I EVEN SAW A GHOST

Well, it's almost 2023. How the hell did that happen? Didn't I just arrive in NYC fresh from college? Aren't I still a student at San Jose State? Aren't we all still living every moment of our lives, from as far back as our memories can travel, to now? 

What is going on here?

I have no idea. But, if I do indeed exists and this isn't all some sort of strange dream, then things are good. Life is fine and dandy. And since it is almost the end of the year, it is time for a little evaluation of the past year, of where I went, where I'm heading, and all that.

Isn't that what we all do? 

So, this year. 

I think I directed a few plays. And by a few, I mean a lot. Wedding singer. Wizard of Oz. A Midsummer Night's Dream. Rocky Horror Show. The Lightning Thief. SpongeBob Squarepants. The Addams Family. 

I like directing. Let's me boss people around. 

I also taught theatre, speech & debate, playwriting, and the basics of life, at places including The Denver Center for the Performing Arts; The Logan School for Creative Learning; and Reel Kids. 

I like teaching. Let's me boss people around.

I also wrote. Mostly worked on Lunatics and Assholes, a pilot for a show that is sort of a paranormal metaphor for the past few years. And also worked on Out of the Past. That's more fantasy, another pilot that's a monster of the week kind of thing, which I am digging immensely.

I like writing. Let's me boss my little made up worlds around.

I suppose I like to boss.

Keeps me off the streets. 

I also traveled quite a bit. California. New York. Wisconsin. Texas. Avalanche Ranch here in Colorado. Traveling, I think, is necessary in this life. Even if it's just a day long road trip to some town a few hours from where you live. You need to see something you don't see every day. Eat somewhere you've never eaten at before. Talk to a stranger. Look at mountain. Take a walk in a city you don't know.

It fills the soul. 

Also went to a wedding in upstate New York. That was amazing. Weddings are another time when we all reflect on ourselves, where we've been, what we've done, and all that, but through the lens of our relationships. 

And also where we stay up late dancing and laughing and having the time of our lives.

I always think of that line from Fiddler on the Roof. It takes a wedding to make us say let's live another day.

I say let's live another ten thousand or more. 

Let's just live. 

Let's travel and write and do what we love and talk to each other more and try to forgive and be forgiven, to hug more often, to be kinder when we talk about movies we didn't like, or a meal that maybe didn't go off as well as we had hoped.

The world is in a constant state of flux. 

Let's be cool with that. 

Also, I saw a ghost this year.

This is the second time I can say for sure I saw one. I wrote about the first one here: 

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7891430757253929065/770461654933686503

The one I saw this year was during the Austin Film Festival, which is a thing I love and plan on doing every year for the rest of my life. Just fantastic. Anyway. I was watching the film The Lost King, which I really enjoyed, when I noticed a tall figure out of the corner of my eye, standing in the aisle, like they were waiting to enter the row and find a seat. I turned to see them better, and nobody was there. About half an hour later, I saw the same person out of the corner of my eye yet again. And again, when I turned to look, nobody was there. And then, a little later, I saw someone in white, tall, clearly walking up the aisle towards me. 

And then they vanished. 

Now, it was dark, and the theatre was packed, and I figured maybe I was mistaken. 

But then I figured "No". 

I saw something. 

When the movie was over, I found the manager, and asked, feeling a bit ridiculous, if the theatre was haunted. 

She smiled this knowing smile, and asked me what had happened. When I told her, she informed me that things happen there from time to time, and that yes, the theatre was indeed haunted.

I shouldn't have been too surprised. I had some kind of mojo going during the festival. Things kept happening to me that didn't seem real. I was on a live podcast and somehow got a room full of hundreds of screenwriters to spontaneously start chanting "Kelly! Kelly! Kelly!" over and over. I met some shockingly cool and distinguished members of the industry. And I made some great friends. All in a matter of days.

You can here that podcast, which was an episode of the excellent ScriptNotes, here:

https://johnaugust.com/2022/live-at-the-austin-film-festival-2022

I think, to a large extent, my whole year was like that. Full of wonder and magic, friends and family, and a bit of the paranormal.

So. Happy New Year. God bless... Us. 

Everyone.

Here's to more blog entries, and screenplays, and shows produced.

To life.

CAN'T STAND IN THE SHALLOWS

All right. Brain still Covid-fied, world still mad, life still exuberant and strange, rising and falling like waves at the beach, and I still try to ride those waves like I did when I was a kid in the oh so cold waters of the Monterey Bay, usually at Natural Bridges State Park. The routine was always the same. Walk out, up to your knees, get up the necessary courage, then run in all the way, feeling the shock of the water with both glee and agony and above all an unbridled sense of being alive, in the moment, all other problems and thoughts banished by that cold cold water.

It is the only way to do it.

It's the same in the morning. The alarm goes off, and you wade in the shallow water of not quite awake yet, which can last an hour even though it only really lasts five minutes, and then, as your dreams run off in all directions to wherever it is dreams go, you get out of bed. At least I do. I get out of bed, heat up some old coffee, put the kettle on for a fresh pot, break out the journal, and pour what remnants of dreams are still in the noggin, and try to figure out on paper a sliver of my eternal soul.

It is the only way to do it.

Today, however, I did not do that. I let the alarm come and go like a show on my Netflix cue that I keep meaning to watch but never do. I slept another hour. When Lisa asked me if I was going to make coffee, I said no. 

Very strange.

Like not breathing or being alive strange.

But I think the Covid is giving a good fight and not quite ready to cede the battle yet.

To which I say "fuck that". 

I can't stand being in the shallow water, seeing waves in front of me, enticing and frightening in equal measure. People think I do a lot. I am always directing plays, teaching classes, working on a script. It's not that I am industrious or ambitious or have some wonderful work ethic handed down to me by some fairy tale version of Puritans. 

No. I just can't stand in the shallows, feeling the tide on my legs, and not rush to those waves. I can't resist the ice cold water that reminds me I'm alive. I can't. And I don't.

This stupid virus has slowed me down for a week or so. It's done a number on the planet. On all of us, and that's just the way it is. 

But the waves still crash, the water is still cold, and I am still alive. 

Here's a song. It's the theme from The Rockford Files. Because it's bitchin'

I'M KEIR DULLEA. FOR AT LEAST FIVE DAYS.

Well, I finally got Covid, and I can confirm, it sucks.

Happily, I have been vaccinated and boosted and kept up with current thought on what to do and all that, so I am not in the hospital or anything like that. Still amazed at the Narnian Dwarves out there who insist that it was all some sort of hoax or secret plot. Not only is that stupid, it takes all the fun out of conspiracy theories about JFK, aliens, and the real Men in Black. Not to mention Area 51. And it seems, for the most part, that these same people who are willing if not anxious to believe that there is a secret cabal determined to control us by faking a worldwide pandemic and then putting microchips into us via vaccines turn a blind eye to actual dangers to all of us like climate change that have been brought around by a group of powerful, rich, secretive corporations. 

It boggles the mind.

Anyway, I have Covid. I was feeling feverish Sunday after rehearsal for The Addams Family - which is produced by my company Sasquatch Productions and opens soon at the PACE Center and looks to be an amazing show and I hope you all come see it because it really is joyous and funny and a touching reminder of what love and family is all about- and Lisa noted said fever and suggested I take a Covid test just to be safe, and so I stuck that Q-tip thing up my nostrils, swished it in the solution, put the three drops on the test pad- and where I had been so used to watching nothing happen for fifteen minutes, there was a second line, in way less than fifteen minutes. 

Sometimes, it is hard to accept reality. Sometimes, you become a Narnian Dwarf yourself. (it's a reference to a scene in the last book of C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, The Last Battle. I go over it in an earlier blog and you can search this page and find it and read it and I hope you do) 

After a few seconds of denying reality, I said "Shit". 

And then called every job I have and every person I've been in contact with and let them know what was up.

Current protocol is to quarantine for five days, then mask for five more. And of course, do not go out until you test negative. 

This is day four is sitting at home, and let me tell you, it is no fun.

I feel like Keir Dullea in the last part of 2001: A Space Oddyssey, when he is in that weird alien assimilation of a human abode, all alone, waiting for the monolith to come.

I have had time to write and to watch shows I somehow missed that have been sitting in queue. Shows include: Killing Eve, What We Do in the Shadows, which are both brilliant; also catching up and current on: Andor, She-Hulk, and Rings of Power. Also pretty great.

Now, writing wise, I have deconstructed Lunatics and Assholes and put it back together, and while I think plot wise it is tighter, I need to inject some humanity and magic back into it. I don't want to merely push all the right buttons, with tension, reversal, and release and such. I want to create the world as I see it, full of nobility and tragedy and misguided heroes and misunderstood villains. I want to make something that tells hard truths while inspiring hope. 

I want to kick the shit out of it.

On a continual basis.

So. To surmise, Covid sucks. Denying reality is not healthy. And magic is important.

Here's a song. It's That's Entertainment by The Jam.

 

EIGHT O'CLOCK! THE LIBRARY IS CLOSED!

I got snippy with a librarian last night. Shouldn't have.

Sometimes, I get offended easily. 

This was one of those occasions.

I was at the Evergreen Library for a first read through of Spongebob Squarepants the Musical, which I am directing for the upcoming StageDoor High School Production. (you can get info if you click HERE)

We were a loud group. 

Not surprising, as it was me, the stage manager, music director, choreographer, and twenty high schoolers on a rainy night, stuffed into a little room in a tiny library in a miniscule town called Evergreen that sits in the Rockies a little above Red Rocks.

We had the room until 8pm, when the library closed. We read the play. We listened to the songs. We laughed, asked questions, answered questions, and began the process of putting a show together, which is one of my favorite things to do in the world.

We were at this library, far from our theatre which is over in Conifer, another little mountain town, because the theatre is opening The Importance of Being Earnest next week and was busy rehearsing.

By the end of the night, I was feeling good. Cast was great, kids even better, creative team that rare mix of talented people who are also good friends.

The clock ticked.

The hour to leave came.

I sent the young thespians off into the night, and headed out with my Stage Manager.

And this kind of insane looking woman popped her head in the room and in rather strident tones proclaimed "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!".

This was to a room with only me and my stage manager in it, hands full of books, already heading for the door.

I thought to myself, "poor woman, she's clearly mad."

After her rather dramatic pronouncement, she was gone, and we continued towards the front door.

This was around 8:02.

As we stepped into the hallway, the same woman, who had managed to grow more frantic, was now down the hall, away from the front door. As we walked away from her, she called after us "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!"

Same tone. Same urgency. 

I thought to myself, "This must be the only place she can come close to controlling in her life."

We got to the door.

It was now the ungodly hour of 8:03.

I turned to the Keeper of the Hours, who was now walking up the hallway towards us, with a smile plastered on her face that I imagine the Zodiac Killer wore when preying on his victims.

I had to pee.

So I asked her-- and I now realize this was a mistake-- if she would mind if I used the rest room on the way out. There were a few other librarians, going about their business, stacking books, putting things away, and clearly there were duties to be done after we left anyway.

The Mad Harpy of Evergreen smiled wider somehow, and in my mind, I swear her eyes bugged out like Large Marge in Pee Wee's Big Adventure, and in the same tone that was a bizarre mix of Mary Poppins and a Rottweiler, she intoned, yet again, "Eight O'Clock! The Library is closed!"

She walked swiftly towards us as she repeated her mantra.

So, I did my best impression of her, smiled widely and I hope with a tinge of madness,  said "You can just tell me no!"

It was not my best reply, but I had had enough.

And then I self righteously marched out.

I hate getting mad like that.

But sometimes, it happens. People act unkindly. Rudely even. 

And I get angry, try to be pithy, and usually end up sounding just at ridiculous as the person I bark at.

Ah well. 

Such is life.

Here's today's song. I was introduced to this song by a former student of mine, the great Jacob Wolfe. It's Everyone Else is an Asshole, by Reel Big Fish. Enjoy, and try to avoid deranged librarians. If you should be unfortunate enough to come across one, don't lower yourself to their level. Definitely not worth it.

I'M A ROOKIE. AND THAT'S OKAY.

I am a rookie in this thing called life. Sometimes I forget that, and assume I've learned all there is to learn about human interactions, friendship, love, music, art-- you name it. And that is clearly not the case.

I realized that this morning as I walked with Lisa. We get up early everyday, and after making coffee and writing in my journal, we head out for at least half an hour. This is something I highly recommend. Even if you are exhausted. Especially if you are exhausted. Get up, get out, and move through your surroundings. 

So, as we were walking and talking, as if we were characters in an Aaron Sorkin script, Lisa was telling me about this thing that happened to her when she was a young woman, and said "I was a rookie then", and went on with her story. 

And I thought, what a fantastic way to put it.

I was a rookie.

As in, I was a rookie in being a human being.

And I thought, well, not only is that an excellent use of language, but I am still a rookie. Right now. Today. As we walk and talk and discuss things and feel the crisp air that promises Autumn is on its way and are glad we are wearing sweaters even though just last week the thought of doing so would come across as lunacy it was so hot.

I am a rookie on this planet. I am still green around the ears. Rough around the edges. Not quite as refined as I think I am. 

And I felt this wondrous freedom as I realized that. A sense of both forgiving myself for the many mistakes I make on a daily basis, and also a lessening of the pressure on myself, imposed by my ego, to be wise and brilliant and all knowing.

Now, this doesn't mean I think I can act like a dullard, or be purposefully rude, or start taking selfies at inappropriate places and times. 

No.

That's not being a rookie.

That's being an asshole.

But I can, and will, feel free to admit when I don't know something. To try and listen to what others have to say, as it will almost certainly help me on my journey. To learn from my mistakes and hopefully grow from, instead of using them as a reason to bemoan my fate and wallow in self-pity. 

I feel like Stuart Smalley.

And that's okay.

I don't want to be all touchy-feely. But sometimes I am. 

I don't want to beat the shit out of myself when I fall short. But sometimes I totally do.

Rookie or not, I am on this team called the Human Race. And we are having a rough season. We seem to be in the process of destroying home field, there's a lot of infighting, and many questions about the coaching staff. 

But I think we can make it to the play offs if we get out shit together, show up for practice, and continue to work on our game.

Actually, I don't feel like Stuart Smalley. I feel like this next video, the first night HadesTown played after the shut down. I feel energized and good and ready to do some shit.

Yeah. That's the rookie feeling. I know life is sad, old, and full of love. I am alive. Everything is always new. Everything is always old. Everything is a fucking miracle.

And here's the song for today. Road to Hell from HadesTown.

HOLLY, NO PRETENDER SHE

So I click on Facebook to wish my friend, student, and fellow playwright a Happy Birthday. And on her page, I see:

Happy Birthday, Holly, in Heaven.

And I think to myself: well, shit. 

I met Holly in my first ever playwriting class at DCPA, which somehow was years ago, even though it feels like only a blink of the eye to me. 

Of late, pretty much everything that has ever happened to me feels like it was just yesterday. 

And also forever ago.

Holly had signed up for my class to finish a play she had been working on for quite some time. She had taken classes on playwriting at DCPA before my class, and several of her classmates that first session had taken those classes as well, and I got the impression she had been working on her play for quite a while. 

Her play was titled The Great Pretender, and it was a sort of kitchen sink realism piece set in the 1950s, all about a family dealing with a son who had a tenuous relationship with the truth. It felt to me like the sort of thing a young Paddy Chayevsky would have written and had done on Playhouse 90. She brought new pages every class. Took every note I gave her. Worked and reworked and reworked yet again moments and sections, always seeking to find that right balance. At the end of the session, we had a night of readings of everyone's work.

It was a magic night for all of us, I think. 

I was fortunate enough to be asked back to teach another session at DCPA. And Holly signed up for that class as well. And she continued to work on her play. Scene by scene, character by character. A lot of it changed, as she got deeper and deeper into it. We had another reading at the end of that session, and that too was magic. I strongly believe there is something mystical and wondrous in people sharing themselves through their writing in front of strangers. 

I got asked back again, and Holly followed. 

This cycle continued. Class, reading, new class, Holly back, and so on.

And lo and behold, a day came, after a few years of the class, when Holly's play was done. 

By then, I had a fairly consistent group of students in my classes, and most of us knew Holly and her work. 

And we were ecstatic. 

Holly beamed with pride. 

And something in her changed. A power filled her, a glow. 

The night she brought in the last bit of her play, we all cheered her like the rock star she was. And always will be. 

And on the way out of the building that night, she gave me a million dollar smile and said "Thanks, Kid".

One of the best things I've ever had said to me, really, because it was full of... well, everything. The play, the time, the work, the laughter, the frustration, and the joy.

The joy.

Here was a woman who had lived a full life, who late on decided to write a play. And she did. And I got to be a part of that. A small part, to be sure. But I'll take it. 

And cherish it. 

Holly didn't give a shit about her age, or how long it took her to get her play done, or anything other than working on what she loved.

She was a tough, funny, wonderful woman, and I shall miss her.

I the photo below, Holly is the woman on the left, with the glasses and blue top. That's us at class, in the library at the education building of the DCPA. A room full of giants.

Here's a song for Holly. It's The Great Pretender, of course.

PS - if you feel like taking a class, click HERE.

A TRINITY OF LUNATICS

I was on a break at rehearsals the other night down in Parker for The Addams Family, looking for coffee. I walked to the usual spot, this awesome little joint called Fika, which is a Swedish word meaning a time to drink coffee and eat cake while hanging out with friends and strangers. Sadly, they were having plumbing issues, and I had to walk back to the theatre, jump in my car, and venture forth in search of coffee. I got to the Starbucks drive thru at 8:02, and the voice on intercom informed me they had just closed. I shouted Fuck, rather loudly, then asked the voice if it knew of anywhere still open. They pointed me to Dutch Bros. And off I went, found the spot, got the coffee, and headed back to rehearsal. 

Now what was of interest in that little jaunt was the world. First thing I noticed was how clear the sky was, how extraordinarily beautiful the sunset was, how there is still magic in dusk and dawn, in those moments of inbetween when the world takes on a purple pearl kind of color and a stillness seems to permeate everything and everyone.  And I realized it had been a while since I just took a step back and looked at the world I stand on, at the people and places and clouds and just let it be. 

And I wondered, what did we learn during the shut down? Didn't we all find parts of our soul we had misplaced? Didn't we finally figure out what was important? We we not all given the chance to tend to our own gardens? 

And if so, how did we forget it? More to the point, have we forgotten it? Can we? Or have we changed in ways big and small that we don't even realize? 

I think the latter.

So there I was, looking at the sunset, seeking coffee, driving around Parker, Colorado, listening to Spanish Model (the reimagined, Spanish version of Elvis Costello's This Year's Model that is a must listen to kind of thing if you are a human being), filling up with peace, love, and understanding (not on the album but another great Elvis song), wondering what the effects of the past few years have been, still are, and perhaps will be.

I think the big thing we all acknowledge is our sense of time. There is now sort of reason to it anymore. When someone says "a year ago", I have no sense of how long that is, what percentage of my life a year is, or who I was in that other time called "a year ago". 

None.

We are all unhinged from time, floating from dream to dream, song to song, face to face, seeking our home planet where things made more sense. 

But not necessarily in a sad way. There is this cosmic sort of peace at times. Isn't that strange? The world stops, starts again, over heats, has wars and uprisings and floods and inflation and whatever else... 

And there is this beautiful sunset, and Elvis Costello, and coffee.

I am the me I was, and I am the me I am, and I am the me I will be; a trinity of lunatics, each distinct, and each the same.

Here's a song. It's Like I Use To, by Sharon Van Etten and Angel Olson. Enjoy. Watch a sunset. Get some coffee. Reflect on your life. Don't reflect on your life.  

GROOVING LIFE'S DETECTIVES

Some shit never gets old. Case in point: Elvis Costello. Saw him last night at Pier 17 on the East River, under a moon that could not be brighter on a night that could not be sweeter, sweatier, or saltier. I have loved his music since I was in high school, maybe junior high. Some parts of the past melt together like an ice cream cone on a summer's day. He started hitting the airwaves around the same time the first Star wars movie came out. Back when it was called Star Wars. Not Episode Four or A New Hope or anything but Star Wars. Somewhere around when the Sex Pistols came in to prominence, when Punk Rock was something scary and strange. Any way you slice it, he's been in heavy rotation on my life's Pandora station since forever. And I had never seen him play until last night. 

It was worth the wait. 

Not that I don't wish I had seen him often.

But there is something to be said for rarity, for moments that are so spare you realize, as it's happening, just how brief this jaunt is, how precious and shimmering and sad, to paraphrase a line from Into the Woods.

And what was really cool about the concert was how present it was, how visceral and dynamic and of the moment. Yes, he played some tunes we all sang along to, but even as we sang oh so loudly, he was busy interpreting those songs as if he had just written them.  He attacked each song like it was a confession, a diatribe, an exploration of the soul. He wasn't playing the hits, or pandering to our collective nostalgia. He was making music. 

'Twas most groovy.

He did this version of Watching the Detectives that turned into a sort of Beat poem, and man was it cool. He pulled Nick Lowe, his opening act, on stage and they traded verses on Indoor Fireworks, as well as What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding? (an excellent question). 

What I dug, what got me excited, was the joy, the danger, and hunger on stage.

The fact that he wasn't fucking around. 

Had a similar experience at Into the Woods at the St. James a few nights ago. Here was a piece I have seen countless times at High Schools and local theatre. The show is easily Sondheim's most accessible. Or so people think. But seeing it the other night, with a cast of geniuses, directed and choreographed to perfection, full of life and humor and sorrow and all those intangibles that make great theatre, I was reminded of how much I love that show. How deep it can hit when done right.

I first listened to Into the Woods shortly after it came out. At the time, my mother was still alive, and I had yet to reconnect with my biological father. Lines like "no more curses you can't undo, left by fathers you never knew" hit me like a ton of bricks.  

Now, mom is dead, I found my father and lost him nine years later. He died right in front of me, as a matter of fact. And so the story of fathers and mothers, of life and death and love and loss, hit harder. And richer. And also elevated me that much higher, helped me that much more on my own journey. 

Life is full of magic and wonder, of magicians and troubadours, put on this Earth to light the path, enlarge our souls, strengthen our empathy, and fill us with wonder.

And that is how it is today, here in the greatest city in the world.

Here's a song. It's Watching the Detectives, live.

I WRITE WHILE THE WORLD BURNS. AM I NERO?

I'm writing stories while the world burns. It's what I do. I send money to organizations and politicians. I vote every damn time. I recycle, drive a hybrid, and contemplate getting solar panels installed over the garage. 

And I write.

Because I want people to care more. And to take action. To rise up. To not put up with so much bullshit and greed and intolerance. To love more, hate less. To laugh a little. To dream a lot. To connect to their fellow human beings. To our fellow human beings. To my fellow human beings. When a writer-- at least this writer-- uses their in the context above, it usually means "my". 

I write to inspire myself to be a better human being. To think more. Ask More questions. Express more of what I keep inside. To let it all hang out, and once out, dance about the room in strange gyrations. 

I need to. It makes me happy and healthy.  I don't give a shit if I never make another dime writing. Well, I do, but even if I didn't ever get paid again for doing this, I would do it, because it feeds my soul, heals my pain, leads me down better paths, less trod and with flowers. 

I write as the world burns so I can deal with the fact that the world is burning. 

There was a storm the other night, as I was driving home from Boulder, that blew my mind. Lightning on a constant rotation, striking every few seconds, for a good ten minutes. I've never seen anything like it in my life. 

That can't be good.

A lot of people still steadfastly support the Orange One, like deranged, damaged lemmings. 

Also not good.

So I write a story about a town that is losing its mind and a young woman who fights for them against the forces of darkness.

Not only is it a good story, it helps me. Gives me hope. 

Hope is the other thing with feathers.

That's all I have to say today. I write to feel good, to deal with madness, and to express whatever needs to be expressed at a given moment.

Yes, I follow structure and infuse it with humor and action and all those things Aristotle thought made a good story. 

But mainly, I fill it with my soul.

Here's a song. It's Soul Man by The Blues Brothers.

HATERS GOTTA GET OVER WHATEVER IT IS THAT MAKES THEM HATE

I am thinking of anger and resentment today. How it can warp our perspective, drive us mad, create monsters in the gardens. It is a strange, sad thing we all do, to various degrees. And worse, once we go down that primrose path, we try to reimagine the past, the events, reality, to create a different narrative, where we are totally in the right, and it was everyone else who was wrong. They are the monsters!

They!

Oh those nasty, horrible, wrong folks. 

I suppose, if blaming others and going over wrongs both real and imagined helped me, made me happier in life and a more productive human being who had more friends, happier times, and all that, I would spend as much time as possible figuring out how the rest of the world screwed me over. 

But I have never found that to be of use. I have had plenty of people in my life do unkind things. Usually this was due to something messed up in their lives, or maybe something I had no idea was going on. Sometimes, no doubt, they were just being shitty. 

What to do?

I mean after removing oneself from source of pain. If someone is punching me in the face, I either punch back, run away, or call the cops.  Then I vent. I try my  best to express my rage and sorrow, because that can be oh so toxic when left inside to simmer and steep.

But I mean after that. After the fight, what does one do with all the hurt and anger and hard feelings?

I had a few years in high school where I was what is generally called a born-again Christian. I was at a place where I was carrying a lot of anger, a lot of sorrow, and a huge need to fix that. And the idea of forgiveness and acceptance was something I needed. Now, I didn't and don't believe in Hell, or organized religion, so that didn't last. 

But the idea of letting things go; of moving forward, stuck. 

It's a little selfish, actually, to forgive. Because ultimately, it is for me that I do it. Forgiving lets  me move on. It's hard, and takes introspection, meditation, and honesty. And it's not like you forgive, and poof, all is well. The hurt still exists, and often whatever was done still has to be dealt with. And actions sometimes are required to ensure the same thing doesn't happen again and again.

I think a lot of people assume that forgiving someone means you are condoning whatever they do. 

And that is not the case.

Not with me.

There are people in my life who have done some truly awful things. Petty things. Stupid things.

Some of those things are easy to get over. Others are more difficult. 

Even worse, there have been times when how I perceive reality differs greatly with others, and so moving past things is basically impossible.

But I have to move on. 

And that's just in my own life, my little circle. 

On a national and global scale, there are all sorts of transgressions going on. Climate change comes to mind. I mean, there are people out there who know better, but due to greed and some defect in their soul, even though they know they are destroying our planet, continue defiling this delicate world. 

I wonder if they believe the lies they tell about it? I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe they sort of know they are in the wrong, but do their best to think they are fine, upstanding people. 

I have to forgive them as well. We need to stop them, and save the planet, and maybe throw them in jail. 

But we don't need to fill ourselves with anger and resentment while we do it. 

We can just save the planet, and live our lives as best we can. 

It's hard. There's some truly nasty shit out there. People I think are insane, selfish, stupid, and/or horrible.

Maybe I'm saying this poorly. Maybe I am full of shit myself.

All I know for sure is that when I focus on the positive; when I try to get over things that have happened to me that are not so nice; when I try to love more and hate less, life gets better.

Every time.

So that's my Monday sermon. 

Enjoy. 

Here's a groovy song. It's Foot Stompin' Music by Grand Funk Railroad. 

 

FRIDAY THE 13TH BBQ AT JASON'S

It's Friday the 13th. Jason Voorhees is having a party somewhere, a demented back yard grill. No. It would be in the woods, right? At that abandoned summer camp where the naughty go to meet their doom, their retribution for having fun and being young. I wonder, when he's not on one of his rampages, what Jason thinks about? What is his go to playlist? Is he more of a full breakfast kind of guy, or just a piece of toast and an apple as he heads out the door? As I ponder the lifestyle of the undead and demented, I also wonder what did they do during the shutdown? Must have been very hard. Probably caught up on a lot of his Netflix cue. Maybe did a trial of HBO Max or Disney+, reewatched the first season of The Mandalorian.

Where do we put Jason and Freddy Krueger in today's world? What monsters, myths, and legends can speak to us?

I think about these things because I write stories. All the time. And I tend to lean towards the supernatural, magical, and far-fetched. 

That's a good word.

Far-fetched.

Like, I fetched this idea from a faraway land, a world where all myths are real, anyone can learn to use The Force, and if you get bit by a radioactive spider, you will develop some awesome super powers.

So what crop of gods and monsters is ready for harvest? 

I do believe our ghost stories and legends are in a way documentaries of what is happening in alternate, mirror universes that are tied to this plain of existence by strings.

Thus the question on what will show up in the shadows.

We all seem to be questioning reality, one way or another. Some of us question authority. Others question the status quo. Some question the way things have gone, some the way they think we are going. 

And questions are great.

How we deal with what we perceive to be the answers is usually where we get into trouble.

The world has a lot of angst. Troubles. Anger. Sorrow. Rage.

It also has joy and love and art and music and even more love.

Are they all different reactions to how we take in the world, how we deal with the monstrous questions and mystical answers?

Well, the monsters keep coming. The ghosts and goblins and cannibals and cults and demons and super villain and Sith Lords. 

So do the heroes and chosen ones and magicians and Jedi. 

We are the stories we tell. Let's tell some good ones.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Here's a song. It's Days Like These by Low. Enjoy.

MAGIC, MOJO, AND THE LAND

I am a magic thinker. I see secret signs in birds, trees, if a song comes on the radio or in the store or wherever. I believe all things are connected by The Force, by Cosmic Strings. 

By the power of my mind.

This may or may not be a good thing.

But there it is and I really can't change it. 

I suppose some of my self-styled mysticism comes from my mother, who had many of the same traits. She found "The Land" to have magic. And when she said "The Land", there were always quotations marks around it. You could feel them in how she said the words. And I believe "The Land" to indeed have mojo. There is something in the Earth, in the soil, the trees and flowers and fields of corn. There is always a feeling I get when I look to the West, East, North or South. A connection to greater things, larger ideas that can possibly fit in my tiny little human sized brain. 

I am thinking on this because one of the ways I manifest the magic is in totems. Items. Action figures, show shirts, actual photographs, virtual ones too, coffee mugs. 

And hats.

I just got back from California. And I had just got a hat at Disney's California Adventure. A really good one, featuring the logo for Guardians of the Galaxy. Sometimes you find a hat that just feels right. Like it belongs on your head. This was one of those hats. I wore it every day for the past week.

Then I had rehearsal for Chamber of Secrets. It's a kids show I'm doing up at Reel Kids. And this one has 29 real kids, grades 2-5. 

Sometimes I think it should be called Chamber of Horrors. 

It's just a lot of kids to have in a show. Especially when it's just me and one assistant. Things can get a little hectic. 

And by hectic I mean totally insane.

So yesterday, as I'm trying to direct the final scene of the show, and with no assistant due to college finals, one of my little cast members pulled my hat off my head. I didn't have time to grab it back, as I was trying to keep things in a semblance of control.

And I forgot all about it.

Hours later, after that rehearsal and then another one for a production of Little Shop of Horrors, also at Reel Kids, as I was finally heading to my car for the hour drive home, I reached for my hat, and realized it was still with that kid.

I searched the entire theatre space twice over, hoping that the kid had set it down somewhere. 

No such luck.

So for the next couple of hours, I obsessed over my hat.

Because it has mojo. Magic. Power. The Force.

And around midnight I thought to myself, "I am a magical thinker, and I dig that, but this is too much." And I tried to let it go. 

A hat is just a hat. Nothing to lose sleep over. There are far more serious things in life.

That didn't work.

Then, I realized that the Hat was going on a journey, organized and orchestrated by the Mojo Gods of Headgear; that this was meant to be; that I had actually fulfilled my destiny. 

And sleep came.

Here's a song. It's Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf.

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN DAY

Monday. Tax day. Day after Easter day. Today. Up early, and listening to the soundtrack to Summer of Soul, which I started watching last night. So good. So different. I watch and listen and feel like I am getting some music that is more about expressing true feeling than about selling me some corporate crap.

Art always flourishes, regardless of who's in charge. Which is cool. The good stuff is always off the beaten path. Usually made by those not quite in the inner circle, the rebels and lost souls and lunatics, who are of a mind compact.

And I think this is true for all types of art, of expression, of doing something that is an attempt to say "this is how I think it is today". Music. Theatre. Movies. Writing. 

Writing. 

That's my place. I act and direct, but writing is the place where I think I feel most like me. 

And I feel good. 

I think the world has a lot of good and bad in it. War, greed, miscommunication, abuse of power, degradation of our planet.  Love, harmony, community, taking care of one another and this miracle we live on. It's all there. 

And when I hear someone sing in a way that connects to that, I feel like there is hope, possibility, a reason to keep on. And I hear a lot of that in Summer of Soul. 

I want to do that kind of thing. To connect, express, and get the love flowing.

Okay. So. Time to dive into the waters again. See what happens. 

People getting possessed by ghosts of selfish souls. Children escaping into fantasy worlds when reality gets a little too hard to take. A kid taken on an adventure to save the world with the help of Sasquatch, Mothman, and the Loch Ness Monster. 

That's my reality. That's the stuff that gets me going. Today, I think I'm diving back into a couple of different projects, but that's just the plan. Once I open up the laptop and start clacking away on the keyboard, it's Anything Can Happen Day.

Yeah. Anything Can Happen, and usually does. In abundance. 

Here's a song. It's Precious Lord, with Mahalia Jackson and Mavis Staples. It's ridiculous.

THE DAILY RABBIT HOLE

Thinking about writing, my writing, my projects, what I need to do, what I want to do, what I have done, what I haven't done, what I should have done, what I could have done.

The Daily Rabbit Hole.

I started writing long ago. I suppose I started writing the day I learned the alphabet and was given a pen and/or pencil. The memory is a little foggy, as it was long ago, before kindergarten. I do remember by kindergarten being able to visualize a notebook in my brain that had information and words I needed. It was like an old fashioned book from Victorian times. Must have seen it in a cartoon or movie. I can still see it in my mind right now. I have, or had, somewhere, an old journal entry from fifth grade where I put down the words "I want to be a writer". 

I didn't always think that would be the case. I drifted through a lot of school, at one point wanted to be a minister, which I suppose speaks to me wanting to influence people and how they think, which I believe is part of being a writer. 

But I didn't really, truly, think I could say with any sort of conviction "I am a writer" until my first play was written and published. Even though I had been writing all my life, poems and stories and match book poems and part of a novel that still is waiting to be finished- a magic realism extravaganza that will one day make a great anime film when it's adapted.

But I digress.

I am trying to think of why I write. 

What do I want?

I think it varies from day to day, hour to hour, year to year, dream to dream. 

Mostly, I want to tell stories that make me laugh and cry in equal measure. 

Because it feels good. It feels right. 

Yes, I want to be paid for it. And have the right people think this is the shit and the new thing and world changing and brilliant.

But more than that, I want to think it is brilliant myself. I want to find a way capture the world as it appears to me in my dreams, to borrow a quote an old friend who no longer speaks to me used to say Chekov said.

I just looked up that quote. It's from The Seagull. "We should show life neither as it is, nor as it should be, but as we see it in our dreams."

I should have known that, seeing as I was in that play in NYC in the late nineties. 

And I was pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

Of course, it was a modern interpretation, put together at Expanded Arts when things were still exciting, before excess and madness led to that troupe's demise.

Sounds dramatic, and it was. 

Anyhow, that quote about what to aspire to as one writes is pretty on the mark. I would only add "and it should be either incredibly funny or intense, and make everyone cry at least once."

I am working on two main projects at the moment. Well, maybe three. And when I say I am working on those, that doesn't mean there aren't several other things hovering in the background, waiting for their chance to speak. Those three are just on the front burner.

I'm rambling. I know. Sorry. When I open the door into my own brain, the waters pour out and go where they will and I try to clean up the mess, but what can I say, there's a lot of stuff in me, and the more I write, instead of the clutter going away, I find the palace of my mind expands, sort of like the Winchester Mystery House, getting bigger and weirder as time goes by. 

Each experience this life affords also adds to the fun.

So. Yeah. I am a writer. I have stories and jokes and tales of glory and woe. I will try to amuse you. I will try to amuse myself. 

I have no choice in the matter.

Here's a song. It's Lonesome Fiddle Blues, by The String Cheese Incident. I chose it because one of my projects was partially inspired by String Theory, by the idea we are connected to many different dimensions, by cosmic strings. 

Enjoy.

THE MIRRORVERSE IS OPEN

My new favorite show is Moon Knight. 

Moon Knight is the latest Marvel show streaming o Disney+. Moon Knight is a superhero with some issues. Like multiple personalities which result in gaps of time that can't be accounted for. 

I love it. 

Moon Knight talks to himself in a mirror. A lot. 

I find this exciting because I have a script I've been working on for a while that has people talking to people via mirrors. 

That shows working title: Lunatics and Assholes.

Lunatics and Assholes is about a young woman who discovers that some of her friends have been possessed by a couple of evil ghosts who seem hell bent on bringing out the worst in everyone they encounter. The idea for it sprang to life during the Trump administration, when people I knew and loved were saying and doing really ugly shit.

The idea hit, I started to work on it, and things slowly solidified. There were many drafts, early excursions into alternate versions of the story, but the basic idea of the ghosts, and the souls of those whose bodies had been taken over talking to their friend via mirrors was always there. At one point, some folks at one of the larger production companies in Hollywood took interest, and we kicked it around a bit, before moving on to other projects. 

Their response was pretty excellent, all things considered. It wasn't ready for production yet, and had lots of work to be done. I went on to other projects, and at the time, decided that since they hadn't gotten completely behind developing it right there and then that it was dead in the mirror, so to speak.

Often, I take encouragement the wrong way when it comes to my writing. I was going over some old rejection letters from various theatres I had received early in my career. At the time, all I saw in them was "thanks, but no thanks". But on second reads, I see things like "please keep writing"; "please let us know when you have a new draft, as we'd love to read it"; please keep us on your list of people to send new scripts to"; and so on.

I didn't realize that people who run theatres like Steppenwolf or film production companies like Anonymous Content don't say things like that to everyone. That if they don't like your work, they don't take the time to write personal letters going to great length to compliment your writing and asking to please let them read more.

I still find rejection letters hard to read.

But I am getting better at reading the nice parts more than once, and of keeping those people on my list.

So, today, I am working on latest draft of Lunatics and Assholes. I'm cleaning up structure, clarifying character, eliminating scenes.  Diving deep and finding that balance of mystery, action and comedy. 

And keeping it true to my vision. 

And when I think it's ready, I will send it off to various managers, agents, and production companies. 

And on Wednesday, I'll watch the latest episode of Moon Knight.

Here's a song. It's You're Somebody Else, by Flora Cash. I have it on one of my playlists for when I'm working on the script. I find music opens doors in my mind when I work. Weirdly, once the door opens, I don't even hear the music anymore. 

THE OLD SANTA CRUZ HIGHWAY OF LIFE

Haven't written in a bit. Such is life. Things come and go. We wax and wane like the moon, and a lot of rock bands. Sometimes, we are super geniuses and everything we do is perfect and awesome. Other times, it's a struggle to put together a coherent sentence. 

Today I feel groovy, alive, happy to have baseball in season, flowers budding, sun shining, shows opening, possibilities presenting themselves like friendly cats on a neighborhood walk. 

It's a good day.

So, when last I wrote, I was in San Jose, the world I grew up in, the place where most of who I am was set into motion. I was there to retrieve some artifacts of my life, which had been sitting in storage since the sale of my mother's house. Records, photos, old journals, books, furniture, paintings. Some mine, some my mother's, divided up between me and my siblings. 

That was all good. Loaded up a U-Haul with my brother and my nephew, who is somehow now a young man but at the same time still carries the little boy I would baby sit when he was in diapers. 

One of the best parts of that trip was a car ride with my oldest friend in this universe. A simple jaunt over the hill to Santa Cruz, via the aptly named Old Santa Cruz Highway. Let's call that friend Brian, because that's his name. Met him when I was five. There is something to be said for knowing someone most of your life. Shared history, jokes, stories. Legends, really. But more than that, there are certain friends in this world who you keep close, no matter how far away you live, no matter how long it has been between visits or phone calls. Friends who, when you see them, you say "So anyhow..." and pick up right where you left off, as if not a day has gone by.

And on a cosmic scale, I suppose not a day has.

Of course, life has happened in great quantities to both of us. Triumphs and tragedies, unexpected events, strange adventures like getting a few grey hairs and then a few more. But even so, we are who we are, who we were, and who we shall be, and recognized that in each other, as usual. And so we drove, and chatted, and laughed, and caught up, and had the best damned time. 

It is a rare wonder to have such friends, and I am the luckiest person I know.

My mother would often say a quote I believe is attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson. We all should be as happy as kings. We didn't have the best of times, or the worst. But we had times. And mom would say that quote, often when things were rough. I always assumed whatever royalty she was talking about were truly happy, not like Princess Diana towards the end, or Richard III for most of his existence. 

Anyhow, that's where my mind is on this early Spring day. Grateful for old friends, for a life to live, for days and nights and music and trees and blue skies and clouds. 

Here's one of my favorite songs. It's San Francisco by The Mowglis. Enjoy. And call up some old friend and revel in the fact that there is someone in your life who gets you.

STRAWBERRY PARK WE LOVE THEE

Smaller and different and totally the same. That's what it feels like to be here in my home town of San Jose. Got in yesterday, drove to my old neighborhood, past the Winchester Mystery House, down Moorpark, past Blackford High which is now part of Harker Academy but at one time was just another public high school in the Campbell Union School District. Eased past the house I grew up in. So strange to think a different family lives there now, in the same house, the same rooms. And how it's not the same house the same rooms anymore. The trees are there, but look unloved, unclimbed. 

And yet, Mount Hamilton still looms to the East, and the Santa Cruz Mountains shadow the west, like they always have and always will, for at least a few more millennia. The air yesterday had that fresh Bay Area thing going which happens from time to time, where you can see for miles, and just breathing it in feels like drinking a tall glass of spring water. There is a life force in the Bay Area, and it just is.

There is something about returning to where you grew up that reminds you of who you are, who you were, and who you want to be. About seeking out places and people who are still part of your life. And also seeking things that no longer are, and that feeling of how it must be some kind of magic trick, this not having everything being just as it was. Like maybe, Blackford is still Blackford, Carrow's is still Carrow's and not a Denny's. 

Maybe Life really is a dream.

Well, in today's dream, I'm sitting in a hotel that is right where there used to be a 7-11, which was my main place to get comic books when I was a kid. Comic books and Slurpees. Behind it there was a vacant lot that had been turned into a sort of dirt bike track with little ramps we could jump our bikes over. I don't know who, but someone, some Johnny Appleseed of bicycles, roamed the South Bay and turned all the vacant lots into places you could do your best to endanger your life by riding really fast and then taking flight on little ramps made of dirt. 

This same Appleseed seemed to have a penchant for dirty magazines, as there was always a stash in all these vacant lots. We had the one behind the 7-11, another one over near Manor Market, one near the Mormon Church over on Borina Drive, and many others.

San Jose, at least the Strawberry Park area, was a magic realm full of danger and dirt of all forms.

I am here to collect things out of storage from when we sold the house I grew up in last year. Also to see old friends, go to the beach and gaze at the Pacific and hear the Sea Lions, eat the best Falafel sandwich known to man, and wander the past, catching up with ghosts and phantoms, letting them know where I'm at and asking them what it all means and meant, to live and die, to be here, in this town, this world, this motel room that once was a 7-11.

I feel the urge now to take a walk along my old paper route path. 

And to find some coffee.

I remember, when the house on Belvedere was my home, waking each morning very early, and already my mom would be up, and the coffee would be percolating on the stove, and I would lay in bed, knowing a cup of life would be waiting for me downstairs as I started my day.

On.

Here's a song. It's Corral Nocturne from Copland's Rodeo. It makes me think of bicycles and huge oak trees and the cool morning air, of neighborhood cats and the world lighting up as the sun rose, filling our little houses all the same with gold and glory, of a brief moment each day when all the madness of the world was confined to the papers in my bag, and a new day was open. I didn't have the easiest life. I don't think anyone does. But I did have golden mornings and dirt tracks for my bike, and a best friend and a dog, and a mom who made coffee, and music like this.

Enjoy.

I DON'T FIND SHADOWS OFFENSIVE

Ah, that first week of Daylight Savings Time. 

It sucks.

Well, I am being a bit dramatic, but that's what I do. 

This week, I teach my normal classes during the week, a workshop at another school this morning, have tech week for a middle school production of A Midsummer Night's Dream which opens Friday, rehearsals for The Wedding Singer up in Conifer and Little Shop of Horrors and Chamber of Secrets up in Boulder, and leave for San Jose Sunday for a short trip to retrieve things that have been in storage for a long time. On top of that, my company is co-producing a new play which had auditions that past few days, and we are in the process of getting a new venture funded (more on that in future blogs, I'm sure).

So I'm a little groggy. Like toast with no butter that's been sitting on the counter while I take a call, I'm not quite what I want to be. 

But I'm trying.

I did have a good breakthrough with one of my scripts, and enjoyed that feeling of "Aha!" for a day or so. 

Wow. I think I am griping a bit. Which is never seemly, and all the more unseemly when you take a step back and look at what is going on in the world. The Pandemic still rages, the climate still changes, and it feels like we are on the brink of World War Three.

So, I really can't complain all that much. 

I suppose there are those who would say that complaining about the smaller things in life is a pressure valve of sorts, a way of venting our general anxiety. And I dig that. But I also firmly believe we need to keep perspective, and not be so self-involved that we inflate our problems and deflate the problems we all need to consider.

Deep thoughts, I know.

What fools these mortals be. 

I must say, working on Shakespeare with young people, who for the most part have no pre-conceived ideas about "The Bard", no bardolatry or treating it preciously or familiarity with past productions, is shockingly refreshing. It's like approaching it for the first time. And what is really cool is how, when they simply say the words, honestly and in the moment, how evenly the lines flow. How the language matches the thought process of most of us. 

Makes me happy to be alive. The story, the work, the young actors running around on stage and off. There is magic in this world, and has been since the Big Bang. 

It hides in plain sight, clear as can be, loud and pungent and mysterious and uncomplicated, all at once. 

I think that is my main theme in pretty much everything I write. Life is beautiful, and we all should realize that, but somehow get caught up in our busy schedules, hurt feelings, past trauma, over due bills and so on. Which is tragic. 

All this wonder out there, and we do our best to fuck it up, or pretend it doesn't exist. 

Well, it does. Grab it. Experience it. Share it. Eat it. 

And be cool if others don't. Or if you don't. That's my advice. I know that is a hard thing for some, and not a desired thing for others. 

That's cool too. It just doesn't make sense to me. Maybe I'm crazy. If so, boo hoo. I shall enjoy my straight jacket of joy and padded cell of art and nature and love and friendships, and will take visitors at all hours.

Party on. Game on. Flame on. 

On.

Here's a song. It's Karn Evil 9, First Impression, part 2, by Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

Also, the new show Sasquatch is co-producing is Puerto Rican Nocturne, which will play at The Bug Theatre this summer. More info HERE. 

THE BUY IN; OR LIFE'S RARE JOYS

Ah, Monday and Daylight Savings Time. That's the fun morning. No longer is the sun peeking out, filling the world with that light, that Hour of the Pearl light.

No. 

It's dark, and feels like it's freaking 4:30 am when the alarm goes off. 

Because it is. The clock may say 5:30, but it's lying. And it doesn't even feel bad about it. Just displays its numbers and pretends, and expects you to pretend as well.

Usually, at this moment, I'd be out with Lisa strolling the neighborhood. But that was an hour ago, and here I am in front of my old computer, eyes feeling a little baggier than normal, on an extra cup of coffee, considering what there is to say.

Well, there are a few things, as usual. I find if I just get my butt in a seat, and start writing, things do pop up. And the less expectations I have, the better the writing. Form and function and all that comes later anyway, so there.

We went to a ballet of Wizard of Oz recently. It was pretty great, but there were a few things story-wise that puzzled me. Having just directed a stage version of Oz, I was quite familiar with each scene, as both the stage version and this ballet based the plot on the 1939 movie. And there was one moment that the ballet glossed over. 

A key moment.

When Toto gets taken away by Miss Gulch. 

This has to be tragic and real and horrible. No two ways about it. I realized this while directing the show. Dorothy has to have Toto, her dog and best friend, literally taken out of her hands and given to a woman who has made it very clear that she is going to kill that dog.

That's an awful moment of betrayal and sorrow for Dorothy. 

It also happens to be key to the entire story, The inciting incident that sets her on her journey. Yes, a twister picks her up and carries her off to Oz, but it's the moment of betrayal that sets it all in motion. Dorothy has to run away from home, meet Professor Marvel, realize she needs to get home, and then get torn away by powers beyond her ability to contain, and then spend the rest of the story trying as hard as she can to get home, even though she is finally over the rainbow. 

Maybe this isn't a huge revelation to most people. But for me, it was important. The idea of that moment in the story where we the audience buy in, when we invest our hopes and fears into the main character. 

And in that story, it's Dorothy, alone against the world, pleading with her friends and family to not lead her little dog be taken away to certain doom. If that scene isn't heart wrenching and terrible, who really cares what happens after that? Then, it's just a story about a kid in a magic land who could just tap her shoes three times and go home. 

She wouldn't have to learn a damn thing. 

In the ballet, the whole moment is glossed over, and it's not really clear that Gulch will kill the dog or that the adults in Dorothy's life bending their knees to Gulch and her demands. 

As I chewed on this idea yesterday, I started going over all my stories and scripts, especially those on the front burner, and all these possibilities presented themselves. 

Writing can be maddening, frustrating, and horrible, while at the same time filling you with a sense of purpose and wonder. 

Having a little revelation after going to the ballet is one of life's rare joys.

Here's a song. It's Happy Phantom by Tori Amos. 

 

LET THEM DIRECT CHILDREN'S THEATRE

Writing earlier today. Still wiping the sleep out of my eyes, shaking the cobwebs out of my brain, and looking for solace in a cup of coffee. Well, a cup of espresso as I wait for the water to boil. 

I saw several headlines about inflation yesterday, and how we are all supposed to be angry at someone. about it. Biden. The GOP. Putin.

Now, I do think Putin is a horrible person, and the GOP has really become a strange party that either is run by a bunch of feckless liars, or is crazy and actually believes a lot of bizarre notions. Global warming is fake. Trump won. The world is flat. Ted Cruz.

All sorts of crazy shit.

But I don't blame inflation on any of those folks. And I am not really furious about it. Yeah, I pay bills, and gas prices are up, and groceries cost more. They do. But it always feels to me like the market, that mysterious Market that runs the world, is to blame. And who or what is the market? A small group of aliens living in the middle of Iowa? The Illuminati? I don't think so.

I think the Market is just a bunch of greedy, out of touch people who don't really enjoy living all that much and so try to run the world via corporations. People who, like Grand Moff Tarkin, try to grasp theirs hands around the world, but the tighter they try to hold it, the more of it slips through their fingers.

They are the kind of people who want to control everything. And since they are these sad, lonely, out of touch types, they don't really do anything all that helpful for the planet that often. 

It sure seems that way to me.   

I think, for the betterment of the world, every CEO and world leader, every millionaire and senator and member of parliament, every dictator and royal, should have to direct a children's theatre play. One with like thirty cast members, and one assistant. And they can't use any of their money to hire more people or have someone else actually direct it and then take the credit for it. They have to get down in the trenches and work with the little actors. They have to figure out how to make them memorize lines, go where they are supposed to go in a scene, make each of them feel respected and a part of the show. And a to no peek out from the curtains to make sure their parents are in the audience. 

The main problem with this plan is that a lot of them would probably turn out to be horrible at it, and spend the whole time yelling, trying to get the cast to behave itself. Direction by screaming. I've seen it. I've done it once or twice, but it never works. 

Still, it would be a good start. An attempt to humanize the powers that be. 

Maybe they just need to find love for their fellow human beings, and for themselves. 

I don't think, if someone truly felt love, they would engage in price gouging. Or bomb hospitals. Or storm the Capitol. 

Man, I am such a hippie. 

Maybe, instead of directing a kid's show, they should have to write a blog, every day, first thing.

Yeah. 

Here's today's song. It's Stone Cold Crazy by Queen. 

LIFE IS SHORT, MOVIES ARE SHORTER

My last post mentioned Uncle Vanya, one of my favorite plays of all time. I've been in it once, playing the idealistic doctor Astrov; written a stage adaptation of it called Fenway: Last of the Bohemians, which sets the story on a faded hippie commune in the 1980s had a run in NYC in 2007; and wrote a pilot for a series based on Fenway, called Sunny. 

I clearly dig it.

The other day, I went to a matinee screening of Drive My Car, which follows a man in Japan who is directing a production of Uncle Vanya and dealing with loss, grief, infidelity, and life in general. 

I dug it the most.

The movie is three hours long, which I suppose is a long time for a movie.

Even though I can binge watch four or five hours of The Clone Wars in one sitting, no problem. And I can play Contest of Champions on my phone forever. I can also sit on a plane pretending not to worry about crashing for many hours as well. 

So I guess three hours isn't really all that much of an ask for a film. I mean, I love movies, stories, images and sound. I love popcorn, sitting in the dark, and losing myself in other worlds. Three hours is nothing, really. 

Life is short, and movies are shorter. 

So I spent three hours lost in a world full of people who have sorrow and regret and joy and hope. People who mourn the dead and are haunted by memories of what could have been, what should have been, and will never come to light now. People who have had their hearts broken, and broken hearts as well. People who makes huge mistakes. Some mistakes are made due to a passion they can't control. Some are the result of a sense of anger that can't be fully articulated and so comes out in unintended ways, with unintended consequences. 

Three hours with people who struggle with their daily lives. 

So I spent three hours in an alternate reality that was shockingly like the one I live in.

Not only is there a lot of Vanya in the film, there is also a bit of Waiting for Godot, another favorite of mine. 

I seem to like stories about life being rough that are supposed to be funny but that lots of people find maudlin.

I think there are some folks in the world who find tragedy humorous. And comedy to be full of sadness and frustration. 

Maybe the theatre masks, comedy and tragedy, should just be called The Masks of Life. 

Now masks are things we put on to present a certain trait or character, to hide who we really are and what we are really feeling. As I think of this, I think of how I present myself to the world. Usually, I wear the comedy mask, and point out all the contradictions that race back and forth over the field of our lives. Other folks I know seem to wear the tragedy mask, and come off as most happy when relating to others the worlds woes, as well as the travails of themselves, their families, their co-workers, the Kardashians, you name it.

We are a strange species, to be sure. 

But we are also glorious. 

I think that is the main thing I got from Drive My Car. That even though we make gigantic mistakes, and don't do what we should; even though we betray one another and ourselves, there is within us a greatness, a possibility for kindness and love, when confronted with the horrors of existence. 

We can laugh and cry and hold each other's hands. And we can have compassion for ourselves and others when we aren't able to do any of that.

And we can sit in a movie theatre for three hours.

Today's song if Frente!'s cover of New Order's Bizarre Love Triangle.

And for today's bonus material, here is the final bit from my play Fenway. Fenway is the Uncle Vanya Character, and Reality is Sonya, his niece.

FENWAY

I can't do this. This isn't my life. It can't be! I don't know what to do. I don't know who to be. How do you go on living in this God damned world? Can anyone answer that for me?

REALITY

By living your life. By trying to make a difference. By trying to do something worthwhile in this world. I know you feel terrible. I know it seems like the end of the world. But it isn't, not really. This is just the hand we've been dealt, pure and simple. I can’t tell you why. But I can tell you that we'll live with it. We'll deal with whatever life throws at us. If we have to, we'll work crappy jobs for crappy people we don’t like or even know. Maybe we won’t find the love we want, or the home we need. Maybe our nights will be long and empty. Our lives might seem nothing more than a sad, lonely parade. So what? We'll do the best we can with what we have, quietly, with dignity. And when we get to Heaven, and I promise you we will get there, we'll talk about all the hard times, the tears and frustrations and injustices. We'll cry for a hundred years if we have to. And God will cry with us and hold us in her arms. We'll just cry for as long as it takes. And then, after we let it all go, we'll realize that we're in Heaven, and all is well. We'll be able to talk about our lives and actually smile. Won't that be something? To be able to smile at our lives? And finally, we'll sleep the sleep of angels and dream dreams that defy explanation. That's what's we'll do. I have faith, Uncle Fenway. I know that sounds crazy, but I do. I believe.