Happy Day Before Friday

Woke-up earlier than expected, so early the ham hadn't gone to bed yet. Scooped her from her cage for a nuzzle and a cucumber slice. Read an essay from Hola Papi on the balcony. Journaled, diligently, ten things I am grateful for and three compliments. Cardio dance workout in the living room, shower with lavender soap and rose shampoo. My manager emailed to say my 11 AM had to reschedule. Also I'd already turned in my Barbie episode early. So, suddenly I had a morning for my newest side project.

Been avoiding people and places because of BA5. Did an improv show the night before because I decided I could be N95'd save for the 25 minutes of stage time with my two gals. Now on the sidewalk at my favorite bakery got a text from the show's producer. A screenshot of her team/fellow producers: "I am a HUGE Alice fan" "hard agree." I'm on the very edge of the aforementioned sidewalk, at a lone table. The fresh air a friend, morning bun and caramel salt brew too. I turn off my wifi and set my phone's timer for twenty-five minutes before chucking it in my purse. I write my new play. I like my new play. I do this sprint three times. It's 11 AM, and I've written the first fifteen minutes of this little darling.

Eat sprouts and vegan turkey, do my Japanese DuoLingo lessons. Learning how to say things like, "I talked with my friend on Sunday" and "I am busy on Friday." I attend a useful Zoom panel on legal advice for writers. I keep my camera off and paint my nails from light to pop pink.

I lay down to rest at about 5 and end up texting with my friend for an hour. Commiserating, then plotting, then scheming about how to get friends jobs. I really like getting friends jobs. I also like plotting. My producer at Big Corporation emails the entire team she loved my episode. Puhg tells me I am flying too high. I think I probably am I decide to do a night run, right as the sky goes pink in sunset. I get home hot and sweaty and immediately dunk in the pool. I rarely swim at night, so this is a special sparkling indulgence. I sink to the bottom and whale around. Have a nighttime diet ginger ale, listen to a meditation podcast, have a rainbow sprinkle cookie over an episode of Frasier--the one where the dog goes missing--write in my planner my Friday to-dos, let the ham roam around before my bedtime, this time.

Lumina

Writing this on the plane, my heart absolutely sick for Edinburgh. There is nothing, nothing, nothing like the magic of Fringe. The incredible, daring, hilarious, innovative theatre. The millions of twinkle lights. The flocks of happy people. It’s what makes it unlike any other gathering—the happy people, the nice people. This morning in the airport I was shocked a woman cut in front of me in line and then argued with the desk worker, but, yeah, she was American.

 Yesterday morning I was miserable, clawing the walls to leave. My bed was utterly uncomfortable and loud, bees would fly in the open window, but a closed window created the stuffiest nasty box, the carpet that made me never not want to wear shoes, the drunks at 3 AM, the moldy fridge, the sharing a flat with seven other people, the feeling of something closing up around me and wanting to kiss it goodbye before it could break up with me. In the afternoon Stripes took a train from Manchester just to visit me. We roamed about having noodles and catching up and really trying to sort out this life. I remember the night we met walking to our freshman dorms together. We were so tiny and mindless. I waited for her bus with her, watched her jump to the double decker, waved goodbye. It was 22:00. I was farther from how than I thought I was, ended up making my way back through the square I spent the last month hurrying to every night. It was tons of boards and wood panels and rails and boxes. Gone: the flower garden and vegan pbj sandwich hut, the adorable circus tent, the crepe line, the old couples, the drunken bros, the buskers, the light on the cobblestones. It makes me want to cry.

There were nights when it was in its full majesty I also wanted to cry. The rest of my cast was tucked in a theatre doing their second show, and I was alone, blood pumping with the adrenaline of sticking the landing to cheering sold-out house, but now walking in the chilly wind past happy parties and a jillion fliers—wondering who I would most prefer to be—someone in a line going to what’s supposed to be the hottest show, a person on the billboard for the hottest show, or myself.

The company I toured with is certainly dysfunctional (as have been all comedy theatre I have ever worked for, so), but what an utter gift this month has been. I pushed my boundaries in every possible way imaginable. I am so serious, in every single way a person can be challenged I have been. I felt on deep deep levels from new and old relationships, theatre, and performance. I ate a billion treats. I stayed up very very late, I hiked mountains, I evaluated who I am and who I hope to be and what I hope to make and what I do make. I appreciated cafes, castles.

I haven’t felt this way since I was in the backseat of my family’s gray mini-van riding home from summer camp.

Only the Lonely

It's Saturday night and my dad's going to a party. My jobless, apartmentless, boyfriendless days are numbered which is pretty darn exciting with a little droplet of something else. What will I do tonight out in farmland by myself? It feels nice.

I made a brownie sundae and turn on Only the Lonely. It is perfect for new Chicago Alice. John Candy, all the Irish pride, shots of Lake Michigan and the skyline, Illinois Lottery pot emblems in windows, the el, and perhaps most importantly that sincere feel of 90s filmmaking.

At one point though John Candy re-musters his courage to pursue his dream girl after a friend of his dies with no family. Never got married, older sibling in a home, parents gone. This is a common trope thrown into movies/TV. Protagonist realizes might die alone, changes life. I obviously am sympathetic to this concern, but for once I'd like to see someone go, "Huh. Maybe I won't care if no one is around to make my funeral arrangements because I'll be dead, and I was happy until then." I mean, it's not the worst thing in the entire world to be alone sometimes. At least that's my attitude right now when I had a dessert for dinner and my night is still young.

Sunday night movie date with lady-prov post-rehearsal. 2012.

Thoughts on John Logan's Red

-Reading the bio of John Logan is like Holy screenwriting credits, Batman.
-As a general rule, I get a little bored by art about art. But, it was good, so what can you do?
-Why are we obsessed with leaving an imprint on the world?
-It was so refreshing to see a character completely self-absorbed who made no apologies for it. There are times we all wish we could be so egotistical. Seeing it let me feel it, and just feeling it vicariously through an actor feeling it vicariously through Logan feeling it vicariously through Rothko was enough vanity to last me at least a year.
-There are many cliches in the beginning of the play. It's hard to mind too much because the dynamic of the characters is rich. Then, when the cliches are actually called out, to the surface, wow. Wow, wow. Just say what we all know.
-To hate the world's progression (even if it's not progress) just leaves you poorer and bitter. Roll with the punches, be who you are.
-The play takes place in the 1950s, but nothing about it made it seem so. I actually didn't like this. I want to see America in the 50s. This is America in the 50s, is it not? I see 2013 everyday. Let me draw my own connections past to present.
-Movement is not boring.
-I wish I could see theatre and not think things like, "I wonder how much this company's budget for canvas is."
-We've got to figure out how we expect/shouldn't expect intermissions. Red was a 90-minute one-act. I did not have to go to the bathroom, so I was pleased every time the lights fell and the house didn't rise. I was pretty entrenched in this world, and I had zero desire to make chit chat with the other conference attendees around me. I think the best solution is to be sure intermission and run-time is always in the program. Perhaps that provides audiences too strict a format, but I think it's important to know. After the 70-minute mark, one starts to worry there WILL be an intermission...and this is the longest play ever. Never worry your audience about being an audience. As humans, yes, worry them. But as seat-fillers, please do not.
-It's hard not to see suicide as beautiful when all the best people keep doing it.
-The last line should have been cut. Super cheap. Come on, Logan. Leave the question open.
-To me, this play was more about the intimacy we come to find with whoever keeps showing up. I believe Ken and Marc portray a type of terrifying relationship. Their arc seems to argue, in intimacy you have nothing of your own. And one of you must leave.

When I was your age, art was a lonely thing: no galleries, no collecting, no critics, no money. We didn't have mentors. We didn't have parents. We were alone. But it was a great time, because we had nothing to lose and a vision to gain.

Driveway's Clear, You Pray for Silence

I love this bedroom. The one I'm in and the one pictured--which was my bedroom in the fall of 2009--the first time Kay and I broke up. In these rooms I learn to be lonely and like it.

On Saturday I came home at midnight with a headache. No roommates were home. I had accidentally not really eaten all day. I took my box of Ritz crackers up to my room. I was my nurse. Get into a tank top, wet a washcloth, lay still, say a prayer of thanks.

I remember those first nights in Fall 2009--those nights of "No one even knows what I'm doing." I expressed this concern to Muff, who told me to call her and let her know when I was going to bed. I took her up on it. A few times. But I didn't really need to be accountable. I needed to know I could.

I texted her this week. Even though it was 3 AM her time. I let her know--I'm going to sleep, and someone should care. Because I am a living person, and for a while, I won't be conscious. PLEASE SOMEBODY CARE--there's an urgency in realizing you could die in your bed, and no one might realize until three days later.

I think that's right. Sometimes I don't see the roomies for a week straight. My sister would say, "Hey. It's been a while..." but what could she do? Who would she be able to call to check up on me? Chelle would probably call. If I missed rehearsal, she might come over. If someone was home, they'd come to my room and...

I have this wonderful, just wonderful, memory of that 2009 room. It was a Friday night and I was just writing a letter at my desk holding my hamster in my lap.

Today I woke up lonely, and now its midnight, and all sorts of things have happened to let me know I'm loved. Impromptu hellos from no fewer than seven--not an exaggeration--seven faraway friends. I sure liked those lil hi's, but I didn't gulp them down. This is good stuff here on my own.

Letters to Noelle--
marked up cardboard boxes fell.
I fell with them.
Crushed like them.

Livin' the Life

Yesterday started my professional acting career. The paid improv show I'm in opened last night, and because I'm not working for either of my other jobs, this weekend I am living the life of a pro. That sounds glamorous, but its just strange.

Wake up late. Work out extensively. Primp extensively. Eat one giant meal at 3 PM so you can have a good workout prior and a good open post. Drive to theatre alone. Warm-up, discuss setlist, find key with accompanist, open. Expend all your energy. Greet your audience. Eat a banana in an empty dressing room. Wish for sleep. Begin the late show. Expend all your back-up energy. Leave the theatre at midnight alone. Drive the long road home. Hit the pillow. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.


college junior year spring musical

Gilly had a headache last night. She was curled up minutes before our second open saying, "I just wanna go home." Although I was in perfect health, so did I. It was late. But performing gets to be like running--only difficult minutes before you go. Because during, you're distracted, and after, you feel great. Heck, during you feel great too.

I'm really not complainin' I realize its just a job, and I hate hearin' belly-achin' rockstars whine and sob. 'Cos I could be busin' tables. I could well be pumpin' gas, but I get paid much finer for playin' piano and kissin' ---