The Glass

"There's this wall. I'm on one side, you're on the other. And it's really thick, right? Only, it's made of glass. And I mean, crystal clear glass. But I can't touch you because there's this two-foot thick glass wall in between us. And there's no way around it. Or through it, for that matter. Because the wall stretches around the whole world. Dividing you and me forever. Oh can you hang on a second? Someone's at the door."

"Ok, sorry I'm back. UPS guy. Ok so anyway, I can see you, right? And you can see me. We both put our hands up against the wall and we just keep staring at each other. And then I started to cry because I realized our hands will never, ever touch. And then it hits me. I'm going to miss you every day. I'm going to walk around in my world, and look over, and there will be that glass wall, and you on the other side of it. And I'll try to talk to you and be a part of your life, but I won't ever be able to. You saw me crying, so you came right up next to the wall and sat down and put your hand against the glass, and I could tell you were saying something nice because I saw your lips moving and your eyes were concerned, but I couldn't hear you. I couldn't hear anything. That's when I woke up. Crazy dream, right?"

Autumnal Reflections

There have been a thousand-thousand writings and musings and ponderings and angst-ings about the coming season. Consider this post another leaf to add to the pile.

First of all, let me just say, I LOVE the holiday season. I love the weather, I love the clothes I get to wear, I love the relief of the cool, crisp air from an overly-long summer heat. I love how everyone knows Christmas is coming, and it shows on their faces. I love how I feel when I sit inside a coffee shop; as the lights go down outside, the warm orange glow of the ambient lighting inside the shop seeps into my eyes, blurring the world to a hazier, friendlier colour. I love how I dress in this type of weather. I am obsessed with scarves, hats and coats. And living in Arizona, I don't get much opportunity to take advantage of the aforementioned obsession. But it's coming. The winter chill is almost here. I can taste it. I can hear it. I can smell it. And it's flooding my senses.

Did I tell you already that I hate the television? I didn't have cable for about..six years, and when I moved in with my fabulous roommate, I discovered DirectTv. And I'm certain it has turned my brain to mush. I couldn't figure out why I was feeling so lethargic, so impatient, and so temperamental. And then I realized the common denominator: every day  I felt that way was a day I had spent at least an hour watching the TV. It stifled my creativity, it shortened my temper, it decreased my attention span and made me extraordinarily impatient, lazy and depressed. Why isn't television illegal? Anyway, I've decided I'm not ever watching the blasted thing again. I'll watch movies and my Doctor Who and maybe a documentary, but I can get all of those on DVD. Without commercial breaks.

Anyway, the point of me bringing that bit about the TV up was to move into this portion of the post: this season brings out the writer in me. I don't know what it is, but I get..extraordinarily romantic and creative around this time of year.

And hey, while we're being honest, can I just say, I really want to have someone to share the holidays with? Uh oh.. The voice of Bridget Jones just popped in my head.
"...Will find nice sensible boyfriend and stop forming romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional f***wits, or perverts. Will especially stop fantasizing about a particular person who embodies all these things."

 I don't think I'm quite to Bridget-status, but with the holidays coming up, it just intensifies the whole 'I have been single for a long time' feeling. And I mean, it's not like it's really important or even a priority, but it's just..well..I'm allowed to be a girl sometimes and this is how I feel!
"Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak!"

Oh, and Santa, while I'm blathering on about my selfish desires for romance during the holidays, do you reckon I could have a New Year's Eve kiss this year? For once? Maybe?

And while I'm at it why don't I wish for an unlimited gift card to Anthropologie, a size 22 inch waist so I can actually fit into vintage clothing, a big time movie role, and a plane ticket to Venice, Italy? I would also accept Paris, France, New York, New York, and London, England.

Thanks.

My oh my. Time to wrap it up.

See you soon.

A Friday Free

Glam trobble spilk troht goop. Seenk Maren thumby pluff dumbed.

There now. I've begun. The best way to begin, Frodo Baggins, is to just begin. Trot one finger in front of the other and go on your merry way. Creating something.

This morning, I awoke as usual. I watched a terribly melodramatic 1990's romance film called "Untamed Heart" with Christian Slater and Marisa Tomei. Why did I watch it? Can't be sure. Something about, not wanting to start my day. I had half a grapefruit and two slices of cinnamon raisin Ezekiel bread and aren't you so glad you're reading this right now this absolutely fascinating piece of literature?

This table is really much too tall. Or perhaps the chair is much too short. Either way, I am being forced to sit in an upright position with my elbows almost at a right angle so that I can type this entry without straining my neck down like a great bigluvulating giraffe bending down for a sip of water on a hot day.

See that? I just keep going and writing nonsense. But don't worry, this spur of the moment preamble will certainly lead to something of worth. Or at least of note. Or at least of something not so entirely void of entertainment as this post has been thus far.

Do you know, I am sipping a glorious beverage. A soy caramelized pear tea latte. And it's delightful. And what's more? It's NOT from Starbucks.

Oy. I just stretched my neck. It felt like there was a great big oaf in the middle of a science lab that just ran up and down the laboratory pulling plugs and spilling chemicals and breaking beakers and generally making things spark and spill and crack and causing such a stink that it makes your head spin. That's what I feel like sometimes. A great big robot that's all full of wires and plugs and glass beakers and little metal trays that they can all sit on, and then one day this great big knot of a monster comes in and messes it all up and then I have to go and pour water all over it to cool down the equipment and pull the plug on the whole thing and reboot.

Regardless, this tea latte is delicious.

I do wish people were more considerate to coffee shop employees.

"Hi there how are you tod--"
"Good CAN I get a LARGE cup of coffee thanks."

Seriously? Your day is SO jam-packed that you can't take three seconds to acknowledge that there is another human being across from you -seriously no more than, sixteen inches away? How about some eye contact and maybe, just maybe, a smile?

You ever think about busy intersections? How many cars there are? I sometimes imagine that all the cars are invisible and then I can just see all the people gathered in one spot at this great big intersection - as if there was a party going on! Trouble is, no one else looks around and notices that there are other people around them - hundreds and hundreds of people! Or like in rush hour on the highway, where it's all a dead parking lot. How much more fun would it be if we could all just roll down our windows and laugh and talk and vent about our days to each other? You know there are some people in this world that go through their entire day without a pleasant word from anyone. And now we get creeped out if someone even makes eye contact with us on the highway. What are they going to do, shoot laserbeams out their eyes and turn your car into a great big fiery mess? No.

I have my Friday free today. I could do anything I wanted today. I can literally do anything I want to do today. Anything.

Which is why, at this moment, I am sipping a caramelized pear tea latte with soy milk.

No words at the moment. I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a slump today.

Mad Men, Whiskey, and Bittersweet "See You Laters"

Greetings. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long! I do hope you are all feeling well, or if you're not, I hope you go find yourself a great big barrel of hugs and fall into it until you're good and smothered in happy-go-lucky free-and-easy lightness.

To ring in my 21st year on this blue rock I call home, a lovely group of friends gathered for cocktails, appetizers, and karaoke in style. Mad Men style that is. It was thoroughly delightful. And can I just say that everyone looked smashing??? I'll post pictures later. 

My first drink? Mint Julip. Whiskey on the rocks with a sprig of fresh mint? Yes please.

Well, technically my first drink as a 21 year old was a dirty martini, which I drank at approximately 12:04 a.m. yesterday morning. Happy birthday to me!

The party was smashing, the people were gorgeous, the music was infectious, and the conversation delightful.

It was also the last day Geoff Ramler and Dylan Uremovich, two beloved friends of mine, were to be in Arizona. So, at the end of the night, amidst the smiles and laughs brought about by a certain tone-deaf karaoke performer, the gravity of the departure sank in. Tears and hugs and kisses ensued.

It was a bittersweet ending to a perfect birthday.

Break out the lexicons!

I have just been cast as Rosalind in Brelby Theater Company's upcoming production of "As You Like It." So, after bolting out of bed this morning at approximately 5:55 a.m., I scarfed down my breakfast, and packed my re-usable canvas grocery bag from Whole Foods with the Arden Shakespeare, my laptop, charger, notebooks, highlighter, pens, and a pair of pleasantly plump orange and green Shakespeare Lexicons, containing the definition and context of every word of Shakespeare's plays. Every single one.

So, today I have the lovely task of translating my lines. Every single one of them. It's a discipline I learned in my first-ever rehearsal for a Shakespeare play almost 7 years ago. Crikey!

You might recall from a previous post that I had mentioned I hadn't been in a show for over a year. A YEAR. Yes, I've done some film work here and there, but I haven't been on a stage in over a year. And man, am I nervous.

But, as David Mamet would say, the actor's job is to stand up, look the other fellow in the eye, and tell the truth courageously in spite of how nervous/insecure/unprepared/inadequate you feel. That's it. The actor's job is to bring the play to life for the audience. We serve no other purpose. Whether or not I memorize the family tree of my character's extended family and delve deep into the subconscious of my character as a four year old will be absolutely no help whatever to the audience in relating the action of the play. Emotion memory and sense recall techniques are, essentially, pointless.

Being on stage, summoning the courage, in spite of how insecure you are or how you feel about your co-stars, or your costumes, or the restless audience, or the set, those are the challenges we face in real time. To remove our minds from the moment of the play to try and delve into an emotional memory or sensory recall is counter-productive. If you ever do achieve such a moment (which is rare), you become excited that you actually accomplished the task and become even more detached from the moment.


Anywhoo.

I'm gonna get back to my Americano and my beloved lexicons.

toodle-oo.

America, Land of the Free (And the Numb.)

On November 30th, 1947, an essay by renowned American dramatist Tennessee Williams was published in The New York Times Drama Section just 4 days before the premiere of his new play "A Streetcar Named Desire."
In it, he described the months of luxury he experienced after the success of his play "The Glass Menagerie." He stayed in a first-class Manhattan hotel, dined on gourmet food, and lived off of room service. After several months of this continued, he found himself becoming increasingly disenchanted with the things of luxury and well..depressed with the physical world of luxury he found himself in; the 'American plan of Olympus.' Eventually, he found himself becoming indifferent towards people, especially of his close friends.
Williams says,"Conversations all sounded like they had been recorded years ago and were being played back on a turntable." He turned away from his friends, suspecting them of hypocrisy and seeming lack of sincerity and kindliness. He detested and even avoided responding to compliments and flattery on the success of his play and found himself almost entirely bereft of any speck of motivation to write another play. The success had exhausted him.
Sometime after these three months of curious behavior, Williams had eye surgery (his fourth operation, having suffered with a cataract on his left eye for about five years), and it was during his recovery period that he decided to check out of his first-class hotel in Manhattan and leave for Mexico; an 'elemental country where you can quickly forget the false dignities and conceits imposed by success.' It was here that Williams wrote "Streetcar."

I absolutely love this and I hope you'll read what Williams says about the nature of an artist:
"It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work is not only convenient but unavoidable.
This is an over-simplification. One does not escape that easily from the seductions of an effete way of life. But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to--why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position of knowing where danger lies.
You know then, that the public Somebody you are when you "have a name" is a fiction created with mirrors and that the only somebody worth being is the solitary and unseen you that existed from your first breath and which is the sum of your actions and so is constantly in a state of becoming under your own volition.
It is never altogether too late, unless you embrace the Bitch Goddess, as William James called her, with both arms and find in her smothering caresses exactly what the homesick little boy in you always wanted, absolute protection and utter effortlessness.
Security is a kind of death, I think, and it can come to you in a storm of royalty checks by a kidney-shaped pool in Beverly Hills or anywhere at all that is removed from the conditions that made you an artist."

Ok, so I'm just going to state the obvious. We live in a nation that worships the "Bitch Goddess." We LOVE handouts, security, and 'utter effortlessness.' We're raised to have no idea what we want, no idea what we need, and to give our money (and our votes) to anyone that tells us what we want and what we need. Government officials, major corporations and sleazy salesman don't require our minds or original thought, just a few easy payments of $29.95 and we'll live in a life of luxury and ease. It's the American dream, right? Get rich, get a house, drive a nice car, live comfortably. Effortlessly. We buy fast food because it's cheap and convenient, and then turn around and buy a bottle of pills that make losing the weight we gained almost as effortless as the drive to Mcdonalds.
Face it. We're numb, and we like it.
"We are led as easily by the nose as asses are."

But then there's the moment. The moment I'm sure each and every one of us has experienced. The moment where we find ourselves in a place that captivates our attention and awakens each and every one of our senses. You're silent at first, and then you smile. You stand still, and for the first time in a long time, you feel that sensational tingle of joy. Of purpose. You're in a place where you belong, and you're inspired.

I guess what I'm getting at is this. I'm sick of brand names, slogans, jingles and infomercials. I hate People magazine and I can't stand the sight of an eight year old with a Blackberry. The smell of gasoline and the neon lights are giving me a heartache. My eyes sting from looking at a screen for too long, and my eyebrows are in a constant clench because I can't stop thinking about how much I want to wake the souls, hearts, and minds of the young people of America. I honestly believe it's a matter of life or death.

So, in case you were wondering what the point of all this was, (I just re-read what I wrote and could only gather that the conclusion I was attempting to make is that our consumer-istic society is sucking our souls out of our nostrils) it's this: Challenge your mind, exercise your creativity. It's good. You know it is. You have to ask yourself, "What is good for me?" Not "What would be the easiest for me?"


For the artists of this lifetime, here's your answer:

"What is good? The obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into pigment or music or bodily movement or poetry or prose or anything that's dynamic and expressive -- that's what's good for you if you're at all serious in your aims."