Things Are Bad

The march was good. I cried, and I felt hope for the first time in months. There are a lot of people here. We are the majority. Bless the women marching in literal Antarctica. Afterward, I asked Puhg if we could get a fancy cocoa, so we took the green line west to a place that dunks a s'more donut in your cup. I called reps. I prepared for my shows that night and the following days.

I am shocked that so many awful things have happened in less than a week. The human rights, the health, all of it--need need need to be restored, but more than anything else, we must must must save our environment. That damage cannot be undone.

We tell each other it will be okay and then text the very same people "It will not be okay." We take turns now. I recognize I am going to lose a lot of things, and some of those I believe were too good to be true in the first place. So maybe we deserve it. But that doesn't mean I'm not scared.

When Obama won, a classmate of mine, sitting next to me in the computer lab wrote on Facebook "This is the end of America," and honestly he was right. Because Obama's win generated the hate that has made our current president possible. It is so sad. We are not as smart as we thought we were. We let our greed and our assumption someone else better than us was taking care of things end us.

I truly believe the billionaires know the planet is over and will rake in as much money as possible to begin the new world where their grandson's will be king of the remaining few. That's how insane I have become. Every angle I face I succumb to a conspiracy theory. I pray for a solution that hasn't crossed my mind any of these long dark nights.

November 12th

Last night a staged reading of my newest play went up. This production has been a point of stress in my life since my proposal for the show was accepted last year. It was garbonzo bean size when I left school in April, rolled to the size of a lion cub by summer (conceptualizing etc.), and by yesterday morning I could barely breathe with the Taj Mahal of anxiety that had been constructed on my chest. Two hours pre-show I was too inebriated by worry to even lead my cast in a warm-up. I secluded myself and got my tech cues together and stared at my shaking hands.

I feel good now that it's November 12th. I've been looking forward to this date for a long time. Last night after the lights came on, and I ran a talkback, and I hugged and thanked friends, and the cast went out for froyo, and I got onto my scooter, and I got into bed, I felt overwhelmingly emotional: happy it went well, nervous it didn't go as well as it maybe should have, grateful for my hard-working cast, surprised by some zany comedy friendos who actually showed up, disappointed by peers who didn't make it, unsupported, supremely supported, worn the heck down from being "in charge," excited by the idea of rewrites, horrified by the idea of rewrites. Mostly? Just tired.

Hill asked me what my favorite part was, and I answered truthfully the bows (to "Hey Hey Hey" by Jack's) because I knew it was OVER. I really do hate seeing my work performed--it's part of that terror I blogged about a couple weeks ago. I know it's just an itty bitty thing, but I dunno, as an artist if you don't take the itty bitties seriously, the serious things never happen for you.

Me and the cast post-show

But, ultimately, mostly thanks to the affirmation of the people shown above, this morning I woke up fresh as a daisy. Terror at bay, emotions drained besides an aftertaste of pride, mental space immediately filled with what comes next. I am very grateful.

Where I'll be tomorrow is God only knows,
seems there's science at hand, but I'll finish the shows when I land.
I said hey hey hey. We're all gonna die.
Hey hey hey. We're all gonna die--
we're all gonna die someday.

Terror

A staged reading of my newest play goes up in three weeks. This weekend I sent a draft as done as it could be out to potential actors, and pressing send was terrifying.

When artists talk about terror, it often sounds over-dramatic. And, it is. To an extent. But fear is fear, and, no, whether people hate or love my writing doesn't put me in life and death peril...the results of sharing art with someone who dislikes it is, in my opinion, often worse. I know because people I love have shared art with me I don't like before, and now, I don't care because I digest asteroids-worth of colleague/sketch partner/fellow comedian work, so it's same jokes different day, some good, some not. But, when I was more immature? There was a little grain of judgement I got to keep in my pocket about kids in class who wrote crappy short stories, the students in the Acting I showcase. Oh, dear God, please do not let me fall to that fate! Do not let people I respect see me as I brattily saw that dummy freshmen doing a subpar scene from Barefoot in the Park! It's childish, but I can't help it. TERROR.

It was luck that I brought Anne Bogart to work to read on downtime today. I fittingly decided to read her essay on terror, and I so needed to read this quote by Martha Graham (bolding is mine):

"There is a vitality, a life-force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unque. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you."

Read: I can do eet!