DAY THIRTEEN - IN AND OUT, UP AND DOWN, ALL OVER TOWN, AND SO IT GOES

The last day of our time at the Fringe arrives. We wake, we move, we walk. A long walk at that. There's been a substantial amount of moving things around on this one. From the first day to the last, with bonus moves in between. 

Keeps us healthy. 

But the new place is nice. Quiet. Clean. I dig it. Lisa digs it. We dig it.

And so, after setting up our things, we take a stroll down this lovely street to see a dance show called Midsommar. 

It's fucking amazing. Beautiful. Wild. Original. I don't know if it's inspired by the movie and I really don't care. It's brilliant.

We walk into the space. First thing we notice: There is dirt on the floor. Dark, loamy, the kind of dirt life pops out of. Also, there are all these young girls on the stage. They could be anywhere between 14 and 30. There is a wildness to them. A danger. They all seem to be anticipating something that will be happening soon. They also all have laurels of flowers in their hair.  They keep looking out into the audience as we walk in. Some smile. Some flat out stare. One of them walks up to Lisa, places her crown of flowers on Lisa's head. One by one, all the dancers place their flowers on someone in the audience. And then the dance begins. Music pulsates. The dancers perform this ritual of spring and life and power and fear and it's transportive. It's like a dream of that party you went to after dropping acid. 

It's enthralling and kinetic and I love it.

Next we stroll over to ZOO Playground to see Sam Bate's new play Sessions. This is a serious play about serious things, and it's beautiful in every sense. The writing is spot on, organic, funny, real, fast-paced and on point, at times brutal and at other times brimming with empathy and insight. The acting is some of the best I've seen at the Fringe. Ever.  Kudos to Sam Bates for both writing and directing, Adam Halcro for his incendiary turn as George, Naytanael Isareal for his rock solid portrayal of David, Finlay Murray for a subtle but powerful design, and Stacey Cullen for producing this fabulous, numinous new play. Go see it if you can!

So, now I am full of two brilliant shows. Nothing left to do but give our final performance of Banned at Fringe. The house is full. The cast is primed. We've been up and down and all over the past ten days. We are ready. We go out and give the best performance yet. The audience by the end is yelling and hooting and hollering, and I feel both elated and sad. Elated at the show tonight, sad that now that we've cracked it and I think could do it for a while quite well, it's time to pack our bags and head to points unknown. 

We have a cast drink atop the Johnny Walker building, which is lovley. The views are stunning and we are all in high spirits. After, some of us head to Greenside HQ for their end of the week party. I see a lot of people I've met this week. Meet some more. Talk with others I met last year who now feel like old friends. Which of course they are. Somehow it's past midnight and time to go, and we walk for over half an hour, through a town still dancing, past theatre's going dark, down some of the prettiest streets you will every see, to our quiet room and sleep.

In the morning, some take the high road, some take the low. Lisa and I take a car and head to the Highlands.

More on that soon. 

Here's a song. It's Sinatra. One for My Baby. The baby in question being the show we just closed. One for my baby, and one more for the road.

DAY TWELVE - SAINTS AND POETS AND ELVES AND FAGHAGS

I'm not seeing enough shows. I see a couple everyday. It's not enough. So much theatre. So much talent. So much story and song and inventiveness and brilliance.

The Fest is like life that way, magnified and amplified and dramatized in every way possible.

I walk the streets and see poster after poster of something that looks cool.

I meet person after person, mostly actors and writers and directors, all interesting and funny and having some show they want me to see, and that I do indeed want to see.

But there's just not enough time. 

And Time does not give any extras. 

So you do what you can. Develop an appreciation for where you are, what sight you are seeing, conversation you are having, show you do manage to see.

It's thrilling and sad in equal measure.

Walked down the Royal Mile yesterday to check out the Palace. So gorgeous and full of history and Lion Rampants and Mary Queen of Scots. It's this combination of history and beauty, the Palace. Part of it is a functioning home to the Royals, part of it's the ruin of an ancient church. 

And there's a wooden floor with blood stains from when Mary Stuart's husband stabbed a guy he thought she was messing around with fifty some odd times. 

Very dramatic.

We spend a few hours walking the Palace, then speed walk to a performance of "I'm Almost There", which is this semi-one man show, a musical of sorts, about life and love and working through your shit after meeting someone and thinking you are falling in love. It's beautiful and hilarious and touching. The show is the main guy at a piano, plus a harpist and bassist who not only accompany but become some of the characters the main guy mentions. The whole show is like a monologue, a confessional one person show, all about a chance meeting that leads to a day spent walking and talking and connecting to a missed kiss, a cup of coffee, and how the journey to a decision, to taking a step forward, to simply accepting a cup of coffee brought unbidden, can be an odyssey of the soul. 

It's brilliant. 

We walk home, and happen upon this strange, wondrous tea shop, run by two young women who might be elves. They smile, talk and sing to themselves as we walk about the shop, smelling little samples of tea. It's one of those random stores you find now and then- well, you find them a lot here in Edinburgh but this place is another dimension, to be certain. We buy some tea and a brownie that one of the elves tells me is "most certainly the best brownie you will ever have". 

I haven't eaten it yet, but I'm fairy certain when I do I will find I can levitate or speak with animals or something.

Then it's time for the show. And it's one of those shows where things just feel odd. First off, there's a street band playing outside the building, behind and below us on Victoria Street, which is this winding cobble stoned thoroughfare that looks like Diagon Alley, because it was the inspiration for Diagon Alley. The band has an excellent sound system, and we can hear them as the play is being performed. The audience is almost a strange mix, with some looking rather unimpressed, and one guy somehow napping. In my big fight scene, my Apple Watch, which I wear but have turned to theatre mode so it won't ring, starts beeping. 

But even so, it's a solid show. Tight. The cast has this thing down and are now in control, and that feels excellent. 

Afterwards, we head towards the show Dylan Mulvaney: FAGHAG. En route, we stop at this outdoor food court- there are lots of these throughout the Fringe, parks and courtyards and open spaces full of food trucks and tables and tents and people. This one looks like Pleasure Island from Pinocchio. As we walk in, a random man sees me and says quite loudly "you're from that show! Up by the castle!". He looks at my face a moment, continues. "Yeah! It's you. Great job! Great Show". And off he walks.

And I feel absurdly good. 

We have Pizza and falafels and I feel just fucking great.

We head to the show, which most of the cast is there for. It's wonderful. Dylan Mulvaney is the trans woman who made headlines when Bud Light had them as a spokesperson and the right wing section of American went even more insane. She is magnetic and uber-talented and makes every single person in the theatre feel like they are a personal guest at her most fabulous and excellent party. The show is a joyous, hilarious, romping good time that is witty and tender and touching and uplifting, and we are all hooting and laughing and I'm watching my friends absolutely fill up with joy, which increases my own joy even more. It's yet another thing I love so much in this city full of things I love. 

And then it's time for bed. We have to move from the flat we are staying in, which is basically a college dorm with free entertainment nightly as it is right next to an intersection where the howling banshees of the night meet, and the screaming seagulls of the morning hold court. So I'm up early, even before the coffee shops open, to write and then pack. 

And tonight, we have our final performance. 

It all makes me think of one of my favorite lines. "Does anyone ever realize life while they live it? Every every minute? No. Saints and Poets. They do. Some."

Here's a song. It's Dylan Mulvaney singing Girlhood.  

EDINBURGH DAY ELEVEN - BREAKING CUBES AND ADDING A FUCK YOU HARD

You blink your eyes twice, and time flies by. Two more shows to go. What happened? Didn't we just land? Somehow, it's been over a week. I've seen show, ran into old friends, eaten way too much haggis, laughed entirely too loud too often for anyone's comfort but my own.

I am a loud person. I am told that often. 

I can't help it. I don't mean to offend.

I just enjoy things. And when something is funny, I laugh. And when I speak, I speak.

No apologies. The world is full of much worse things than a person loudly enjoying their life.

Also, I may have kicked a hole in one of our cubes on stage last night.

We have this scene in the show between my character Ron, and his wife Denise, Played by aforementioned friend of blog, Tracy.

And we fight in it, and yell, and it gets ugly, and I storm off, and she sings this song "Only the Lonely" whose title always makes me think of that old Roy Orbison song but is a new one and a number I particularly love in this show, as it's dramatic, set up nicely by the scene going into it, and performed perfectly, and one of the moments in the show I think I directed well. 

A heart breaking work of staggering genius and all that. 

Nothing feels better than directing a moment and having an actor not only get what you're trying to do, but have them run with it. Soar. Transport the audience.

So the scene going into that moment is important.

So we're doing the scene last night. It's going ok. We're yelling. Doing the lines. Something feels a little different about the scene. We're playing off each other, but it's in some new zone. Usually Denise is more aggressive. Tonight, maybe it's my loudness, or the rain that day, but she's more leaning back, a little more of a slow burn kind of anger. 

Which fuels my character's/my anger. 

And we get to this point, right before I say "I want you to shut your fucking mouth..." and I stand up off a cube, and for some reason I kick the thing. 

I've kicked it a few times, both in rehearsal and in the show. But tonight, I have extra-kick mode on, and a kick it like I'm a field goal kicker and it's the Super Bowl.

And as I turn to say "Shut Your Fucking Mouth..." I notice a hole in the cube. About the size of a golf ball. And then, as I march off, where I'm supposed to say "Fuck you", I add a bonus "Fuck you hard."

I may be insane. 

Now, here's the thing. Part of me feels bad about this. 

But part of me feels good. I was playing the role. In the moment. And yeah, I kicked the cube and swore more. 

But that's live theatre. Shit happens. Actors go a little nuts. 

Or a lot. 

After the show, Lisa and I and some of the cast go Ceilidh Dancing, which is Scottish folk dancing similar to square dancing. You run around a lot, sweat your ass off, dance with strangers, and release all of the days worries. 

It's fantastic. I hang with cast mates and also old friend and fellow Fringe performer Katelyn Berrios, who was in the sublime How to Eat a Bear last year and has a great solo piece this year called The Basement Entertainer, which I saw in the morning and recommend. It's a new piece about trying to make it in the business, create some art, and somehow combine creative freedom with success. Definitely worth catching.

And now it's Friday. The day is clear to see shows and sights, then we perform, then I think as a group we are going to see a show.

Last year, on the Isle of Skye, I heard a tale of an Islander who married a faerie. They could only be together a year, then she would have to return to her world. Then spent a happy year together, full of love and magic. Then the time came, then walked to a bridge, kissed one last time, and she took the high road and he took the low, never to see each other in this world again. I feel like that now. Like the Fringe is my faerie, we'e had this grand time, but tick tock goes the clock, and the bridge awaits.

Now real life starts to creep into my mind. Now I start to prep for the next show, the latest gig. A bid for Rock of Ages. A new production of Rocky Horror Show I'm directing. Scripts that have been patiently waiting for me to get back to them as I have this adventure. 

Speaking of, time to head out, grab coffee, feel the cool morning air.

Loudly, of course.

Here's a song. Only the Lonely by Roy Orbison. 

EDINBURGH DAY TEN - THE JOHNNY CASH OF EDINBURGH, SPAIN

To say the days are full here is the grossest of misstatements. Each day is a month, each hour a week, each moment a lifetime.

Yesterday in the City of Stones and Storms, of Closes and Wynds, we had a go of it, as is our want here. 

We started with a day trip out to Roslyn Chapel, what some call the Green Church, and the masses call the old building in Da Vinci code where they found the thing.

I had gotten to bed quite later. A little close to 5 am. So I was feeling just keen. 

And yet that place is so fill of mystic charges, I felt energized. Alive. Delirious. Lisa and I had gone there last year, so I thought I'd have a similar experience.

The more fool I. No two experiences are ever the same in this life. It's lesson I learn over and over, in unique ways every time.

Found this stone carving of Death and Humanity, and it was a trip. Saw a carving that translated to "Wine is strong, the King is stronger, women stronger still, but truth conquers all". 

Fact. 

Of course, what is true and what is false in this world is never clear and ever changing. 

So there's that. 

After pondering death and life and truth and dares, we head back to Auld Reeky. Lisa and I go to  see "Kafka's Metamorphosis: The Play with Puppets!". It is fucking genius. Smart, strange, one of a kind. Singing, puppets as promised, tragedy, and truth. One of my favorite shows so far this year. Just love it. 

Then it's time for our performance of Banned the Musical. I am going on maybe four hours of sleep. I grab a huge mocha before the show, and reach down deep and pull out of my soul a performance. I think it's good. Could be awful. I do know when I stormed out of the one big scene I have, a may have almost broken a very large door with how forcefully I opened it. Knocked over some chairs. Felt good. 

Then I meet my old pal Lance, and we hash and rehash our lives for an hour or so, then he's off and I'm off and I head to meet Lisa at The Captain's Gate, a tiny bar that has locals playing live music. Folk stuff mostly. When I get there, a guy on guitar is playing a Scottish folk tune. It's great. Then he launches into Sweet Home Alabama. It's surreal and sublime and I love it. Then this man who looks like the last surviving member of the original cast of Brigadoon gets up and goes off. I love him so much. He's like the streets of Edinburgh and the fields of the Highlands and a little brilliant and a little insane.

In this photo, he's on the bench, to the right of the guy in black with the guitar.

The Man in Black looks like he's Johnny Cash, mostly wearing black, gets up. I am thinking "well, good luck, my friend". 

And then he starts to play. 

And it is shocking. 

Dimensional doors open, and we all step through them to the rhythm of his playing. It's magic. No other word will do. It's just pure, impossible, real magic. 

Some nights are just like that. 

Then, after spending a few millenia in this other realm of musical madness, we are transported back to the little bar. We scream and clap and look about, not sure what just happened but certain that whatever it was, we are forever changed.

Then Lisa and I head to meet most of the cast to watch this staged reading of a new musical based on Drop Dead Gorgeous. What we heard was great. I can't wait to see what they do with it. 

And I hope I get to hear a song by the killer sometime. 

Then it's home, broken glass, a cut foot, lots of laughter, I finally hit the bed, and sleep is instantaneous.

Onwards.

Here he is, folks. The Johnny Cash of Edinburgh, Spain. He starts slow, and you can hear me singing along, off key and out of my mind. But is does capture a tiny sliver of what is was like to sit there, in glory and wonder. 

EDINBURGH DAY NINE- LOST GIANTS, BAGPIPES, AND A LATE NIGHT ZOOM

Sometimes here, you wander into things with deeper magic than you anticipated. A moment in a song, a stage picture, a phrase of dialogue. And you are thrown into the Gulf of Life that lies just south of the Sea of Time, and long forgotten songs taught to you as a child by the shadows of your room as you lay in the dark reassert themselves, and the next time you look in the mirror, there are ghosts behind you, familiar but changed, just as you yourself are changed.

Went to see A GIANT ON THE BRIDGE yesterday on the advice of Tracy, one of the leads in Banned who is cracking in the show, one of my favorite artists, and great friend. And someone whose ideas on theatre I trust completely. So Lisa and I headed to this really beautiful space inside of what I think was once a church. The set is cleary for a music event of some type, like a rock show- guitars on stands, keys, and microphones all standing in a semi-circle facing the audience. 

It's beautiful in it's simplicity, and sets the tone. 

You feel a power in the air. Like how it feels before it thunders or after it rains and you are certain there are powers in the world much larger than yourself. The show begins. It's music and atmosphere and a set of songs and stories written between artists and prisoners about to return home after being locked up. 

And it's devastating and uplifting and heartbreaking and makes you both happy and sad. 

And I stand on metaphorical bridges like ones mentioned in the show with all the giants from my childhood as the show continues. I cry. A lot. Lisa holds my hand. It's hard to speak after. 

That's the kind of theatre for me.

I recover, and we head to a walking tour of the city's hidden gems. And on the way, it's official.

We've gotten a four star review from The Scotsman. 

This is huge and amazing and none of us know quite how to respond. 

So we walk the City of Stone and Stardust and dream.

Then it's the show, a huge crowd, and then Tattoo, a military music parade of sorts at the castle.

And it's spectacular.

I am feeling so much at this moment. Joy and wonder and memory and sorrow and hope.

I am fully alive.

So I get on a zoom call with my playwriting class back in Denver, and from 1:30 to 4:30 in the morning, discuss theatre, listen to new pieces, get and give advice, talk shop, and feel like the luckiest man in the world.

Which of course I am.

I have failed to mention our Indiegogo Campaign lately. We have a campaign. It's still going. If you want to kick in, please do, by going here: INDIEGOGO.

And here's a song. 

It's Pale Green Things by The Mountain Goats. Another song that takes me back to the Belvedere Jungle of my youth. Love to you all. Each and every one of you.

And in case you can't get to it:

EDINBURGH DAY EIGHT - TIME PASSES, AND THEN AGAIN IT DOESN'T

I might be an amateur horologist. Time, its passage, how things change continually is a manner that is constant, how we all seem to be shocked with another year passes, a child becomes older, a movie we love suddenly is no longer the hot new thing.

It's bizarre, at times a little bittersweet, and just the way it is. 

We went to the big castle yesterday. Wandered ancient streets, walked through prisons, felt strangely young in comparison to our surroundings. Went to Saint Margaret's Chapel up on top, which has a stained glass of St. Columba, the first person to have encountered the Loch Ness Monster. So of course one of my favorite saints. Strangely, the glass doesn't depict Nessie. Well, what can one do?

Saw an old friend yesterday. We were apprentices at the Berkeley Shakespeare Festvial long ago, and fast friends. Later, we were roommates at The Western Stage in Salinas, and worked on, among other things, a nine hour three part adaptation of East of Eden, one of the most intense and glorious shows I have ever been a part of. And we also did some shows with a fledgling company in Berkeley called Central works. Thick as thieves would be a good way to describe how it was.

Then time and life and school and marriage and moves and more moves... you blink your eyes twice, and decades have past, and you haven't spoken in years but keep up on all the socials.

Strange.

And yet, life is nothing is not constantly surprising, ready to give curve ball after curve ball, pretty much always when you think you are past such things.

Lance- my friend from back then, is directing a play called Bad Shakespeare here at the Fringe. In the very building I am doing Banned the Musical in. The very same building another pair of old friends from NYC, Todd and Nicole, are doing The Bronze Boy. (which is fucking great and if you are here you must see)

Coincidence, or fate? Qui sait?

I walk in to the theatre yesterday, and there is my dear friend, last seen in my apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan so long ago I was still drinking. 

Long indeed.

And yet, not a moment has passed. He is still he, I am still I, and we hug and talk like not a moment has gone by.

One of life's "So Anyway" friends. 

Years pass, you don't really talk or see each other, randomly connect, and first think you say is a variation of "so anyway" and you pick up where you left off.

Delicious and magic, this life, isn't it?

The show is a group of college theatre students performing various scenes and soliloquies from Shakespeares villains and not-so-nice-ones.

The theatre is a sauna, but I don't care one bit. It's a walk through pieces I know, some from the days Lance and I were apprentices in the long ago imaginary world called the past.

Then it's time for Banned. 

And we kick the shit out of it. Small house. Very quiet. Very hot. Another reviewer. 

We don't let it get us down. 

We are driving the bus, and on a mission from Dionysus. 

Then it's off to a whiskey tasting at The Lost Close, a really brilliant place under the streets of Edinburgh. I don't drink, so I sit and listen and smell the dram and then hand it to Lisa. She is quite wobbly by the end.

And then it's off to Pleasance Courtyard for late night food, a looooooooong chat with some of the cast about writing and theatre and life. 

And then sleep. 

But I wake early. Like 5 or so. I can't help it. 

Now we are off to see the Gems of Edinburgh. A tour of some sort. But I feel as if my pockets are full of rubies and emeralds already.

Here's a song. It's I Am a Scientist by Guided by Voices. Enjoy. 

EDINBURGH DAY SEVEN - BRIDGADOON, CRISPR-ING, TEA AND BISCUITS

As with most things, the long you live, the more they either make sense or seem completely insane. On rare occasions, both are true. 

When I was a kid, my mother loved what they call Golden Age musicals. A lot. My name is Kelly because she loved Gene Kelly so much. My father supposedly wanted to name me Casey, but mom would have none of that. It was Kelly and that was that. She made my first name be Robert, after Bobby Kennedy, just in case I became president. But Kelly was, is, and remains the name everyone calls me by. 

It fits. Sort of out of the norm, a bit rough around the edges, and at times singing in the rain good times or bad. Not always. But often enough

One of the musicals we'd watch often was Brigadoon. A story of a mythic town in Scotland that sleeps in some other dimension and only appears now and then, to the true believers, as they wander mountains seeking things of little import but with something about them that merits a bit of magic.  The town appears, everyone sings, there's romance and drama and magic. And then, somewhere after midnight, if vanishes. And the traveler stands there in the woods, alone again, hungry for more of whatever they just experienced and pondering on the brevity of it all.

At least, that's how the story seemed to me as a boy. 

Edinburgh Festival Fringe is full of little Brigadoons. Moments of magic that rise out of the mist, dazzle your eyes and delight your mind, pick you up and make you dance, pull you out of your tiny thoughts and problems as it hurls you into mystic experiences.

And then, Ding Dong Ding, Midnight comes as it always does, and you are wandering down rainswept cobblestone streets, questioning your sanity and if you really saw that perfect show, truly heard that bagpipe in the distance, really saw what might be the best musical farce about genetics ever devised.

And you have two choices. Either grow sad at time passing so quick, or leap with joy that you were allowed to be part of the show for the briefest of moments- the great show of it all. 

The Brigadoon of it all.

And we had a lot of Brigadoon yesterday. 

First, we all went to a high tea at the Signet Library. Beautiful room, makes you feel like your in Downton Abbey. I had this Aram tea infused with Rose. I am not generally a big tea drinker. But when in Downton... And it was glorious. And then they bring these magnificent trays of little sandwiches and confections and cakes and avacado mousse and items you would think were from the finals of The Great British Bake Off. Exquisite. We all seemed to breathe deeply, relax, and I think as one wanted a nap after.

On the day rolls. Lisa and I wander the Scottish National Museum, which is sort of a natural history museum with hints of the Smithsonian. We look at ancient stones with carvings that look like something from a movie that one of the characters who will soon be killed read with dread saying something like "this means get out before the demon cackels" and then the inevitable CACKLE is heard, and said character is dispensed to parts unknown. 

Really cool.

Then the show. We know there is a reviewer coming this day. At least our second, maybe more have come, but we don't know for certain. But this one is a sure thing, because as the show starts, sitting in the second row is a woman with a press lanyard and prominent notebook, writing at a fiery pace. Page after page. We all notice her. It's a small theatre. Hard to miss. Both exciting and a bit... distracting. Nothing like doing a song and then have someone five feet away start to scribble furiously. 

Brigadoon!

After, head to a tavern for a quick drink and snack, then it's off to CRISPER! THE MUSICAL, which is one of the funniest shows I've ever seen. Brilliant lyrics, impeccable performances, absurd premise. Pure theatrical joy. They have a soundtrack on Spotify and iTunes. Get it. Listen to it. Wait for it to hit big and then go see it when your local theatre does it.

Next, we head to another area to see Silence! The Musical. This is a musical comedy based on The Silence of the Lambs. It's framed with a greek chorus os lambs, and has such hits as "I Want to Smell Your C#nt." The cast is to a one perfect. The show itself amazing and brilliant and sidesplittingly funny,. 

Brigadoon again!

We all wander home over the rainswept streets, talking of the show, the reviewer, the day, life itself. The glory of it all.

And somewhere deep inside, there is a tinge of the blues, knowing full well that this moment will pass in time like tears in rain, to quote Roy Batty, my favorite replicant. 

For now, we are still in the magic village. The music plays, we dance whenever we feel we must, we meet strangers who quickly become friends, we learn a tiny bit about our souls.

And we wander on, not lost at all. Lucky and lovely and leaning in.

Brigadoon indeed.

EDINBURGH DAY SIX - FIVE SHOWS, A REVIEWER AND A RAVE

I HAVE UNLEASHED MY FRINGE.

And it feels pretty damn good. 

Yesterday was a full on day of shows, morning noon and night and midnight and in my mind as I slept and in my bones as I woke and here I am in Black Medicine, one of the great coffee shops that pepper this city like sand on a magnificent beach. This surprised me last year. I assumed it would be all tea, all the time. British people drink tea, American drink coffee. 

Not so. 

And absurd amount of coffee houses here. And they each have their distinct feel. Black Medicine is as groovy as you can get. Right now, it's full of theatre people young and old and most hung over and jazzed and has Rhinestone Cowboy playing.

I love it so much I feel like hugging the walls, dancing on the tables, hugging the staff like old friends I haven't seen in years.

So. Yesterday. We rise early and walk over to New Town, past the Burnt Church and Prince Street, over to George where Greenside has it's headquarters and several venues. We had met a bunch of fellow Greensiders at the press launch, and so we lined up four. 

But then we added two more. One of them was for a friend who had a critic coming and needed to fill the house, the other was just some folks we had chatted with here and there and who seemed cool.

That's how it goes here a lot. You meet people, they give you good karma, you vibe as it were, and then you go see their show. And the simple act of going to see these shows fills your soul, gives you magic and insight and courage and wonder.

First show: Barbara (And Kenneth). It's a mostly one-woman show, with accessory Kenneth who joins in for a song and a monologue. It's energetic and funny and smart, full of original tunes and a force of nature in the lead role. My whole group loved it beyond measure. Lisa wants them to come to Colorado and do the show at our school. It's just brilliant and a must see. 

Next up: Wait, Why Don't We Just Build a Boy? This one is an original play about 3 Gen Z roomies who build a young man in a variation on the Frankenstein story, using various movies and tv shows to program the Creature's personality. The cast and the writing feel like the Creature in the story, raw and seeking identity, but full of promise. Some of the joy in the Fringe is seeing young aritsts just starting out, finding their way, reaching for the stars.

On we go.

Show Three: The Bronze Boy. This one is directed by an old friend from NYC, Todd Faulkner, and stars another old friend from Gotham, Nicole Greevy. It's a show about two women who have had their lives irrevocably shattered from a school shooting, and it's breath taking, at times hilarious, at ultimately beautiful. We all cry a bit at this one, the better for it and maybe a wee bit wiser. A must see.

Then we have our show. We know there are one or two critics coming. We have asked all our new friends to come. Our old ones too. At one point, we had maybe 5 tickets sold. So we were and are in a bit of a state of panic. The show is in good shape. We are ready as can be. The doors open. And all these people file in. Not just our friends, who show up of course, but strangers. People who bought tickets simply because they thought the show sounded cool.

We are energized. The crowd is rowdy. Loud and encouraging. At first, we think, well, our friends are being nice. But it keeps going. Song after song. Scene after scene. The cast lets that energy feed their performance. Magic is happening. The rough magic of live theatre when it's all new and veils are lifted and we touch the collective soul of the world.

So, feeling brilliant and charmed, we head to the next show, back on George Street. We get there a little early and grab a soda in the lobby, and there are a few of us so we move some tables, and ask this fellow who is sitting solo writing on his laptop if he minds us moving the tables. And he looks up and says "I'm writing a review of your show! I just saw it and it was brilliant." He writes for the Scotsman. Hope to post that review soon. We chatted a bit, and I got the vibe he might indeed write a few good lines about our show. 

Life is funny sometimes. And it never hurts to have a bit of good luck.

Fourth Show: Shower Chair. This is a one person show about a young mans journey to selfhood by way of booze and denial and bad choices and horrible moments and friends good and bad. It's beautiful and brave. A bit rough around the edges, but so much heart in this. We all love it.

Then it's off to our first late night show of the Festival.

DANCEFLOOR CONVERSION THERAPY. This show makes you happy to be alive. It's like a rave, a sermon, an old friend you love so much telling stories of life and dancing and parties. It's a revival meeting. It's a rave. It makes you feel high when in fact you are stone cold sober. I laughed and shouted "amens" and at the end, after we moved all the chairs we were sitting in to the side of the hall, danced with both my wife and cast mates and strangers who were, for that moment, part of me. And I was part of them. I could have dance all night like a manic version of Eliza Doolittle, but it was past one in the morning and time to head off. This is a must see. A must experience, actually. 

And that was our day. Crammed full of everything. On to the now. 

Always. 

EDINBURGH DAY FIVE - MORNING, NOON, AND NIGHT EACH HOUR FULL

Mornings here are quiet brilliant. Streets empty, sky clear, gulls singing, Ravens commenting on said gulls voices, a few stalwart souls who like me burn the candles at both ends and while having had a time of times last night or early today are up and wandering, not only to find coffee but to fill up on the energy, the beauty of this loveliest of cities. The theatre spaces all are waking up, the crews coming in, picking up the programs blowing across the ground, tech crews discussing lights that went wrong, sets to fix, how to deal with overly enthusiastic audience members. And all of us who wander, not lost but following a mystic map only reveals itself to you step by step, are going over whatever we need to in our collective minds, which all seem to emit a hum, an energy, and life force.

My mind is full of theatre, of people I have met, of costume changes, flyers, of Real Mary's Kings Close and plague doctors and what happens when the lights go out in the middle of a show. My eyes are watery, I blink and I'm in front of a coffee shop. 

Yesterday morning, I awoke around 6:30, fairly standard for me, grabbed my laptop and headed out to write and caffeinate and do everything I've just been talking about. I was going over how to address my cast and myself, how to make amends and clarify the air. Ran into one of the cast, figured this was the time to start, and just spoke as plainly and truthfully as I could. 

That seems to be the only way to go. Just don't bullshit, say what you feel, hope for the best, and move on.

And lo and behold, that was indeed the way to go. Letting go of self created toxins is the best feeling. It did indeed feel like learning to fly. 

So I grab more coffee,  fly over the buildings and back to the flat, grab Lisa, and off we go to meet some of the troupe as we are taking a tour of Mary's Kings Close, an old part of the city now underground, a guided tour of sorts full of really cool info and access to walk around rooms and alleys in a now subterranean city. Very cool. And a little bit haunted. 

At the end of the tour, our guide tells us he is also an actor, and that he is in a show at the festival called Godfather Death: A Grimm's Musical. Which just happens to be a show we have already bought tickets to see that very day. 

Coincidence is a thing here. Happens daily, almost hourly. Someone you know is standing next to you at the pie shop. Someone who saw our show last year bumps into you as you head into a show and loudly talks about how great last year's show was. An old friend is in a show you are seeing and you had no idea they were even here. 

It just happens.

After the tour- truly worth it and I highly recommend to anyone coming here, we head to the flat to read through the show. I make my amends to the rest of the cast, we read through, and it feels good. Everyone is laughing and excited and here we are, in Edinburgh, about to perform the entire show for the first time at the festival. It's electric.

Then we toodle off to see Godfather Death. It's really good. Sort of a modern fable with music that was somewhere between Godspell and Hadestown. Our tour guide is playing Death himself. And he's terrific. We are at about fifty minutes into this one hour show, when the lights go out. 

All of them. 

Clearly not a lighting cue. The band is an electric keyboard and a drum set. At the point where the lights went out Death had just started what felt like the epic and of show number for a lead character. And when the lights left the building, he stayed in character and kept singing. And the drummer kept playing. And we all lost our minds and were cheering and clapping. We see the stage manager run up the aisle and to the backstage area. Death keeps singing. The stage manager comes back, stops the show for a second with their authoritative stage manager voice to say power is out in the whole building. We all say "keep going", Death does, and we start holding up our cell phones with flashlight on to light the stage. And it's great. Then the main building people- in charge or not only the theatre we are in but several others in the complex, in an even more authoritative voice, informs us the show must stop, we are evacuating the building. A huge collective sigh permeates the room, and we shuffle out. I chat with the cast and show's producer on the way out, as we are all in line together. Very nice people. They hope to come to our show, and we hope to come back to theirs.

Such is life sometimes. Unexpected, with highs and lows doled out in equal measure. 

And it's time for the show. Well, first, I run to our space to make sure our power is on, then run back to the flat, get my costumes, take a breath, and head back. Now it's time for the show.

It's a light house, but we know that coming in. We have never run the show in its entirety in the space. We are all still a little jet lagged and don't have time to do anything but gear up and go.

And we kick the shit out of it. The tiny audience is into it. 

And a show is born.

After, we go out as a group, a team, a family, and eat and drink and laugh and feel like the rock stars we are.

And all is well.

On to another day.

Today's song is By and By by Caamp, in honor of the Lifeforce of this town, this festival, and this show.

EDINBURGH DAY FOUR - HAUNTED BY THE WITCH OF MEMORY

It's a little past 7 this grey Edinburgh morning. We've been here I think three days, but the days all blend together like coffee beans in a grinder, so I'm not sure of exact day count. I'm getting ready for our first performance here at the festival. We've done our press launch, met dozens and dozens of fellow Fringers, theatre goers, and good people of Scotland. 

I've managed to be a bit of an asshole to pretty much everyone in the show.

It's a skill I possess.

As we rumble and roll through ups and downs, techs and launches, the desire to create something unique and brilliant and amazing, which most of the time is thrilling, can at times eat up your reason, logic, and sense of joy, and you are left with childish behavior directed at people who are trying to help you on your quest for theatre magic.

So I have been short with people. Sarcastic. Dickish. 

And I can't stand myself when I am like that. 

I don't suppose anyone does.

I am so lucky to be here. 

I think part of me has been trying to recreate last summer's experience.

And that's madness. Last summer was brilliant and mighty, but that was last summer, and it deserves respect and singularity. 

Last summer, on the night before opening, a few of us went up the Royal Mile around midnight to perform mystic rights at the theatre, say a few pagan prayers, and revel in our being here.

Last night, I went there again, but with a different set of friends. And as we walked through the cobble stoned streets, I realized I've been trying to time travel, to step through dimensions and force this wonderful, perfect reality into some warped idea of 2023. 

There was a witch we met at midnight that fated eve before we opening Eigg. She was frightening and magnetic and clearly a sign from the forces of nature that we were doing what we were meant to be doing. She took the form of a large drunk man who I was fairly certain was going to kick our asses. She ambled up the Mile as we triumphantly paraded back to our flat, confident and inscrutable. She appeared out of the shadows, beer in hand, mumbling spells full of invectives. We called her the Witch of Edinburgh.

Now I shall call her the Warlock of Time. A beacon of those moments of rarity when you are certain life has meaing and purpose. Those moments that can't ever be replicated but that we seek nonetheless. And we get so busy on that quest, we miss out on the magic of now. Of here. Today. This moment. This show. This year. 

I can't force magic to happen. I can't live in the past. I am here. Now. In the most exciting festival I have ever been a part of. I am opening a brand new musical tonight. I am with my wife and a group of friends who are to a one lovely and strange and brilliant. 

Let this be what this is. 

That's when the magic happens. 

Now I walk. I drink coffee. I think about how to apologize to those I've treated poorly.

And I let the past go. 

I leap.

I fly. 

Here's a song for today. It's Learning to Fly by Tom Petty.