Archive | September, 2012

Advanced Retreat Into A Sunny Day

23 Sep

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Like zero sleep last night. 

…Started off with a ridiculous cat in heat who decided to yowl right outside my bedroom window.  I kept telling her to shut the hell up and have some dignity, but she refused to listen to me.  Around two or so she must have stopped, cuz the next time I opened my eyes to look at the clock, it was five.  This time, it was Mrs. Johnson’s fault.  She wanted her pill-cocktail, so I had to get up, shove some food down m’throat and toss back the meds, then go back to bed clutching my guts and moaning.

…I put on Netflix to keep me company.  Ancient Egypt.  Mostly stuff on King Tut.

…I’m a little obsessed with mummies and tombs.

…And also serial killers and the Holocaust.

…If my theory is correct, (that whatever you are obsessed with in life, is because you have some sort of formal connection to it in the past…not necessarily in a “past life” per se, but possibly, and at the very least you were somehow present in a spirit or energy form around a person who was having that experience  at the time…kinda like a cling-on to a host), then I’ve witnessed me some SERIOUSLY disturbing shit in my time.  And yet where I can watch endless documentaries on it without residual affect (besides weeping), I CANNOT watch any of those things in a Hollywood film with viscera and guts just flying all over the place.

I don’t know why.

The REAL things are so much more disturbing.  You’d think THOSE would be the ones to haunt me. But no.

…I got this idea for a book a couple years ago, based on the Jack the Ripper case and spent the better part of NINE MONTHS with my nose in German Victorian dissecting books, and pouring over the snapshots of every attributed victim’s remains.  It was completely disgusting (and necessary…and gory…and disturbing as hell), yet it needed to be done in order to get the thing done correctly.  I’m talking some TRULY gorrific stuff, here.  And yet, I can’t even watch Hospital dramas or detective junk on T.V. without nightmares.

…I went through most of my childhood COMPLETELY surrounded in Holocaust literature and history books, because the empathy (yes, “empathy,” not “sympathy”) for these people was totally unexplainable. 

…The Romanov family massacre, and possible survival of one of the children, completely fascinates me.

…The tombs of the ancient Pharaohs, are crazy interesting, and I will watch anything regarding Egyptology, at any time.

…The era of WWII in general, (from it’s music to social customs) feels like a natural default that I could easily slip right into, were I to magically teleport into it one day.

…England is clearly my main base “home”…it just calls to the roots of me.

…And I relate to Bronte & Austen era books, character feelings, and frustrations far too much to NOT have (in some way) participated in them, historically.

So, when I can’t sleep…these are strangely, the places I retreat to…either in book form or film…to ease me back to an even keel and drift me off to sleep again.

Weird, I know.  But what are yuh gonna do?

…So through five, six, seven o’clock this morning…I soaked up History Channel explorations and tried not to think about how badly my stomach hurt, and how The BFF was gonna be leaving today. 

It was a good sidetrack for a while. 

Until it wasn’t, anymore. 

She and The Fella buzzed the door at nine, with coffees in hand.  A last “hurrah,” before they started their week-long road trip enroute to L.A..  First stop: the ocean for the night, then onto Ashland for a couple of plays at the Oregon Shakes…then two days in Vegas with The Fella’s aunt, and next to visit her brother in S.F..  Then: L.A. 

…I’ll be pickin’ The Fella up from the airport next Saturday.

Our coffee was had.  Ridiculous teasing and riffing, took place.  I gave her a monster hug. And she was on her way.

…I’m really excited for her.  And really bummed for me.  And the thing I wanna do most right now is just hermit away this sunny day by watching incredibly depressing history lessons of my possible past lives on Netflix, until rehearsal rips me out of my moroseness at four P.M.

That’s all I wanna do right now.

…But in my head, I can hear her say something like, “Fuck that shit!  It’s sunny!  Get out in that and play!”

I’m negotiating with Mrs. Johnson right now to see if she’s either with me on this, or I need to beat her into submission. Cuz moping is NOT the answer.  And I know it.

…SEE how good The BFF has trained me?!

FUCK it’s really gonna suck to be without her.

~D

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A Letter To The BFF, As She Moves To L.A.

22 Sep

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The BFF is leaving tomorrow.

…Not forever, just a few months…but I still don’t like it.  I know she’s coming back no matter what, because I’m holding The Fella and all my booze for ransom, but she’s kinda getting in the habit of ditching us…and that isn’t cool. 

…This one time, she did it for a whole semester in Dublin, and had WAY more fun than me, then decided to travel the whole fucking continent of Europe, before she ever came back home again. And where I’m way more jealous of her doing that, I still don’t totally agree with the whole “plan” she has mapped out right now. But, I guess she’s going anyway.

…Because she secretly hates us.

The flip side of this is that she’s moving to L.A., where NO ONE has more fun. Because they’re too busy being starving-hungry on purpose all the time.  And they have to get everything waxed so they look like hairless rats.  And always bleach their teeth and eye whites.  And get injections into their faces, of juice toxins they make bombs out of. And meat (outside of the porn biz) is totally outlawed there. 

…I heard this one time? A girl gained .002 of an ounce, just by accidentally breathing in beef spores from the lunch meat on the Kraft Service table, and she was totally kicked off the movie set. On breach of contract.  That’s when they first passed the law, I think.  It’s one of those lesser-known ones that people don’t really talk about, just inherently “know.” Like the one where your boobs have to be bigger than your butt cheeks…and brunettes can only play “evil”, or “the girl-next-door”…and everyone spends two hours applying makeup before they drive into the studio to get their makeup done for “real”, in case of paparazzi.*

(* That last one isn’t a real law, just a good idea in general.  Have you SEEN the covers of The Star and National Enquirer? Okay, then…)

…BTdubs…best get used to the rash of arrant-misinformation-factoid-news-stories NOW, cuz they sure as hell ain’t gonna get any better.

…But I digress. 

This was all supposed to be a letter. A letter of wise words to send my non-blood sister out into the wide-wide world with. Even though she’s already seen ten times more of it than I have.  However, she also almost died that one time…in that Romanian hostel pit from hell, (that she saw fit to spend a night in once and somehow live to tell about.)  And it’s because of things like this, that I feel obligated to list out a few “do’s” and “don’ts” for her.  You know…just in case she gets the feeling to check into a Bates Motel, or work at a strip joint, or shack up with some roomies that turn out to be Colombian Drug Lords.

I only say these things, because I love her.

…Which I wish she would keep in mind.

***

Dear The BFF,

I bought a tiny jar of dill pickles today, and it was tragic. I couldn’t do the big Costco one this time…know why? You won’t be here to help eat them. And after three months or whatever in L.A., you’ll prob’ly never eat dill pickles, ever again. “Too much salt and food content,” you’ll say.

…And you won’t fry things in butter anymore. Or bake cakes. And you’ll go back to eating tofu sandwiches – minus the bread – which is just tofu really, only you’ll still call it a sandwich…because clearly it is made of at least two foods: “to” and “fu”…so that’s a full meal right there…on the occasion that you still even eat food, that is.

(P.S. I hear they have a new surgery now, where they take out your taste buds so you can just totally give up and not even care about food at all, anymore.)

…When you come home again, I will ultimately just disgust you, with my buttersauce ways, and fat-pudge. And you’ll take out an ad to hold Open Casting for a new BFF…one with less evil chub, who doesn’t smell like meat products all the time. Possibly a blond. With a single syllable name…which doesn’t require spelling and pronunciation lessons every time it is given.

(P.S.S. I heard they have this service where you can just order friends off a menu, on Sunset. But if you get the wrong “package deal,” they’ll send you themed strippers instead. This one chick I know, ended up with a Latina in lederhosen holding a Heineken, on her doorstep…when all she wanted was someone to go shopping with.)

…You’ll also be buddies with all the famous people, after this, and have free designer clothes…and know all the new “in” words, so I won’t have any idea what in the hell you’re even talking about anymore…

“Those shoes are just ralsh of viv for the rycalm of it all. I bet Mila and Natalie have ’em. I was at this dinner once, hashing with Reese, Russell & Amy and they were all: ‘you are monster jade, you know that?’ And, O-M-G…did you SEE what Amanda was wearing at that one award show? What a drosh…it was sooooo last season.”

“…The hell?” I will sadly respond.

“Seriously. I cannot even believe I once thought you were Ivan in the sweet and we were all xadish. What a fucking Kevlar I was,” you will reply.

(P.S.S.S. Someone told me this one time that the real reason it’s so hard to break it into Hollywood, is because of the language barrier. Tons of people just never pick it up. Which is prob’ly why almost all the major stars are Foreign. Cuz they already speak nine or ten other languages, so it’s easier for them to pick it up somehow.)

…Of course, I am just panicking and jumping to conclusions here…(which, hello, is totally what I do)…but the innermost “me” knows this is all ridiculous, because you would NEVER betray food like that. Or me. (And I’m totally fine that that is the order we come in.) But I still worry ’bout things.

…Just…you know what? Do me a favor. Maybe find out where ever Winslet, Fey, Pitt, Clooney, Hathaway…the cast of “How I Met your Mother,” or the Whedonites are hanging out…and go be with them. Cuz they’re “real.” I’m told they still have all their original bone structure and skin, even. It would really make me feel better…just “in general.”

Also:

* Don’t ever “borrow” someone’s office couch to crash on…it’s prob’ly got enough generations of movie-starlette spunk on it, to disgust even a garbage man.

* Don’t walk Hollywood Blvd after dusk…especially after a party…people will stop their cars and offer you money to turn a trick.

* Don’t take money from people, while agreeing to “turn a trick.” It isn’t what you think it is. There are no magic doves, disappearing acts, or decks of cards involved in the kind they want. And if there are, you’re even MORE screwed. (Pun intended.)

* If you HAVE to shop lift, (in total emergency situations), wait until you see which store Winona Ryder is going into. When the alarm goes off, point at her. They will totally believe you. Then, when the security guards start to frisk her: run.

* “Organic” special nature California foods, are just a giant trick. ALL produce grows in or from dirt. The end. So don’t pay extra just because they tell you different. (I know I’ve already been having this same argument with you for two years, but it’s not gonna stop now. Isn’t constancy nice?)

* If you go shopping on Rodeo Drive, keep your sunglasses on the whole time, and sneer at the saleswomen like Patsy in “Ab-Fab.” In the words of Meg Ryan from “French Kiss”: “If you’re nice to them, they will treat you like shit, treat THEM like shit, and they’ll love you.”

* Don’t catch any wild ideas about future children’s names and weird charities you wanna sponsor. There are plenty of real ones in both cases, so use/support them. Just for the record: I absolutely refuse to call your kid “Cumquat” or “Pumernickle” or “Spring Rain” or “Ra-$h8-tra.” And I won’t run twenty miles to support the Pygmy Marmoset Dwarf Monkeys of Ecuador. So don’t ask.

* If you run into any of the list of men I gave you before you left, give them my number and tell them to call me.

…And…

* If you accidentally find yourself rich, bring me back something from Tiffany’s.

…For now, that should do it. I feel like I took care of all the really important stuff. Except to say: “I love you…and don’t forget me.”

…And also, I fucking miss you already.

Sincerely,

~ Your BFF

Miserable Joy

21 Sep

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By now, prob’ly EVERYONE has seen this sneak-peek trailer of Les Mis…but in case you’re the one guy who hasn’t: here it is.

Now lets talk for a second about the main reason this brings me so much joy. (And beware…cuz I’m gonna get super passionate about it.)

…It isn’t so much the cast (though I am so happy right now about the choices made, that I could throw a party and pop champagne corks all over the place.)

…It isn’t the fact they have a 70 piece orchestra that will totally go to town until my ears bleed (though you’d think it would be.)

…It isn’t even the intense attention to details in costume and general hardship-grime-ickiness (though, it is a major contender.)

Why it wins the Miserable Joy Award today, is because Cameron Mackintosh (unarguably, this generation’s King of West End Musical Theatre Production), has reconfirmed my total trust: that informed acting SHOULD be the key to musical presentation, REGARDLESS of how pretty (or not) it may sound. Acting FIRST, and the rest that follows will be an honest interpretation. As. It. Should. Be.

…If Cameron Mackintosh, is willing to back that and put it on celluloid for all of time, to the extent of allowing his actors to do their work LIVE and in the moment…if HE is willing to say, “pretty ain’t the purpose, people…what you FEEL is”…then I gotta greet that man with a whole slew of virtual high fives and “fuck yeahs!”

Ripping an audience out of an emotional moment in order to deliver note-for-note perfection, should not be how we do things in theatre performance, people. Lets leave “pre-recording” in the studio, where it belongs. Lets leave that to the Opera, where the entire PERFORMANCE is based around the music itself.

…”Musical Theatre” is another animal entirely…and it should be…that’s why it has a different name.

…The importance should be on the characters and their journeys. Sometimes, yes, it is just based on a strawberry-shortcake kind of plot with hearts and roses and not much else. So sure, that’s not gonna be the greatest acting challenge…and the musical intent will pretty much follow suit and take the lead.

…But when you have a guts and glory kind of musical…where people are in WARS, they are HOMELESS, they are STARVING, they’ve been BEATEN, and TERRORIZED…they live in a form of HELL and are AT THE END OF THEIR ROPE…PLEASE don’t stop everything and sing your soliloquy like your million dollar musical training coach has reamed into you, with note-by-note perfection. I wanna FEEL what you are FEELING right now…I don’t give a SHIT if your voice rasps with anger, or cracks from emotion…I don’t CARE if you run out of air and can’t hold the note for the full extended 26 measures. If your sobs make you drool, if you can’t even barely squeak out in SPOKEN WORD, what we already know are specific notes, painstakingly composed by one musical genius or another.

…That is okay by me.

In fact, I PREFER it.

BRING ME WITH YOU ON YOUR JOURNEY. The whole messy, painful, heartsick part of it. And leave those “musical perfections” for another day.

…What Annie Hathaway said in that interview is IT, entirely. As a performer, you should have a responsibility to service the role as it was written…and it is meant to be played. It is a disservice to throw that all out the window for vanity’s sake because it might not be the most beautiful thing to witness…and might not be the best version that you are musically capable of truly achieving. As an actor, you should be willing to make this sacrifice, equal to smearing dirt on your face, shearing your hair off, and losing 20 pounds, in order to achieve it. Or get the hell off the stage.

…If you can’t deal with these necessary details of live performance, get yourself a recording contract, and become the next concert-touring super star. Own it! I will prob’ly even buy your record and love the HELL out of it! Seriously. Because that is art TOO, and I envy and appreciate the HELL out of it. Within it’s own world of existence.

…But if you are in this thing called “theatre”…with all your GUTS, then BE IN IT. Please. Please. Please.

And, “Thank you.”

…Because, believe it or not…there are a LOT of performers out there who actually do this, and do it astonishingly well.

As for the rest, I can only hope they will become utterly infected by this film, and bring a renewed energy into the entire genre of performance, making it a new universal “norm.”

…God, I am just so exited about it all, I could just sob with relief. Really.

Thank you, Mr. Mackintosh.

Again.

…For like the forty-billionth time this decade.

~D

Lord Of The Rings, & Why I Hate It

20 Sep

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Okay, I know this is prob’ly a severely unfair judgement call to a certain extent, but I can’t help it, and here is why–

…But first, let me clarify some things:

I TOTALLY agree that the artistic and nerd-fulfillment beauty and marvel of the movies is not to be doubted.  They are aesthetically gorgeous…and I’m told, painstakingly researched down to the infinitesimal detail, from the original novels. I admit that it earned it’s collection of Oscars, and the books have obviously gained a cult following throughout the universe, that is not to be rivaled in it’s multiple of fiction genres, (few people seem to agree just where it belongs, specifically.)

…That said:

I don’t like them.

…The build up these movies were driven to, before I even had the chance to see the first film, was just a ridiculous level that no one could POSSIBLY deliver.  I was told of this EPIC story of fantasy and politics and good versus evil, and Hobbits and Dwarves and Dragons, and I was all, “Okay, I can get behind that prob’ly,” so I went along with it.

…And I totally fell asleep in the movie.  I lost track after time “three.”

…Granted, I was on a shitload of Benadryl at the time, with a hell of a head cold…but I swear to you, it was the first (and only recollected) time, I have EVER fallen asleep in a movie theatre.  IN MY LIFE.  And I’ve seen me some SLLLLOOOOOW English period dramas, my friends. (Which I happen to love, but that is beside the point.)

…As hour three (or whatever) FINALLY came to a close, and the lights came up…I remember sitting there and saying, “Are you kidding me?  Where is the action? Where’s all that fantasy stuff? They’ve been climbing the same fucking hill for THREE HOURS just now…and I know they’re Hobbit-tiny-people and all…but seriously?!”

“It’s spread out in three installments,” I was told.

“So I have to come back and do this all over again, before we get to the real stuff?!”

“You just don’t understand.  You should read the books,” my helpful friend suggested.

…Which I never did.  Because I’d already spent THREE HOURS being bored with the story so far, why elongate it?  And there was no alternate thing I could blame even, as the picture quality itself was stellar, and the actors buried behind all those elf ears and troll hair were ones I’d loved for ages and had great respect for.  CLEARLY the problem wasn’t the film.  It was the story.

…Which didn’t help the following Christmas, when my totally obsessed Mother, wanted the super-special-torture-me-DVD set, with 47 hours of extended specials on it (cuz the fucker wasn’t long enough already)…which I felt obligated to purchase her. (Though I informed her that I highly disapproved, on “principle.”)

…She paid me back by insisting on putting it in the player immediately. 

It played ALL DAY LONG. 

They were STILL climbing that fucking hill as we ate our dinner. And I had slept through MOST of Christmas, because of it.

…And because Peter Jackson is a sadistic, evil human…he managed to practically RUIN every year, since. (Same hill. Same little Hobbit-people. Same constant nodding off.) Because, thanks to the movies’ super stardom…they even play on cable every Thanksgiving…and for a while there, kept spitting out NEW ones, every Christmas, which I was again obligated to purchase for my mother…who insisted then on continuing the ongoing torture.

…And now there’s ANOTHER “trilogy” that is soon to come out…

…And all I wanna know is: “WHY ME?!? WHAT have I done in life to deserve this kind of consistent torture through the rest of my “forevers,” just cuz I’m a good daughter?!”

…And now “M” has entered my life and decided that SHE is gonna be the one to “break” me on this whole new Hobbit movie deal. THERE ARE PEOPLE PLACING BETS ON IT! What the eff, you guys?! I told ’em I might be dragged…kicking and screaming, to ONE of ’em…but only cuz one of my boyfriends, (Richard Armitage), is in it. Then she got all proud of herself and decided she’d get me to read the books, TOO.

…And so, naturally, I told her where to “get off.”

…To which SHE countered with the offer of doing it “readers theatre” style. Which totally wasn’t playing fair, like AT ALL.

…And I said, “You mean, with all the voices?”

…And she said, “Yep.”

…Which I sorta was okay with a little.

…But then she and Ma started fighting on FB about who gets to read who ,and all. And I finally had to call the kibosh on it:

“Look, people…I don’t give a #%$# who plays who! I don’t know what the hell any of these people’s names are. ‘Oh! I wanna play Harkle of the land of Isith, from the valley of the Smurfs!!!‘ IT MEANS NOTHING TO ME. But so help me God, if I end up having to play all the Tree and Rock people, I’m gonna be PISSED! BE NICE! Or I won’t play with you anymore. OR read your stupid books!”

…And I stand by this.

~D

Hello Idaho & The “I Quits”

19 Sep

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Boss: “We needed to do something to cut the bottom line…”

…This is maybe the second thing Boss said to me, when he arrived three hours late to work, my first day back from Vacation.

Me: “As in…?”

Boss: “You’re booking Spokane now.  And also, Idaho.”

Me: “So we aren’t doing the Spokane remote office.”

Boss: “Nope.  Oh, and also…the Vancouver Manager quit while you were gone.  So you’ll have to help the new guy figure some stuff out.”

Me: “Can you maybe be a little more specific?”

Boss: “Yeah.  Teach him how to do the job.”

Me: “Remotely.”

Boss: “Right.”

Me: “…While I catch up on the $47,000 in orders you didn’t process while I was gone, plus book all of Eastern Washington and Idaho.”

Boss: “…But I brought you whiskey.”

(He plops it on my desk.)

Me: “…Which is great if I didn’t have like fifty-thousand things to do right now…”

(He cracks it open.)

Me: “Also…it’s not even noon yet…”

(He tosses one back, clean.)

Boss: “I’ll be in my office.”

(He takes the bottle with him.)

…And this is how my Monday went. It just got better from there…the more buzzed he got.

[Around 1 PM]

Boss: (Singing from his office.) “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (From my office.) “Can you maybe not sing so loud? I’m on the phone and things…”

Boss: “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: Seriously!

(He chuckles.)

…You guys, it’s taken me three days to stop hating him enough to find the “funny” in this shit, and actually write it down. Also…HE NEEDS to FUCKING LEARN MORE OF THAT SONG’S LYRICS. For three SOLID DAYS, it’s all he’s been hollering. Non-stop.

[Around 3 PM]

Me: “What is it with you and that song…why do you keep yelling that?”

Boss: “I just really identify with it, is all.”

Me: “Cuz you’re a 22 year-old pop-it Country superstar from Nashville?”

Boss: “Yes. And I’m gonna make you a CD of it to remember me by…”

Me: “No.”

Boss: “…Or a mash up, with that one Kelly Clarkson song…”

Me: “–I don’t want it.”

Boss: “Over a House beat.”

Me: “–Go away.”

Boss: “…And I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (Yelling.) “YOU AREN’T EVEN SINGING IT RIGHT!!”

(He stands there in the doorway and grins.)

Me: “What.”

Boss: “…It’s good to have you back, you know?”

Me: “I’m sure it is.”

Boss: “You missed this. Come on. Admit it.”

Me: “I will quit and leave all this work, if you say one more word. I swear to you.”

(He disappears back into his office. At some point, I get up to go pee. When I come back, a shot of whiskey is sitting beside my computer. I think of all the work I’ve done today, and how little I get paid for it, and how he’s getting a bonus that I earn him every month, so he can sit there Facebooking and drinking whiskey all day, while singing pop songs. Badly. I shoot the drink.)

Me: (From my office.) “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know.”

Boss: (From his office.) “… … … AND I’LL NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

…You guys…sometimes, it’s just too much.

~D

Pirate WiFi & Scriptopia

18 Sep

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I would first of all like to publicly thank the new neighbor in C1, who decided NOT to password protect their wireless signal.

…Those two days where I was kinda pissed from all the stomping around and nailing things at all hours, that they did?  I’m totally over it now.  And I’ll try my best not to watch weird circus porn (apparently it exists, you guys, and I just found out about it)…or steal too many torrent downloads while on their network. Because even through I am a Pirate, we still have “codes of honor” and  things. And the first one is that Pirates don’t “accidentally” crash other people’s systems while pirating from them. Because that’s just rude.  Although, it’s entirely possible that since my Android pad is really a “phone,” they don’t even know I’m ripping signal from them anyway…due to Ice Cream Sandwich being way more awesome and stealthy than a Windows platform.  Or whatever the hell Mac runs on. 

…Which basically makes me kind of a Pirate Ninja, really.

Tell me I didn’t just get cooler right now.  Go ahead. Tell me.

…So thanks, C1 for the free juice.  Maybe my hotspot will quit maxing out now, and I can watch Netflix streams until my eyes pop out.

Anything is possible, friends.

In Other News: It is time to start making out with m’script. The joy of highlighting (orange, thank you) has already commenced. I’ve done a couple skim-throughs, and tonight I start hashing it up with notes…till it roughly resembles a road map used by someone in a foreign country, who really really likes to make liner notes. Tomorrow: begins the memorizing.

…Fuck how I hate it so.

…It’s a Shakespeare, btw. “Twelfth Night.” I’ll be the saucy wench-cuz, Maria. (Of course.) And where that isn’t exactly a far stretch in character range for me, (no!) I haven’t done a Shakes in like eight or nine years now…so gettin’ back into the flow of things will give me something to push against and reach for.

Fun role and one of m’favorite shows in the cannon.

This, more than any of the others, really balances out into a true “ensemble” cast of complete, rounded characters. Everyone gets to play at all levels and have their day. And it’s one of the very few wherein the strong female central role doesn’t have to pay for her power, out the ass, sometime later.

(…Hello, Lady Mackers, and Kate and Gertrude et al…I’m talkin’ ’bout YOU.)

…Our leading lady is “M” (of “Agatha Christie In Spandex” fame), just in case you were wondering. So that’ll only be an effing hoot-and-a-half. Should get quite a few people’s butts in the seats, too.

I know mine would be, if it weren’t already busy on stage at the time.

…I can only imagine the kinda blogs I’ll get outta this one. A lot of the cast are old friends, but there is a large rush of new blood in the ranks as well. So we’ll have the freak-troops of olde, intermingling with first timers to infuse gobs of energy. Plus, it’ll be the first time I’ve set foot on that particular stage since last December…when I was doing that little singing, drinking, dancing, crying and dieing, ditty..throughout the Holiday season.

…So this’ll be a little different, then…pretty much all ’round.

I say thee, ye!

…And with that, I’m off to steal signals, search the webs, and scribble in study. Like the good little Pirate-Wench-Ninja, that I am.

Cheers!

~D

Word Fairies, On A Walk

17 Sep

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A walk.  To battle the  Monday-after-Vacation, gross obeseness of crud.

…There’s this walk I take, that we call “the loop.”  It’s the long circle that takes you down the full length of the north-end neighborhood, and round to the point, looking down on Old Town, rising up from the sea. I usually take it when my brain is too full to negotiate actual directions and choices. It’s easy because it never wanders too far from itself and always comes back home again…like a good dog. Which is really convenient when you’re clearly too busy talking to yourself like a schizo, about all the things you didn’t get around to today, but need to, and how the associated reporting materials will be filled out, and in which order.

…Also, the ocean is good to focus on after a rough day. (If you let yourself.)  It’s calming, somehow.  Maybe because it’s bigger than anything that could possibly be bothering you at the time.  Maybe because it’s so “in your face,”  that you can’t help but get sidetracked by it.

…Sorta like how you can trick a kid outta crying if you give ’em something new to focus on, instead of whatever it is they first wanted, or was taken away, that they can’t have now.

I totally know how that kid feels, today.

Those bastards stole my vacation goodness away…and I was pretty ticked about it. 

…So clearly, after work was done, (and my car payment was made), “the loop” was in order. 

…Anyway…the point I was getting at is: mid-between casa de mi, and the beginning of “the loop,” is this house:

image

About once a week, they print out a poem, short story or anecdote in bulk, and plop it in that little plastic holder bolted on the post and driven into the ground, just on the corner, there. I dunno what the owner’s story is…I frankly don’t think anyone does.  And not too many people take the souvenirs, but I know I’m not the only one who stops to at least read ’em.

The rule is: it can only take up one page. 

…So far, that’s the only quantifying identifier in content or theme. And it has become an addictive reader board, like a fortune cookie’s guts, housing who even knows what words of wonder, day-to day. The top black flip-up cover says, “take one”…like those realtor get-ups you might use to sell a house.  Only this one is used to sell you “thoughts” instead.  Sometimes they’re goodish ones.  Sometimes not. Sometimes I wanna write a note back, and pop it in the box, for the Word Fairies.  Things like:

” I liked the one about the dog.”

…or…

” Sylvia Plath isn’t always totally depressing like I thought

…or…

” This one hurt my inside parts.  But that’s okay sometimes.  So, thanks.”

…Also, I wonder if they take requests?

” Maybe less Politics please…”

” Can you find something about sunshine for the next one?  It’s been raining for six solid weeks…”

” Have you ever considered limericks?  I’d suggest a good Dottie Parker…”

Regardless…its always nice to have some clean, warm air…to hear the sound of sprinklers and dog pantings and runner’s tread…and watch the sun set out over the water.  Its nice to have words like these in my head, other than the chanting of “to do” lists for tomorrow, and the balancing of my checkbook.  Those things can wait.  But a hard-earned piece of goodness and mental rest after a long day, cannot.

…So: “Thank you, Word Fairies.  Keep up the good work!”

(Here are a couple, most recent…)

***

Poem: “The Clearing,” by Gregory Djanikian
from “The Man in the Middle” (Carnegie-Mellon University Press)

**”Poetry is an act of generosity.” ~ Don Skiles**

And something will happen:
You will stand at the edge of a field

hearing the wind-skirted
leaves of the trees, and you

will try to remember
the woman you almost married,

though her life will spiral
like a hawk away from you,

and you will want her,
as deeply as you’ll want

the hawk to settle on your fist,
or the wind to empty

your eyes of grief for all
you’ve renounced to become

what you now are, but
nothing this day will claim you,

neither hawk, nor wind, nor lover,
and you’ll sense how your past

has seduced you through the years
to this field, this reckoning,

to, finally, this poem
which you will write by learning

what matters is not the words
but the unlabored

breath through which
they’re spoken and given up,

like hawks, or lovers
or this life you keep on revising.

***

Poem: “You should at times go out, ” by Elizabeth Daryush

You should at times go out
        from where the faithful kneel,
visit the slums of doubt
        and feel what the lost feel;

you should at times walk on,
        away from your friends’ ways,
go where the scorned have gone,
        pass beyond blame and praise;

and at times you should quit
        (ah yes) your sunny home,
sadly awhile should sit,
        even, in wrong’s dark room

or ever, suddenly
        by simple bliss betrayed,
you shall be forced to flee,
        unloved, alone, afraid.

***

~D

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