Archive | October, 2016

The Airplane Blog

22 Oct

I’m one bottle into two minis of red, (my dinner,  thank you Iceland Air), listening to Bjork via ear buds, because: Iceland. 

…Meanwhile, the quaintly circa 1965 pill-box-hatted-and-scarved stewardesses (Flight Staff? Attendants?) are trying to shill me duty-free jewelry. 
…And I really have to pee. But I’m a window seat in a row of three. So am waiting for the guy on the  aisle, (with two beers in him), to start the stampede.

…Goddamn,  he can hold his beer.

…Don’t you have to pee yet,  guy?!  Beer makes *me* need to pee! *Instantly!* And often! 

When I saw Aisle Guy get two beers and a water I was all, “FREAKIN SWEET! He’ll for *sure* have to pee soon…at *least* as much as I do (already before I decided to drink dinner.)”

…But, no.

…Enjoy that youthfull prostate,  young guy. It only goes down from here.

Focus on distraction. 

…Bjork. 

…What *is* it? 

…(Other than many cellos, synth, electric keyboards, and a small bird voice saying words that are English,  but don’t really make actual sentences together?) 

Meanwhile: finally got to see “Hitchcock. ” I like that it’s an Alma love -letter. That woman was the Eleanore Roosevelt of his career. It’s about damn *time* someone noticed… 

…So, so, so distracted by bladder right now. It’s starting to hurt. But nice,  silent, Nordic Knitting Woman beside me,  makes me wary of making the first move. 

….A silent letter,  sent mentally to two seats over:

Dear Aisle  Guy, 

Remember those beers? And that bottle of water? No?  Well I remember my pre-flight apple juice and dinner of Syrah. 

GET THE FUCK UP. 

With Gratitude,

~Window Seat Lush

***

(Later) 

…Peeing is magnificent. Don’t ever take it for granted again.

***

(Even Later) 

Have given up on Bjork. Maybe I’ll like their breakfast foods or foreign films…

…Am chillin now with my girl Adele, trying really hard not to belt along. It is more difficult than I thought it would be. Am thinking the words and making all the faces anyway. 

Vacation is fun.

…Even in a hollow tube streaking a zillion miles per hour, by magic and science, (but mostly magic) across the sky. 

…Speaking of that: my onboard consul tells me we are roughly half way to this place which is supposed to heavily resemble Mars (according to others who have been there…to Iceland, that is,  not Mars… Though how the fuck they know enough about Mars topography to equate it, I’ll never know.) 

…Because of flight mode,  I have no idea what time it really is,  or what time zone I’m in. I suspect (because I’m still rocking it over Canada,) I’m three hrs ahead… ish. 

…Oh,  Canada… 

(Wonders where Cecil is,  in her journey. Wonders if she drank dinner too. Wonders if anyone lost bets that I chose wine instead of the Johnny Walker Black option. *I* did. I *totally* owe me a whiskey on that loss. Later. Maybe for breakfast.)

(…I’m only a little bit kidding.) 

***

(Later) 

“When Harry Met Sally” because: (no reason besides, “it’s ‘When Harry Met Sally,'” will ever be needed in this life.)

**

(Even Later)

This scene:

**
(Later,  later) 

Whatever creation Nordic Knitting Woman is making next to me,  requires a seven page booklet of number and letter charting, which she’s added math equations to…along with occasional liner notes, all of which are a mystery. Because of her mother tongue. And: math. 

 …Every row’s end, she stops, charts, flips pages, and writes more. With the length she currently working on – and given the tiny,  tiny yarn thickness -she must have started this project about two years ago. Or maybe 20. And I can’t even tell what the hell it’s supposed to be,  yet. 

A scarf? An infant’s blanket? Dear God,  I hope not the front part of a sweater. She’s already well into her sixties. She’ll never survive both arms. 

**

(Later-ish)

WATER!! 

Remember back when I had to piss like a racehorse?  I peed so hard, I caused full Exodus of fluid from my entire body. I’ve been a living Sahara for like two hours now. But the lovely-beautiful-fantastical-retro-badass-ladies-who-take-care-of-us (like magical Stage Managers in the sky) just showed up with another cart. 

I love you, Iceland Air. 

And it’s a real love. 

Not like with Delta.

**

(Later,  still.) 

Reached Iceland. 

Close you eyes. 

That is what I saw of it. Pitch black still past 6 am… They didn’t let us leave the inner concourse if traveling to UK, I was immediately put into a line (and then an all glass holding pen) with no bathrooms or way to get water… until about 20 mins later, when they opened another glass door, and we all pushed through the rain in blackness, on the tarmac, to get to our plane. 

…And that’s what I saw of Iceland. 

The end. 

**

(Flight 2)

I smell. And a lot of people all around me do too. But not as much as the Axe Body Spray walking advertisement, somewhere within 12 rows of me.

..

My nostrils are burning, and am wondering what is truly worse: BO or American Bro.

Jury is still out. 

I need sleep. 

And a drink. 

…And to find a way to put Axe Body Spray out of business. 

***

(At Last) 

OMG. 

I am in England. 

😀

~D

Thoughts (1 Day Before London) 

20 Oct

Have got a lot of travel-time alone, to do all my normal freak-out things tomorrow…as Cecil and I are on totally different flights. She’ll be kicking it with family in Boston hours before I reach Reykjavik. She lands at Gatwick, I’m touching down in Heathrow. 
…And where, in “normal-world” anxiety terms, that’s just fun adventure…for people like me,  the fact I’m getting on a damn plane to Iceland, and have 55 minutes to get through customs and to my London flight… should be seriously freaking me the fuck out right now. 

…I dunno why,  but for the moment at least, I’m totally fine with it. 

…Where last night was my third consecutive one of shit sleep, it isn’t due to crippling fear or pacing. My nights have been 300% consumed in mapping, ticket-buying, and investingating all the stuff we could do (if we want to), will do (cuz we need to), and might do, despite all odds. 

…Between London, Brighton, Warrington, and Stratford (so far on our lists), that is a pretty consuming occupation. So much so,  that my brain doesn’t have time to flip out and require multiple distractions and interfacing from TVs, computers, bright lights, and other people…which is it’s usual demand. 

I prefer this way. 

…In the best of circumstances, it never has time to blip over to the shitty stage. This would be my brain Mecca of Zen….whilst mid world-altering happenings I cannot control,  take place all around me, and I partake, blissfully, and completely okay with it. 

And it might just happen. 

…How I know is, today when the Whs guy was all, “So. Vacation,  huh? Where yuh goin’? Hawaii? ”

…I said, “Nope. London. ”

…And he’s all, “Holy shit! ”

…And for the first time all week, I started to tear up. Not cuz of a 2 a.m. anxiety attack, period emo anger, or night-sweating hypochondriac freak-outs. 

…It was cuz:

Holy shit. 

I am going to fucking London. 

Tomorrow. 

To take theatre classes. 

The number one thing I’ve wanted to do. 

My entire life. 

My top plan. 

For me. 

…I’ve got a lot of people to thank for helping me get here, and a hell of a lot of cheerleaders backing me. 

…But I’m one of those people too. And even with the sometimes cripplingness that is me… 

I. mutherfucking. made it. 

(You’d choke up too) 

😂

~D

Thoughts (4 Days Before London) 

17 Oct

Thoughts, (10 Days Before London) 

11 Oct

Um,  I dunno if you know it (International Friends), but there’s this whole thing where Americans wishing to look less ridiculous (or wanting to more easily blend in) will often pretend to be Canadians , whilst visiting abroad. It’s not exactly like we’re ashamed of being “American,” it’s that we are embarrassed by the general casting-type. 
…Look,  I have to say that by and large,  we earn it. Having been abroad before, I was never more aware of our loud,  braying, overly-enthusiastic,  self- entitlement than quietly sitting in corners of tubes and restaurants and buses…watching us being giant low-class dicks,  en mass. We dress horribly.  We push to run every room and tourist guiding,  we chew gum in ancient cathedrals, scream at one another across silent museum lobbies, we complain about food portions, bitch about the size of the showers, and how everyone doesn’t bathe twice a day,  and strangely like to infringe on , (and advertise),  our private business to any and everyone who doesn’t (and won’t ever care)…cuz that shit is embarrassing. 

…But then Brexit happened,  and I was all,  “Woa,  for once we aren’t the biggest idiots”

…But then this election happened and now I’m all, ” Well, fuck. I gotta pretend to be British-Columbian from Vancouver,  again.”

The deal is: I don’t talk political shit on my Facebook, I’m sure as hell not gonna want to “live,”  on a tube platform with a random Italian. (Let’s be real,  the English don’t talk in tubes.) 

…Though,  to be off the International Shit-List,  they might just break precedent.And the French always have hated us (and always will), because of our hard-“R’s,” designer-knock-offs, and wearing T-shirts with vacation locations on them. 

Americans are like the class clowns of the world. Right now: we are specializing in scaring the shit out of everyone–even ourselves. And frankly,  I am not comfortable being a “representative abroad. ”

I’m not super proud of us right now. And I don’t wanna talk about it. Cuz the world I come back to, (the week of the election), scares the living shit out of me.  If I could,  I’d fucking just stay there.

…And I would always have said that. (But would have literally never meant it, more.) Than right now

…And you know what?  That kinda sucks. 

 …Because, though I unreasonably love Britain like it is in my blood (cuz it is)… I have great grandfathers who fled from those bitches,  (on the Irish and Pilgrim side.) Like:legit. I’ve an ancestor who signed the Mayflower Compact, and we’ve fought in every single American war.INCLUDING against the Brits. 

I *want* to be proud. 

…But…

…As I prepare to cross the pond for a place I adore and identify with (prob’ly because it is in my blood) …and even though I really, really, REALLY, don’t want to get political…I just don’t know how I’ll be able to prevent it. 

I don’t know what to say. 

I don’t know how to excuse us.
…Because, I know a LOT of very, very very smart people. 

…And they don’t seem to either. 

And on an International level:  on planes,  busses, trains and week-long workshops… I dunno how the hell I’m gonna duck or explain it. 

…And with ALL the weird shit on my brain right now…ten days before I leave to study abroad…why is THAT the main thing on my freak-out list?

~D

So Many Things

3 Oct

Sometimes… I don’t write much while working on a show. Often that is code for other things…like the kind of experience I’d rather have disappear into the ether for all of time. Sometimes it’s just because I’m too damn busy and can’t be bothered. And sometimes it’s because I’m living the moment fully and will set time aside later to reflect on it. 
This show was halfway parts two and three. 

Am very thankful to have done a thoroughly joyful, silly show with a lot of my dearest friends. We opened a season, slaughtered the season ticket sell projections, and while it was never meant to be Shakespeare, we played hard, enjoyed the fuck out of one another, and learned lots. 

…Having worked with the director before in “Narnia,” I’d no idea what to expect of the process, sans 30,000 children in creature makeup… But knowing the “woman,” I figured we were in solid hands. Finding a new favorite Director out of the gig was bonus-town…because she knows her comedic beats like a mutherfucking pro (not that I doubted her, it’s just not my own particular field and difficult to judge when in beaver makeup.) And “why” she quickly became a favorite is due one part on her persona and equal on her run-of-the-room.

My favorite directors trust their cast to do the job they were hired to do. We have different job titles because we have different jobs. Having worked under every variety of Director from vice-grip Dictators, to absent cluelessness… I’ve come to the conclusion that my preference neither ignore you nor manhandle you. They trust you. They give you guidence, then let you take the leash. They allow you to explore, create, make mistakes…learn. And then, they modulate. They study your choices and adjust. They understand what your intent is and marry it to the theme. They allow freedom of expression, but are so studious on the work that they can give you a note like, “lift her on this line instead of that.”and the next night, that beat is magically solved, beautiful, and perfect. 

Collaboration is king in theatre. It is the solvent to awkward “real life” relationships I seem to suck at. Finding a fellow artist who speaks my same language, I am always as surprised and delighted as if I heard my mother-tongue in deepest Africa. Finding one in a friend I’ve known for some time in a variety of ways, makes me feel both a little dickish and also winning. It isn’t that there is doubt. It is that people need their moment and roles to shine. And I’m a distrustful bastard by nature. So: even more fight. 

…Long and short of it being: “Hey, J.Y… You’re a good fucking teacher, can’t wait for the next time.” 

Next: You know when you have a real talk with a person you only “casually” know…like through another friend? And you know how that can be awkward as hell, because “people” and you go together in none of the ways? But then you end up having this super long artistic joygasm conversation that kinda creatively blows your mind? Had one of this weekend. Which then launched me into closing and strike and presenting at an awards ceremony… On zero sleep-juice, but all the artistic-yay…which is my main purpose on earth to obtain…meaning: I gained a legitimate real life, serious new theatre family-friend, and am exhausted today. 

Totally worth it. 

…These past two months of “crazy”: totally worth it. 

…Sharing a dressingroom exclusively with Cecil for an entire run: bliss. 

…Learning the subtle command of a friend’s artsistic influence over yours: educationally rewarding. 

…Being paid to play and work with the family you’ve hand-picked: fucking priceless. 

Hot damn, I’m lucky. 

(And I know it.) 

~D

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