some surprises for me.  I figured out pretty quickly last night that there were a number of dancers in the group.  not surprising, considering that the Managing Artistic Director is a dancer herself.  So starting with yoga was one way to take me completely out of my comfort zone.  As I got deeper and deeper into this intense yoga class, I realized this must be what a rehearsal feels like for actors:

1. You are not necessarily in tune with the overall plan
2. You must trust your leader
3. You spend most of the time playing catch-up to the more advanced players
4. although your time is not your own — it’s still an incredibly personal experience

I had one “Ah-ha!” moment where I actually accomplished the objective: in this case, aligning breath with action.

Granted, it only happened with one and 1/2 breaths, but it DID happen.  ONCE during the course of the 75 minute class did I feel successful.  But I was OK with that.  I still felt a focus and balance I hadn’t felt since a brief introduction to Alexander Technique.

My mantra raged in my head: keep on. Keep on.  You demand that actors go out of their comfort zone all the time.  It’s about time you did.  Keep on.

So I did.  I have no idea how insanely beginner I looked, but I honestly didn’t care.  It felt very personal and I was truly sorry to see our amazing teacher go.

I also had an astounding moment of clarity during the meditative portion of the yoga.  At our last Macbeth RE-EX (see previous posts), there were some astounding vocal discoveries, but I was at a loss as to how to integrate them into the RE-EXploration process as a whole.  Can’t get into detail here, but suffice to say that the soundscape will play a huge role in rehearsals to create a play where the witches, spirits and mortals are inter-connected.  Not sure if it will serve the play once we get to its final destination—wherever that may be—but it sure will help along the way.

More blogging about VOICES FROM CHORNOBYL discoveries at www.voicesfromchornobyl.com/blog

Since this is already long, I’ll end with some quotes and musings about the Umbrella Project, which is inspired by Kenneth Patchen,.  He is my new poet obsession.

Fact: he lost a dog as a child, and cried on his own deathbed for that black dog

Fact: wrote all his insightful love poems while in traction: according to the director of the Umbrella Project: “{Patchen} said that he didn’t know how to create art without pain.”

Growing up with family working in the steel mills caused him to become a pacificst and humanist.

My Idea: He was a 20th century prophet.  He stood in the middle of earth, called us all hypocrites unless we stood up for what we loved, and loved his wife very deeply.

Quote: “When the day seems to die in our arms and we have not done much that is beautiful.”

Quote: “All at once is what eternity is.”

Can’t wait for Day 2!  Which is mere hours away…………………

prophetic chickens

I am going to out myself here as an Uber Geekazoid and tell everyone that I instigated an “I, Claudius” night with my friends.  Two of whom had seen it and read the books, four of whom had not. 

Besides the fact that it was a lot of fun, we all really latched onto one line that mentioned “prophetic chickens” — in our world of astrology and fortune cookies and interpreting status messages, this ancient form of answering life’s questions appealed to us.  Not in practice, necessarily, although I did linger near the chicken aisle a little longer than usual last week.

While preparing for The Indy Convergence, where I am right now (Hello, Indiana!), I was reading poetry which is part of the project.  Here are the first three lines of one Kenneth Patchen poem:

In the footsteps of the walking air
Sky’s prophetic chickens weave their cloth of awe
And hillsides lift green wings in somber journeying

I want to see MY cloth of awe woven by the prophetic chickens!

And here is my tribute to the late poet Kenneth Patchen—his poem “The Artist’s Duty”

So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame To extend all boundaries To fog them in right over the plate To kill only what is ridiculous To establish problem To ignore solutions To listen to no one To omit nothing To contradict everything To generate the free brain To bear no cross To take part in no crucifixion To tinkle a warning when mankind strays To explode upon all parties To wound deeper than the soldier To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all To verify the irrational To exaggerate all things To inhibit everyone To lubricate each proportion To experience only experience To set a flame in the high air To exclaim at the commonplace alone To cause the unseen eyes to open To admire only the abrsurd To be concerned with every profession save his own To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator To lift the flesh above the suffering To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss To HAPPEN It is the artist’s duty to be alive To drag people into glittering occupations To blush perpetually in gaping innocence To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence To burrow beneath the subconscious To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason To obey each outrageous inpulse To commit his company to all enchantments. Kenneth Patchen

Another interesting connections, since at this Convergence, I run a workshop about Social Change Through Art and struggle with many of these questions and ideas.  Well, considering these two major coincidences with one poet I had never encountered until 2 weeks ago, I believe my prophetic chicken has come!  Patchen must be an artist to whom I pay more attention.

The Indy Convergence

So I kind of jumped into this Indy Convergence blind. I know one of the founders, Dara Weinberg, and just trust that anything in which she is involved would be an interesting creative experience. And now, four days before I leave on a very early flight to go to Indianapolis, of all places, I get the schedule.

It’s kind of like a spa for over-achievers. That might sound weird, but it’s for people who can imagine such a two-week schedule: yoga, brunch, fifteen artists collaborate on one project together–and they just met—-rehearsal for a side project (usually three in one day), two days of 2 hour workshops where everyone gets to be the expert on their subject, more rehearsals, more instant collaboration–just add coffee, more yoga, etc. etc. and so forth.

I am psyched.

I will miss Los Angeles and I will miss The Antaeus Academy and I will miss my dog and husband, but two weeks of essentially three of my own workshops — whatever else I can fit into my schedule — sounds like a vacation.

More to come, I am sure.

Thank You Sarah Palin

Thank you Sarah Palin

Must admit I was failin’

To try my best

In all I do

In life.

You’ve shown me the right way

Just keep my brain at bay

And simply ignore

What any may say

On strife.

Thank you for the feelin’

Don’t bother with the glass ceilin’

Just get a stool

Make racists drool

With hate.

No need to use our smarts

Pump venom in our hearts

Most ‘mericans

Won’t understand

Till late.

When our daughters dump their babies

in dumpsters where rats have rabies

cuz they did not know

that they could say no

or how to ask their Mom?

Best they learn sex from soap shows

or the cool ‘90210′

I know it taught me

to lose my virginity

By prom.

When witches are excised

And Freedom seen its demise

I know we will

All stand by a landfill–

Oh wait, that’s a national park.

But no concerns over oil

Just Drill Baby Drill

No need for more schoolin’

Cuz when Palin’s rulin’

We’ll start and end with Noah’s Ark.

Dramaturgy Via Google Pt. 1

I have fond memories of fighting my way through midtown Manhattan, two empty shoulder bags over one arm, and entering the bliss that is called the New York Public Library.  I knew the side entrance which had the clearest path to the 3rd floor.

Ah……the 3rd floor.  Literature, Drama, Art, Literary Criticisms that made me drool with desire to read, and the ultimate Amazing Research destination: The Picture Collection.  It only took two trips to my mecca before I had the routine down, including the less busy times of days, days of the week and what coinage in what quantities was needed for the copy machines.

That’s how I used to research projects, plays, costumes, anything I could grab with my grubby hands, which I was sure to wash thoroughly before entering the collections.

Now I just use Google.  There are definitely times when traveling downtown to the Los Angeles Public LIbrary is the only way to obtain the information that I require, but more often than not it’s simply a matter of copy & paste or re-formatting, and Google gives me everything I need.

They even have websites that I can easily create and share Dramaturgy with Directors, Producers, Designers and Actors.  For an example of exactly how convenient this can be, just look here http://sites.google.com/site/theroverbyaphrabehn/Home .

Paper is saved, and people can easily find the materials they seek in a format in which we have all become much more comfortable.

My question is: if everyone could just type a keyword and find information as easily as I can, then what is the future of Dramaturgy?  (And yes, I am strictly speaking of Dramaturgy in the Research sense, not the Development Sense).

I will be following this topic over the next few months and asking respected artists their thoughts.  I look forward to a discussion and comments!  I am withholding my thoughts until we hear from others.

Iraq is not about golf

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22425001/vp/24635229#24635229

video of my DUI Prevention Theater Program

This specific video was created by  my co-worker Barbar a Sheppard

Excerpt from TEN

We had the first reading of TEN today, the play that needtheater commissioned.  It went very well and I received some amazing feedback.  here is a little excerpt:

(ON THE SHIP)

         

                        RICHARD

Where are we going, Sir?

 

                        RIVERA

No need to ask until I tell you.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

How do you like the army, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA
That’s not what I asked.

 

                       

 

RICHARD

That is my answer, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA
OK, Private.  Here’s another question.  Do you feel that you are fit to be a soldier?

 

                        RICHARD

I came of the Enlistment Age, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I know that, Private.  Do you think you are a good soldier?

 

                        RICHARD

Not yet, Sir.  I need more instruction, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Now that is a good answer, Private.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Our Nation forgives great leaders like your father for small indiscretions.

 

We forgive frailty, Richard, as long as one’s strength returns. 

 

Many men who once followed your father now follow me.  All those who survived.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

The one who does not follow me.  We sail to meet him now.

 

                        RICHARD

Why—would we—

 

     (RIVERA sends him a sharp look)

 

What is the mission, Sir?

 

                       

 

RIVERA

Private, do you trust me?

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.  Why wouldn’t I?

 

                        RIVERA

There are many who hold me in the lowest regard.

 

                        RICHARD

I have never met one, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I believe you, Private.

 

In the few weeks you’ve been enlisted, I’ve come to hold a high regard for you.  Oh, my feelings were often masked by a certain hardship.  But couldn’t you see through that, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

I have felt, Sir, as though your eye was especially keen on me.

 

                        RIVERA

Excellent.  Now this man, barely a whole man, who we are about to see, this man was called Philips.  He was of high rank in your father’s Legion, do you remember his name?

 

                        RICHARD
Only….a small memory, just an image and a sounds really…in the back of my mind.  He sang a beautiful tune, of land and farm and wheat.  And he sang until – he had to hand me back to my father.  He looked as if he might cry, but then a deep roar surfaced and he retreated to our guest room.  It is the roar that I remember clearly, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Why is that?

 

                        RICHARD

It was much louder than any noise I’d ever heard, but its origins seemed so distant that there was no connection to where he stood directly in front of me.  Yet I heard it clear as day.  After that I never saw him again.  The time was quite close to my father’s—leave.

 

                        RIVERA

Yes, your father.  He was very brave.

 

                        RICHARD

As you’ve said, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

How long have we been at war, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

The War Against Brothers was in its tenth year when we began the Unified Fight against the Rebel Army, which began as I turned five. 

 

                        RIVERA
Another ten very long years.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

And now this bombing…What if I had the secret to end the Rebel War?  What if my secret weapon was within reach?

 

                        RICHARD

Well, then, Sir, I would think you’d be inclined to use it, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I’m glad you agree, Private. 

 

     (He stares out to sea.)

 

When you state an opinion, Private, there’s no reason to preface it with “I think.”  It is taken for granted that a good soldier does think anything he says.

 

(ON THE SHIP)

         

                        RICHARD

Where are we going, Sir?

 

                        RIVERA

No need to ask until I tell you.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

How do you like the army, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA
That’s not what I asked.

 

                       

 

RICHARD

That is my answer, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA
OK, Private.  Here’s another question.  Do you feel that you are fit to be a soldier?

 

                        RICHARD

I came of the Enlistment Age, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I know that, Private.  Do you think you are a good soldier?

 

                        RICHARD

Not yet, Sir.  I need more instruction, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Now that is a good answer, Private.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Our Nation forgives great leaders like your father for small indiscretions.

 

We forgive frailty, Richard, as long as one’s strength returns. 

 

Many men who once followed your father now follow me.  All those who survived.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

The one who does not follow me.  We sail to meet him now.

 

                        RICHARD

Why—would we—

 

     (RIVERA sends him a sharp look)

 

What is the mission, Sir?

 

                       

 

RIVERA

Private, do you trust me?

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.  Why wouldn’t I?

 

                        RIVERA

There are many who hold me in the lowest regard.

 

                        RICHARD

I have never met one, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I believe you, Private.

 

In the few weeks you’ve been enlisted, I’ve come to hold a high regard for you.  Oh, my feelings were often masked by a certain hardship.  But couldn’t you see through that, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

I have felt, Sir, as though your eye was especially keen on me.

 

                        RIVERA

Excellent.  Now this man, barely a whole man, who we are about to see, this man was called Philips.  He was of high rank in your father’s Legion, do you remember his name?

 

                        RICHARD
Only….a small memory, just an image and a sounds really…in the back of my mind.  He sang a beautiful tune, of land and farm and wheat.  And he sang until – he had to hand me back to my father.  He looked as if he might cry, but then a deep roar surfaced and he retreated to our guest room.  It is the roar that I remember clearly, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

Why is that?

 

                        RICHARD

It was much louder than any noise I’d ever heard, but its origins seemed so distant that there was no connection to where he stood directly in front of me.  Yet I heard it clear as day.  After that I never saw him again.  The time was quite close to my father’s—leave.

 

                        RIVERA

Yes, your father.  He was very brave.

 

                        RICHARD

As you’ve said, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

How long have we been at war, Private?

 

                        RICHARD

The War Against Brothers was in its tenth year when we began the Unified Fight against the Rebel Army, which began as I turned five. 

 

                        RIVERA
Another ten very long years.

 

                        RICHARD

Yes, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

And now this bombing…What if I had the secret to end the Rebel War?  What if my secret weapon was within reach?

 

                        RICHARD

Well, then, Sir, I would think you’d be inclined to use it, Sir.

 

                        RIVERA

I’m glad you agree, Private. 

 

     (He stares out to sea.)

 

When you state an opinion, Private, there’s no reason to preface it with “I think.”  It is taken for granted that a good soldier does think anything he says.

 

Too Old For Halloween?

So it has finally happened.  I never thought it would. 

I don’t care about Halloween this year. 

Once I was dragged out of the trick-or-treatable-age kicking and screaming, I would go out of my way to make Halloween an event.  Throw my own parties, make people at work dress up, anything that involved a costume and candy.

 My first Halloween in L.A., I won the Best Costume Award for showing up clad from hair to toe in a Donatello outfit.  The staff and shell were difficult to manuever in the Santa Clarita bar, but it worked.  I believe my karaoke choice of that evening was Melisa Etheridge, just to make it all even more surreal.

 My second Halloween in L.A. I had just lost my job, went on an interview to be a Customer Service agent for an adult video store, and proceeded to spend my last $100 on gas and a costume to wear that night.

After that they have all been a bit of a blur.  Come to think of it, both of those Halloweens ended in a blur as well.  But the more recent blurs are because of disinterest.

It took over 15 years, but I’ve finally gotten to the point where I didn’t even buy my standard spider dangly earrings at CVS this year.

This is more depressing than Santa Claus not being real.