tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78914307572539290652024-03-27T16:54:08.423-07:00FOR THE DURATIONGetting Through This, Day by DayRobert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.comBlogger375125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-606172692182179162024-02-22T06:47:00.000-08:002024-02-22T06:47:52.535-08:00I DON'T MEAN TO MAKE IT ALL ABOUT ME BUT THEN AGAIN I DO<p>Sometimes, oftentimes, now times, I wake with this feeling of existential dread. Or what I think existential dread is. I get up early, almost every day. Usually it's around 5:30, but on days off I might not manage to get out of bed until 6:30 or even 7:00. Not that I don't wake up. The waking time is so ingrained in my soul I just wake up. Then I lie there, thinking about... everything. Life and meaning and death and worries and money and friends and theatre and jobs. Does any of it matter? Do I matter? Have I made the right choices to get here? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIy8FBP8RTdeHmq59nTSFKF7tF1742Kw2cp-GNShRyrhMNavWchmFEhwYETDMSR3VE6I0Oy_v2NKQ57gJ1lbe0mfPBC2U_tX01mZYp91srM3PPWpIClyTb_Uzib6AfPRI1oeLDomKCg-Oe4gEp1QQr3E4tt8JEKsb7ok5dSOwTAYJM_SUsgHuqu6H3YL3S" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="350" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIy8FBP8RTdeHmq59nTSFKF7tF1742Kw2cp-GNShRyrhMNavWchmFEhwYETDMSR3VE6I0Oy_v2NKQ57gJ1lbe0mfPBC2U_tX01mZYp91srM3PPWpIClyTb_Uzib6AfPRI1oeLDomKCg-Oe4gEp1QQr3E4tt8JEKsb7ok5dSOwTAYJM_SUsgHuqu6H3YL3S" width="267" /></a></div><br />I suppose it's kind of stupid, crazy, and wrong to do so. <p></p><p>But there it is. </p><p>What's strange is I think I love being alive more than almost anyone I know. I love the warmth of the blankets over me when I wake and ponder. I love going downstairs while Lisa sleeps, making coffee, the world still dark, the heater coming on, getting my journal out. This morning, even with my usual companions of questions about what it all means, I am at the same time I'm glooming and dooming, I am reveling in the luxury of being able to do so.</p><p>I am so spoiled.</p><p>There are so many parts of this world, so many people, where getting up, putting the kettle on, and feeling lost and confused for a moment would no doubt be a miracle. We have a world full of angst, danger, hunger, and uncertainty. </p><p>But I do feel these things, and have to honor them, deal with them, seek perspective and move on.</p><p>My life is like my writing. At times effortless, at times impossible. But always sustaining my soul. Even when it's not so great. Even when it is repetitive, derivative and dull. When none of the characters surprise me, the plot feels predictable, and I find no wonder. </p><p>Oh, who am I kidding? I love all of it. I love being a version of Eeyore for a bit, because most of the time I am the Pooh. </p><p>And yes, I realize I just wrote that I am the shit.</p><p>Well, sometimes I am. </p><p>I am not short, but kind of fat, and proud of that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZdRroPzsqKmWcU39wJOu3C6ncLwJi_WjL94ihsarhsPvNMuq36LiyG26-7kBOaVrk2QRgtvKx2IgO14fpZHGNZPBAXF-__DfYs8zZOkDN5NSM3JgtP-3xQL-rPzcyF-qu-2AZgjpyfN5HBSmFJYwPN1SvIdZV7sjkHoozZV1iCpjEwaVtwasXDX3432Nl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZdRroPzsqKmWcU39wJOu3C6ncLwJi_WjL94ihsarhsPvNMuq36LiyG26-7kBOaVrk2QRgtvKx2IgO14fpZHGNZPBAXF-__DfYs8zZOkDN5NSM3JgtP-3xQL-rPzcyF-qu-2AZgjpyfN5HBSmFJYwPN1SvIdZV7sjkHoozZV1iCpjEwaVtwasXDX3432Nl" width="320" /></a></div><br />I am writing today for many reasons. But one of the best is that a friend, a former student who I don't get to see so often because they had the audacity of growing up, sent me a text with a song they thought I would like to listen to while writing in my blog.<p></p><p>I think that's the one of the best things about writing. Because, now and then, when the Writing Gods are generous, you can manage to say something that resonates with at least one other human being. </p><p>And now I feel better. </p><p>Here's that song. It's Voyager by boygenius. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4ZIT-xgfhKY" width="320" youtube-src-id="4ZIT-xgfhKY"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-27232114337451421652024-02-19T08:29:00.000-08:002024-02-19T08:29:28.240-08:00ALL MY TOMORROWS<p>I get all sorts of emails, from every possible place. I have over 180,000 unread emails, most of them semi-spam shit about some product I once looked at or bought, some show I should see, a political plea for money, and on and on. Truly amazing amount of bullshit, floating out in the ether, waiting to be read with the hope I will send money or do something like that. I also get a lot of news articles, announcements, and helpful hints on how to live my life. I can't blame all the sites that send me these things. And I'm not talking about my junk folder, which I rarely look at. Junk folder is like the junk drawer we had in the kitchen when I was a kid. An overstuffed thing full of odd devices, old recipes, broken buy maybe save-able doo-dads. To put your hand in it would be to hazard getting cut, or a finger eaten by some strange beast living in the upper regions of that drawer, in the area impossible to get to because the drawer was always broken and could only open so much. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI5gE1jVGcyJmJVghk6_-ubIY2MyzOndf3AHzNWFdMY_SO-HpIkR5Ktfuut3WGcQ25ldzvFhK7QgBP501aEp7IancXZ2RJeo3zOXeDj6fzFjtXaU2IG7ozEqIqcFs1gghZQqiMZulL-Ny4oIdrrjqvpqbx7R25hXlW8FNawOhd7noIMGXv-qn7ORUJdB-D" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="195" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI5gE1jVGcyJmJVghk6_-ubIY2MyzOndf3AHzNWFdMY_SO-HpIkR5Ktfuut3WGcQ25ldzvFhK7QgBP501aEp7IancXZ2RJeo3zOXeDj6fzFjtXaU2IG7ozEqIqcFs1gghZQqiMZulL-Ny4oIdrrjqvpqbx7R25hXlW8FNawOhd7noIMGXv-qn7ORUJdB-D" width="256" /></a></div>But I digress.<p></p><p>Today, I opened one of those random emails in my regular inbox. (Email, for those of you who only use Insta or Snapchat to communicate, is an old timey way of sending electronic messages to one another.) In that random email was a thought of the day. I've been getting these for a few months now. Fairly certain I clicked something, somewhere, and thus the daily emails from somewhere with this salient thought:</p><h3 style="background-color: white; color: #202832; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 24px !important; line-height: 1.2; margin: 10px 0px; text-align: center;"><span color="#000000" face="proxima-nova-n4, proxima-nova, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" size="4" style="color: black; font-family: proxima-nova-n4, proxima-nova, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"</span><span color="#000000" face="proxima-nova-n4, proxima-nova, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" size="4" style="color: black; font-family: proxima-nova-n4, proxima-nova, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What you do today can improve all your tomorrows"</span></h3><p>Wow. That's some deep thinking there. And, as obvious as that is, worthy of a Hallmark card or poster in a primary school office, there's is truth in it. A truth I often manage to forget, ignore, ridicule in blog posts, or down right actively try to ingore.</p><p>Today, I can work on the outline for the pilot I've been working on for a few years now. Or the opening monologue for the podcast I wrote that is recording in the next few weeks. I can memorize lines for a show that I am in that goes up next week. Clean the house. Take a walk. Call old friends. </p><p>So much.</p><p>Yet, here I am, on a chilly Monday President's Day, still in my pajamas well past nine, finishing a blog post I started around 7 but left to go make coffee, discuss the finale of True Detective: Night County with my wife, put on some tunes, contemplate getting Bagels at Rosenbergs. </p><p>I have tools to improve my tomorrows. And my todays. Farting about, interacting with my wife, listening to music, walking through the neighborhood. This is important stuff too. Maybe it's not what I do, but how I do it, and how I let that inform my ideas of what is worth while, that counts. That improves things.</p><p>And I am all for improvement. But what does that mean? More money? A cleaner house? Getting that screenplay sold? Is improvement more about being able to get the most out of this shockingly short life? </p><p>Yeah. </p><p>That's got to be it. </p><p>So. Today, I'm going to try and be alive. All day. </p><p>And hopefully that will improve all my tomorrows, yesterdays, and todays.</p><p>Here's a song. It's really weird, and I found it on an Instagram post. It's Prisencolinensinanciusol by Adriano Celentano. Listening to it will make all your tomorrows better.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-VsmF9m_Nt8" width="320" youtube-src-id="-VsmF9m_Nt8"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-66319574588526733292024-02-06T08:48:00.000-08:002024-02-06T08:48:53.043-08:00WANDERING THE NIGHT COUNTRY <p>Home with Covid this week. Almost seems retro. Like most of life, it is surreal and odd, perhaps an illusion or dream a butterfly is having. Of course, this could be the Covid talking, deceiving, tricking. In any event, I am stuck at home, and so I am finally putting away the last of the Christmas decorations, catching up on shows I need to catch up on, writing projects, and the final edit of my latest short film, which is a combo short film that stands on its own and a proof of concept, meaning a short meant to indicate what a feature version of this would be like. Plus I have to do a new draft of a podcast episode that is set to record in the next month with an air date sometime in the fall. A scary tale of the North Woods.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgij5g6WCl-BcTW5oJ7-04ALLuaamI-9YftWumsLkLe6JzMzLbZ9FgVloClKhr2tQ9fFsUqaN5KhlFi5GhRuJh6oEMWvBNNzpbipGv1wY1vb4_UolzVEEsuXnUcaQ7mVuKlRCvQbvXi4oDP3r31M7dkwhBaA6Fv67h_JJqApF3_ZyjSHLC214fdOjf0Vdbb" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="313" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgij5g6WCl-BcTW5oJ7-04ALLuaamI-9YftWumsLkLe6JzMzLbZ9FgVloClKhr2tQ9fFsUqaN5KhlFi5GhRuJh6oEMWvBNNzpbipGv1wY1vb4_UolzVEEsuXnUcaQ7mVuKlRCvQbvXi4oDP3r31M7dkwhBaA6Fv67h_JJqApF3_ZyjSHLC214fdOjf0Vdbb" width="320" /></a></div><br />I'm rambling, like a lost hiker in a strange forest.<p></p><p>And I like it. </p><p>Shows I am catching up on:</p><p><b><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt15557874/">The Traitors</a></b>, on Peacock. It's a reality show set in a Scottish castle where a bunch of terrible people, most of whom have been on other reality shows, perform various tasks for money, and have to contend with the fact that there are secret traitors in their midst, plotting their demise. It's sort of a glorified version of the game Mafia, which I have played with many a theatre class over the years. The show is hosted by Alan Cumming. It's really fun, the scenery is beautiful, and Alan Cumming is just the best. As a bonus, the castle is just north of Inverness, which we were lucky enough to visit last summer, and one of the great joys in life is seeing some place you've been to on tv. </p><p><b><a href="https://www.imdb.com/news/ni63956865/">True Detective: Night Country</a></b>, on Max. This is a fucked up story about a bunch of fucked up people in a fucked up part of the world, which I am quite familiar with. Alaska, land of the Midnight Sun and Midnight Souls, lost people who either have had their entire culture and history violated by intruders, or the intruders and their progeny, who mostly live their to be as far away as possible from wherever they came from. I'm sure there are happy, well balanced people up there. I just didn't meet that many. Especialy way up north. It's where I found my father when I was 28. A huge, dangerous country. The show is chock full of the supernatural, alludes to things like the <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dyatlov_Pass_incident">Dyatlov Pass Incident</a></b>, Murder, and mythology. The writing is tight, the imagery creepy and beautiful, and I can't get enough. </p><p>The podcast episode is based on a short play I wrote a while back that has since morphed into a pilot I am currently working on. The pilot is totally different, but the podcast is basically the play mooshed into a radio play format. It's titled "Alma's Anomalies", and is about a pair of slackers, ill equipped in every possible sense of the word, who journey to the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior in the hopes of resurrecting a ghost. Sadly for them, they succeed. The story is set to air on <b><a href="https://www.coffeecontrails.com/">Coffee Contrails</a></b>. More info to come soon.</p><p>The short, <b><a href="https://performerstuff.com/product/139/Burning-the-Old-Man%22%22%22%22%22%22">Burning the Old Man</a></b>, is based on my play of the same name. The play has been my most successful writing project to date, and has been produced all over the world, in NYC, Prague, Sao Paolo, and various other places. It even had a run a few years ago up in Boulder at CU, which was conveniently located for me. The short takes the soul of the play, boils it down to its essence, cooks it for a few months at a high heat, and now is ready to serve. It is the first film from McSquared Productions, my new film company I've formed with my great friend Tim McCracken. It features an original score by Bob D'Haene and Matt Vogel, who are fucking awesome. More info on that soon too.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvmqWXrieLaX_GDhHLagggmQmngnsCvEqLX-EzfT_wEx7K104kmz5KZEZxRjHAwxwp5yyvmh1QtnO6hbg1Awjfmbmj5GvkLktk61IYRT3izrqQHEBa7iXjhG6Gfn2syMDQBRLVWiYk4RBjhctYszZqpsT-szyY_z5OgMWydMskKiNWVvQMk8T9DEECQwj/s4032/IMG_1750.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvmqWXrieLaX_GDhHLagggmQmngnsCvEqLX-EzfT_wEx7K104kmz5KZEZxRjHAwxwp5yyvmh1QtnO6hbg1Awjfmbmj5GvkLktk61IYRT3izrqQHEBa7iXjhG6Gfn2syMDQBRLVWiYk4RBjhctYszZqpsT-szyY_z5OgMWydMskKiNWVvQMk8T9DEECQwj/s320/IMG_1750.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>So, my thought for the day, as I sit, housebound and wanting to get out, is this. I think we manage to keep our minds closed to most of what is going on, most of the time. We create our explanation of existence, which seem to be variations on either "the world is terrible" and "the world is fantastic", all the while ignoring events as they unfold in real time. (if such a thing as time exists. I'm going with our existence being real, for the sake of this blog entry) The world has all sorts of shit in it. good and bad and bold and beautiful. Music, nature, violence, sorrow, death, birth, and on and on. We bounce through it all, and I think we need to experience it all completely, with as few filters as we can manage. I realize sometimes we need to keep some of it out. But I think we keep too much out too often. </p><p>Now that I've written that down, it doesn't sound as deep as it did while I was laying in bed ruminating. </p><p>Ah well. Two songs today. Into Dust by Mazzie Star, which was featured in episode four of Night Country and which I first came across while dealing with my mother dying. It both comforts me in the loneliness and makes me want to cry yet again. The other is Hallelujah by <b><a href="https://bobdhaene.com/vinyl">D'Haene</a></b>. It is featured in the short of Burning the Old Man. Enjoy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SiO_7LhPZFM" width="320" youtube-src-id="SiO_7LhPZFM"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/68CMO_0evWY" width="320" youtube-src-id="68CMO_0evWY"></iframe></div><br />Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-19274045676820662382024-01-14T07:28:00.000-08:002024-01-14T07:28:53.762-08:00MAYBE ALL THIS CRAZY WEATHER MEANS SOMETHING<p>And another Sunday arrives, freezing cold. Like below zero cold. Like, what the fuck is happening with the weather cold? I am not sure how anyone can continue to pretend that the world's climate- our world, the place where we live and walk and go to the mountains and beaches and skip and have general fun when we can- is in crisis mode.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNwex0h7PAwL9q9hydhjbW08TrVRY9nYIfQ4nFl9nfYVGxMKPv46owxkYRNU45mj6aeIyZjvbsADgweYpMSQyKhidLxcx3UOAcM99_NK_XAv6Q9dza2IX6Upb1RLg9jHgSrz4PxyyajCn4GOfTUJOdumwaK5quSzYjsbK6ahsporBFFD06VIiGQY6VklH/s259/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNwex0h7PAwL9q9hydhjbW08TrVRY9nYIfQ4nFl9nfYVGxMKPv46owxkYRNU45mj6aeIyZjvbsADgweYpMSQyKhidLxcx3UOAcM99_NK_XAv6Q9dza2IX6Upb1RLg9jHgSrz4PxyyajCn4GOfTUJOdumwaK5quSzYjsbK6ahsporBFFD06VIiGQY6VklH/s1600/download.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><p>Is it denialism, fear, subservience to the powers that be, some odd form of Stockholm Syndrome?</p><p>I like this planet. I think it's rather beautiful. I like winter to be cold but not crazy. I like snow capped mountains, clear skies, animals running free. All that. I'm what you might call a nature boy.</p><p>I also like summer to not be one long session of sweating, watching the world wither. Smelling smoke in the air, sometimes from fires that are gigantic, so massive that even though they are thousands of miles away, the smoke makes its way to my neighborhood.</p><p>So why isn't Climate front and center in the upcoming election? </p><p>Whomever wins, this is important. </p><p>It is not a hoax. And saying it is doesn't make it so. I can go outside. I can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. And every one of my five senses tells me, on a daily basis, something is wrong. </p><p>What is it going to take? An army of Lorax, leaping out of the all too many tree stumps out there, driven mad with frustration, running through the street, screaming "I am the Lorax, fuckers!" while gleefully decapitating everyone that come across?</p><p>I'm cranky today. I think I have a cold coming on. </p><p>Be that as it may, I want you all to consider our little planet. I want you to cherish it. </p><p>Because I'm selfish. I love my planet. I want to to be around for as long as possible. Yes, millions of years from now, it will be engulfed by the Sun. So what? Just because we are all set to expire one day doesn't mean we sit around smacking ourselves in the head with a hammer.</p><p>Okay. Rant over. For now. Watch some football. Grab a cup of coffee with someone you enjoy, or alone. Read a book, a graphic novel, the tea leaves. Do something for yourself. </p><p>And enjoy.</p><p>Here's a song. It's Jack White doing a cover of Mother Nature's Son by The Beatles. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ox6SWAiDGyY" width="320" youtube-src-id="Ox6SWAiDGyY"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-81183583655116040942024-01-08T08:33:00.000-08:002024-01-08T08:35:37.671-08:00SINK THAT FUCKING BOAT<p>I'm standing on the shore of Shaver Lake, California, high in the Sierra Nevada. It's the last full day of Camp Chawanakee. I'm 14 years old, surrounded by hundreds of fellow Boy Scouts, watching my troop lose, by a lot, in a row boat race. The boats are these metal row boats we all use to get our rowing merit badge, and can also check out during camp to head out to Thunderbird Island. There are about ten boats in the water. The race is to row out with a crew of four to a buoy in the lake, circle it, and come back. My buddy Jay is in the boat. He's two years younger than me, but my best friend. We met on a kayak trip, discovered a mutual love of the Stones, the Kinks, and other stalwarts of what is now called classic rock but was to us back then simply music we dug. Jay is the funniest kid I have ever met. And always does shit you would not expect. He looks like a miniature businessman to me most of the time. Short hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a resting face that looks like he is considering the stock market. But he is the antithesis of that. He is the kid who will convince you to sneak out at night and toilet paper someone's house. To sneak a beer out of the parent's fridge. And the entire time, you laugh your ass off as you do something that will for sure get you in trouble. For instance, once, while we were hanging out at his folks place, he thought it would be fun for us to take his dad's Cherokee Chief out for a spin. He was 12, so of course he drove. How we didn't get noticed and pulled over is still a mystery to me, but a lot of the grown-up world seemed crazy then, and still does to this day, so it wasn't all that nuts. When we finally returned to his house, his father was waiting for us in the garage. And we lived to tell the tale.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxJdFlHOAaZDayO7YThRFF3F4SRCAn2JCvGekhZtnRQInGF-c_nbKRH2yhXEQiWUv0L_nzSnNBOCp755OdlDXXC1OJLamXHbi4ezgANO8SP-FyLY3yxELtgrXwDwBxmq3R4aKlkz7g7NsjYkG30woIUq7k9WiOc6r9zu1vggLxHwm500--SiDQPvm8Os6a" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxJdFlHOAaZDayO7YThRFF3F4SRCAn2JCvGekhZtnRQInGF-c_nbKRH2yhXEQiWUv0L_nzSnNBOCp755OdlDXXC1OJLamXHbi4ezgANO8SP-FyLY3yxELtgrXwDwBxmq3R4aKlkz7g7NsjYkG30woIUq7k9WiOc6r9zu1vggLxHwm500--SiDQPvm8Os6a" width="320" /></a></div><br />So there I am, on the shore, watching Troop 339, the pride of the Pioneer District, getting lapped by several other boats. <p></p><p>And I see Jay look over at the boat in the lead.</p><p>And I know exactly what he is planning to do. </p><p>Because when you're tight with someone, that's how it goes.</p><p>Jay puts down his oar, stands up, and leaps out of the boat, swims to the winning boat, grabs the side, and manages to flip it over. The scouts in the boat leap out, into the water, and the winning boat is now upside down. </p><p>Everyone in the race is able to swim, and are all wearing life jackets, so we are fairly certain no one is going to die. </p><p>There is a moment of silence, and then the entire crowd roars with laughter. It's just too funny not to. I don't know why. Maybe it's because something about the look on Jay's face makes it clear he isn't a sore loser, he is just not having it anymore. He sees the ridiculousness of his situation and has decided to change it. </p><p>The kids from the now upside down boat swim over to Jay's boat and flip it over.</p><p>In an instant, everyone in the race is out of their boat, flipping other boats over and howling with joy.</p><p>I have this image burned in my brain of Jay standing on the back of the boat he flipped as it sinks into Shaver Lake's murky depths. His hands are raised over his head, and he is, for that moment, a God of Chaos here on Earth.</p><p>And we lived to tell that tale too. It probably helped that the lake wasn't too deep where the race took place, and all boats were retrieved. </p><p>Some shit you just can't make up.</p><p>So now, it's here. Today. And Jay is fighting another ridiculous situation. One involving cancer. And I want him to leap out of his boat and swim and sink that fucking boat. </p><p>If there is anyone in this universe who can do that, it's Jay. </p><p>Here's a song. It's Jumping Jack Flash by The Stones.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ruTMp4_sy1E" width="320" youtube-src-id="ruTMp4_sy1E"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-41213810663943263732024-01-07T08:05:00.000-08:002024-01-07T08:05:14.269-08:00New Year, Goals, Worries. New Odyssey. <p>A New Year. Lots coming up. Shows. Short Film. An election that could lead to the end of America. All sorts of shit. I'm directing seven plays between now and June. Producing a large budget show that goes up end of June. Teaching playwriting at the Denver Center. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRbLM0B1JIzcukoqkfSd3LFrXf4FK0hNUu4KPP7_MKUyVHFlkELVl8sIf_LwzBvtR4OwOR4CZobY6sOfzlTgkXP_q6jFp30vkA_hRMcdOxmMhkiWJ4E3B2L4ruzC3V-fLKClNctMLiHt-GfCuqOEq5MMLMP08OA7CpXqycHW9gcIgCmZe1TsKEPcqON2SQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRbLM0B1JIzcukoqkfSd3LFrXf4FK0hNUu4KPP7_MKUyVHFlkELVl8sIf_LwzBvtR4OwOR4CZobY6sOfzlTgkXP_q6jFp30vkA_hRMcdOxmMhkiWJ4E3B2L4ruzC3V-fLKClNctMLiHt-GfCuqOEq5MMLMP08OA7CpXqycHW9gcIgCmZe1TsKEPcqON2SQ" width="320" /></a></div><br />Life, as always, chugs along. Sometimes, of late, I wake with this feeling of existential dread. Like, what is the meaning of any of this? Which I know is not productive. As far as I can tell, my little brain is not equipped to process, figure out, or solve the Riddle of Being Alive. Still, now and then, I get the blues, the why-am-I-here blues. And I think. And play Greig or Simon and Garfunkel or Phoebe Bridgers, and go through it. <p></p><p>And what's really amazing, and to me miraculous, is that this simple act of allowing my self to wallow in self pity and dread for a bit sort of exorcises those demons. It douses the vampire with sunlight. </p><p>It gets me going again.</p><p>I do not know how long life is, for me or anyone else. I don't know why we are here, or where we will go, if anywhere, once it's time to do the Mortal Coil Shuffle. I just know I love it here. I love clouds and music and dogs and cats and coffee and friends and my wife and my home. I love writing stories, and showing kids how to pretend to be a goblin in the Battle of the Five Armies. </p><p>I love all of it.</p><p>I don't think this makes me heroic. I am fairly certain I was just born this way. </p><p>And I must be a bit of an egotist, because I write about all this in my blog sporadically, and in my journal every single day. </p><p>I wouldn't do it if it didn't make me feel good. But does doing something to feel good justify it? I suppose that has to be taken on a case by case basis. </p><p>So.</p><p>2024. Goals. Resolutions. Hopes and dreams. All that jazz. </p><p>I hope to read more books. I'm reading a new translation of Homer's The Odyssey by Emily Wilson that is just fantastic. I hope to use it to fuel one of my new projects, a pilot set in the world of another project, Lunatics and Assholes, that I really love. </p><p>I hope to finish the color and sound of my new short, Burning the Old Man, which is a proof of concept for a feature that I made with my dear friend Tim McCracken. We shot it in the fall, mostly down in Gunnison, and it was fucking awesome. Is fucking awesome. Once it's done, we plan to enter it into several film festivals, and also send it to some producers we know, with the goal of getting funding to make the feature. All we need is someone to put up 500K to 10 million. Which seems absurd, yet there it is.</p><p>How did I get to a place where that kind of money is in the mix? No idea. But I won't question it. I'll just move ahead, hope for the best, and keep writing, directing, producing, teaching. Being me.</p><p>I hope to travel more. Going to Edinburgh last summer reawakened my wanderlust. The world is not one oyster, but a constantly refilling, huge bowl full of them. And they come in all sizes, and flavors. And I am famished.</p><p>I hope to go to more theatre, see more movies, hear more music, hike more paths, dream more dreams.</p><p>And I hope to write on this blog at least once a week.</p><p>Okay. That's now a thing. I will write in this blog once a week.</p><p>I now go off to make breakfast, get ready for tech rehearsal, then work on script for new show about Shakespeare, then hopefully catch a few more episodes of The Offer, on Paramount, which is an amazing show and I encourage you all to watch it.</p><p>Here's a song. It's Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan & Hozier. I dig it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hDDA3Dxo324" width="320" youtube-src-id="hDDA3Dxo324"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-33086205757844500862023-10-02T09:17:00.001-07:002023-10-02T09:31:57.106-07:00CRAZY, DAUNTING, AND PERFECTSo a while back, my good friend Tim, who I have known forever and who is one of the few people on this planet I trust completely without question, and someone whom I love completely, suggested we make some movies together. This sounded both crazy, daunting, and perfect. So I said yes. <div><br /></div><div>Or, to be more exact, "Fuck Yeah!" <div><div><br /></div><div>We had worked on many projects in the past, from a nine hour, three part theatre adaptation of East of Eden at the Western Stage in Salinas to a production of Richard II in NYC to my first, and up to that point only, short film, <b><a href="https://vimeo.com/269251284">Strong Tea</a></b>. He was also the lead in my most successful play to date, Burning the Old Man.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-k7Wqd8FP5JcZcznurcnmpMokfPWm4kY-28V8huIblF9bJUKkSkfLlXpX5dlXqlR62STljenR00qrdUUEXGEuMBeujssiVLY52oEh8N1_EL7UZx7WDdQbHmQHBGh1uF28L3-82yiFgS92Y4PM5m3pBNobuaRLaTeL5kxRO83KqIFhedgVhYExs-oNkf8/s2047/993543B5-AE33-48A0-9A89-DA70688EAE11.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1535" data-original-width="2047" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-k7Wqd8FP5JcZcznurcnmpMokfPWm4kY-28V8huIblF9bJUKkSkfLlXpX5dlXqlR62STljenR00qrdUUEXGEuMBeujssiVLY52oEh8N1_EL7UZx7WDdQbHmQHBGh1uF28L3-82yiFgS92Y4PM5m3pBNobuaRLaTeL5kxRO83KqIFhedgVhYExs-oNkf8/s320/993543B5-AE33-48A0-9A89-DA70688EAE11.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>That's us in the photo above. Back in the day. Young and crazy. NYC. Cigarettes and beers after a long day slinging hash between acting gigs. Having the time of our lives.<br /><div><br /></div><div>So, there we were having coffee at one of our haunts here in Denver, talking about life and theatre and film. Tim had just made a movie, <b><a href="https://www.publishorperish.movie/">Publish or Perish</a></b>, that is kicking ass in the festival circuit and is now available to stream on Amazon. I was in the middle of yet another script- a pilot I was finishing before the deadline for the Austin Film Festival. And that's when Tim popped the question, so to speak.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB-ndE6tOltWeN_TkBoyv6yujlTS2mpJN3ksXptPtzLVB_pqOYKd57lT1VtxtTNThiC6ydhyRSA_xK_jMSKL1SJg6hbG0CNH9g4mVlqu6CfWcPGeTY1_JNrtZ6fCqgoIQvTaB6TOrCkQHapgwztQ_tkLHPlgMU4n-4r1Zg7KcV7uBfsr-UtEMwBChrURL/s828/IMG_2967.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="828" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB-ndE6tOltWeN_TkBoyv6yujlTS2mpJN3ksXptPtzLVB_pqOYKd57lT1VtxtTNThiC6ydhyRSA_xK_jMSKL1SJg6hbG0CNH9g4mVlqu6CfWcPGeTY1_JNrtZ6fCqgoIQvTaB6TOrCkQHapgwztQ_tkLHPlgMU4n-4r1Zg7KcV7uBfsr-UtEMwBChrURL/s320/IMG_2967.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Yes, I used the phrase "popped the question", the classic phrase for proposing marriage. Let's face it. Making a movie is a commitment up there with marriage. You pledge your heart and soul. For it to work, you have to bare your soul. Be vulnerable. Improvise when problems arise. Be flexible.</div><div><br /></div><div>So he asked, I said yes, and then it was time to think of a project.</div><div><br /></div><div>We wanted to make something that could be both a short, and also a proof of concept for a full length movie. And we wanted to take advantage of where we live, with all this natural beauty surrounding us. </div><div><br /></div><div>And Burning the Old Man popped up almost immediately. A story about two estrange brothers taking their father's ashes on a road trip to Burning Man, as per his dying request. Their relationship with their father was difficult, and their relationship with each other even more so. As such, their road trip is full of recrimination, anxiety, and tension, with a tragic sense of loss tuck under a veneer of comedy. Tim had played Marty, the older brother in the original play, and we both felt he should do so again. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I wrote up a script, we kicked it around, adjusted the story as needed, gathered a crew of dedicated geniuses, and set some dates.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the magic began. We kept having things happen that just seemed to be signs we were doing the right thing. A friend offered us a hotel up in the mountains to use as our base for the main stretch of shooting. Another friend just happened to live in that same area and offered to scout locations. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyZTu_zYkHYnzdqcnO3SEyJrMN8KVWC-AJeTNiZyAby7fjwqfjZAhB6KJoaBzghVzPQbmm3hDUgHRS6A-DhqA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>And what locations! Colorado is so pretty, so majestic and huge and full of wonder. And most of the time, I manage to not see it. But not on the shoot.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really wanted to just talk about this one moment from the shoot today. It happened at there rocks in the high desert, during the climatic moment of the movie. These two brothers, who have been bickering like children for the past 24 hours, have ended up on this precipice, screaming at each other and having a tuh of war over the bag containing their father's ashes. As written, the bag rips open, the ashes fly, and the brother's dumbfounded at what their stupid fighting has wrought, stare at each other as their father's remains float away. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the day of the shoot, we were all a bit tired. We'd shot for 14 hours the day before. Drew, the actor playing Bobby, the younger brother, was not feeling well. Even so, we were all amped. We were making something that felt good, felt right. Felt like what we had all chosen to do with our lives. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLI4ePp61b3lfpxBI2o7yH9_GS_j6mD9fKr7aQgBEv8KGKmAv7SgHAgBWtc8HoWDV0KyXLLD__Xu0JAR_VVOiOT3LOZeIQ1Kvwbf5N1G2ofJsxfzbI_Z8j2LRAT4j5_35muH3Zg_MtUdP4aPdaUdV_5yXw8SHNe8axwKpSOhaSEUAe3tWvH_ut_-B-Hum4/s4032/IMG_1754.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLI4ePp61b3lfpxBI2o7yH9_GS_j6mD9fKr7aQgBEv8KGKmAv7SgHAgBWtc8HoWDV0KyXLLD__Xu0JAR_VVOiOT3LOZeIQ1Kvwbf5N1G2ofJsxfzbI_Z8j2LRAT4j5_35muH3Zg_MtUdP4aPdaUdV_5yXw8SHNe8axwKpSOhaSEUAe3tWvH_ut_-B-Hum4/s320/IMG_1754.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>And we get to the scene. Now, to prefect, we had talked a lot about the brother's relationship the past few days. How underneath all the hurt and anger there was a deep love. A heartbroken love. A longing to connect like that had once been able to effortlessly but now seemed impossible. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we get to the big moment. The point when the bag rips and the ashes fly. </div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The first take, a long shot, goes great. We get a safety shot, then move in for a closer shot. </div><div><br /></div><div>And when the bag rips, Drew almost falls off the rocks. For a moment, I think "Shit! I just killed Drew!" Everyone freezes.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_JWomoX02xvaGRmCAStOKN0zqYY7eNPDqqQ0GSES42P9qeFBUhyN-tVXx70sdUV2ywEWdY0E0ZcnfIT61ERJPCP72sCX9RVBe-kbyQwURm2a1RzXw2IdOOwMOCIjUKxm6cRR4tblnCPo6QuzYH72LASKv8-S7O9h7_VTdDM77pIpEVdguB6Yzv5mL6GC/s4032/IMG_1750.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_JWomoX02xvaGRmCAStOKN0zqYY7eNPDqqQ0GSES42P9qeFBUhyN-tVXx70sdUV2ywEWdY0E0ZcnfIT61ERJPCP72sCX9RVBe-kbyQwURm2a1RzXw2IdOOwMOCIjUKxm6cRR4tblnCPo6QuzYH72LASKv8-S7O9h7_VTdDM77pIpEVdguB6Yzv5mL6GC/s320/IMG_1750.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Except Tim. </div><div><br /></div><div>He instinctively grabs Drew, pulls him up. And then, in character, Tim impulsively hugs Drew. Or rather, Marty impulsively hugs Bobby. We keep rolling. Nobody on set is making a sound. But we all feel connected to what is happening. Bobby tries to break free of the hug. Marty keeps hugging. It's really touching and sad and real. After a beat, Bobby hugs his brother back. </div><div><br /></div><div>And we all start hotting and hollering. Something had happened. Something unexpected but totally real. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then everyone looks at me. "Do we keep it?" they all ask, in various ways. It is quite different than the ending as written. Changes the trajectory a little. But it feels so right.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I have to make a decision. It's my script. I'm co-director of this with Tim. Also co-producer. It's my call. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I go with it. Tweak the script slightly. </div><div><br /></div><div>We finish. And it is clear to me that the movie has now become more than it was. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that I am learning more than I could have possibly hoped for when we started making this movie.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now we are in post. Editing. Mixing. All that type of thing. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x9Zv2y-PI4CBdKsZPaZADU0BLQ883-oLl4vQYe-AiePD5L76yKwqginmGdfDX8xWabjRXbHDeyyv4HUtyQUjIbRPRp1MLpLvVnhIjgy_ZwOQIlLLS37sc2t02yvdG8DeaPFTnBOukBGw3bqPnPLr-W4h4SLM4NAp3Ww_QWeW72z01sNLShDOlcg_w-tw/s4032/IMG_1753.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x9Zv2y-PI4CBdKsZPaZADU0BLQ883-oLl4vQYe-AiePD5L76yKwqginmGdfDX8xWabjRXbHDeyyv4HUtyQUjIbRPRp1MLpLvVnhIjgy_ZwOQIlLLS37sc2t02yvdG8DeaPFTnBOukBGw3bqPnPLr-W4h4SLM4NAp3Ww_QWeW72z01sNLShDOlcg_w-tw/s320/IMG_1753.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>We hope to send it to festivals. To show it to some producers who will shower us with money so we can make the full length film.</div><div><br /></div><div>But no matter what, I have gained from this experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a song. It's one of my all time favorites. Pale Green Things by The Mountain Goats. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vkZ4FFDotKE" width="320" youtube-src-id="vkZ4FFDotKE"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-79865687699119044972023-09-11T08:54:00.005-07:002023-09-11T08:54:40.423-07:00WHAT GIVES A JEDI THEIR POWER<p>I decided I wanted to be a Jedi when I was 11 years old. It was 1977. It seemed like the only thing to do. The Force, the energy that binds the universe, spoke to me via Obi Wan Kenobi, and I was up for the task. I wasn't sure how to go about it, but that would become clear. All I knew was that at that point in my life, world was going so dark that it was like two suns were setting at the same time. </p><p>And then, in a darkened movie theatre full of kids my age, the immortal words "a long time ago in a galaxy far, far way..." came up on the screen at Century 22, and my life changed forever. </p><p>I went a saw Star Wars yesterday at the Colorado Symphony. I can't call it Episode 4: A New Hope. I saw the movie 21 times when it first came out, and it was simply called "Star Wars". No episode number. No nothing but those two words. Star. Wars. And it was glorious. The movie played in theatres for over a year. I remember a poster in the theatre lobbys of a birthday cake for it, marking it's first birthday, with all the old action figures on the cake. It was everywhere, and everyone was down with it. All of the summer after fifth grade. All of sixth grade. I saw it about twice a month. And never got tired of it. Ever. I'd jump on my bike, ride up Moorpark Ave, past the Winchester Mystery House to Century 22 Cinema, and lose myself in a world of light sabres, Jedi, and Jawas.</p><p>As I watched the movie yesterday, it hit me how much that film changed my life. How powerful a movie can be. The alchemy was perfect for most of the world, I guess, that year. It certainly was for me. I needed to believe in something, anything, that could possibly have a chance against the insistent forces of darkness out there. A system of some sort. A Force.</p><p>And lo and behold, there was Alec Guiness, kind and strong, cool as a cucumber, unafraid of death itself, telling Luke, and all of us, that the Force would be with us </p><p>Always.</p><p>Watching the movie now, I can see how simple the plot is. How basic the dialogue is, and all that. </p><p>And I could care less. </p><p>It moves me. Makes me believe in magic and hope and wonder.</p><p>At the point where Luke watches the duel sunset, I cried. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rGUYAuAtRCk" width="320" youtube-src-id="rGUYAuAtRCk"></iframe></div><br /></div><p>I know life is hard. That fact is abundantly clear, and asserts itself every day. There is sorrow and regret enough for everyone to have a full plate of woe and there's always refills. I knew it full well by the time I was 11. My father had split years before, never to return. My step-father was a deeply cynical alcoholic with an explosive temper. I had no illusions about anything, really. Nothing.</p><p>I think that's what makes stories like Star Wars essential. We need myths. We need hope. We need the Force.</p><p>I don't think we need more Star Wars films or series, per se. Not that I don't like them. Some of the current offerings are amazing. Particularly Andor. </p><p>But I think when a void presents itself, it gets filled. If the world needs a Star Wars, one will come around. I don't know what we need right now. But it will come around.</p><p>Or the Empire will rise again.</p><p>Onwards.</p><p>I will write more soon about my adventures in Scotland. Until then, here is my favorite bit from Star Wars.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MZK98LVFRH8" width="320" youtube-src-id="MZK98LVFRH8"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Also, if you are in Denver, I am teaching a playwriting class. Join me and maybe you can make the next thing we all need. Click <b><a href="https://www.denvercenter.org/education/adult-acting-classes?fbclid=IwAR186ztvUNz8so4r65lHWVaJupBlDslZMzVRmOB5Ed-Y61LOJ_-Okls54TY">HERE</a></b> for info. </p><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-61092274730973147252023-08-05T01:54:00.002-07:002023-08-05T01:54:50.467-07:00THE MAGICIANFirst preview here in Edinburgh yesterday. A city full of magic of all sorts. Theatrical. Architectural. Historical. <div><br /></div><div>And the human variety. </div><div><br /></div><div>Human magic is the strangest of all the arcane arts, the most complex. At times, obvious as palming a coin behind your hand as you wow the locals with your prestidigitation. At others, murkier and more unpredictable than the weather in this ancient city that looks like it's the bastard child of J.K. Rowling and William Shakespeare. I would say minus that sadder aspects of that comparison, the uglier sides of both of those writers world views. But I'd be lying. There is both wonder and sorrow here. Same as everywhere.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO951ZswcVi_reMNMVanbesJtVnyBniCCNqvbhC8n7LYRNa3fAcCQSOsc7BvBPlmzaWD66pxQGTnCSo0SmEvhVXe4iTZda5iLMNs1NHymdo7W1daSDkpUIGCEGuLAXxuOLwMqD7Aab-iahPtXFB_utQtDuq3NBrWsaiHy45FzXIUCPxAy4uueNf86LH1IE/s4032/IMG_1331.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO951ZswcVi_reMNMVanbesJtVnyBniCCNqvbhC8n7LYRNa3fAcCQSOsc7BvBPlmzaWD66pxQGTnCSo0SmEvhVXe4iTZda5iLMNs1NHymdo7W1daSDkpUIGCEGuLAXxuOLwMqD7Aab-iahPtXFB_utQtDuq3NBrWsaiHy45FzXIUCPxAy4uueNf86LH1IE/s320/IMG_1331.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Yesterday, we were getting ready to debut at the Edinburgh Fringe. To say the cast and crew were exhilarated would be a great understatement. We started the day with a little press interview with Fringe Biscuit. Always exciting to discuss your show with the press. We went, pitched out show as charmingly as humanly possible, and ventured off. </div><div><br /></div><div>We had things to do. A run through of the play at one of our postage stamp sized flats. A mad search for some stools for the show. The usual madness that comes before a show opens, cramming a week into a day, a day into an hour, and hour into a moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then it was time to get ready and head to the Royal Mile, where our theatre is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cooper, one of my dearest friends and also one of the leads in the show, and I decided to get some coffee, headed over, had some lattes made "take away", which is how they say to go here in Scotland. On the way back to our flats to meet the cast and walk, there was a commotion across the street. A couple of people were gathered around a woman sitting on the sidewalk, back against the ancient wall, not moving. Most of the people seemed either drunk or high or some combination. The emotions shot out from them in all directions like a volley of damaged arrows.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to walk on. I had a show to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walk over to them, and one of the men tells me the woman is dead. The woman kneeling next to the body screams "she's breathing!" Another man asks me to help. Another man holds his dog back, who is barking to wake the devil. The devil may have woken, but the lady slept on. I ask the group what number to call for an ambulance, as I'm an American. Some of them throw up their arms in despair at this. An American? Now we are fucked for sure. But I get the number. 999. An upside Mark of the Beast. By now, another Fringe goer, a man named James, joins the fray. The 999 operator picks up, and I can barely hear her as things are spiraling quickly into a mad whirl. At every second, at least three people are yelling things at me about the state of the body. </div><div><br /></div><div>I should mention. The Lady of the Wall, the Sleeper Who Will Not Awake, She Who Had No Name, does indeed look dead to me. Her skin has turned grey. Her mouth hangs open. Her legs are stiff. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am frightened and falling through time and space but unable to be anywhere but right there. </div><div><br /></div><div>The operator somehow hears me. I give our location. She asks me if the Lady is dead. I say no. She asks me if I am sure. I am not, but I say yes, she's still alive because I think it will get the ambulance there quicker. </div><div><br /></div><div>James puts his hand over her jaw open mouth, says he can feel a breath. </div><div><br /></div><div>The operator asks me is the Lady is conscious. </div><div><br /></div><div>No.</div><div><br /></div><div>She tells us to lay her out flat on the ground, head on the sidewalk, and for me to say "now" for every breath the Lady Takes, and I do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are strange intervals of time between the breathes. The span between each breath a chasm of despair. The Lady's grey face seems a mystic death mask of a tragic queen. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the ambulance arrives, and people who know far better than I take over.</div><div><br /></div><div>And in a miracle, The Lady Wakes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIaElIyz-tpo9YUtQHdamoR9V1RDyUqBLcdbH6sRGULgx4kWzQkZtJ1wZl3NWMrJ8iF_zYzbKtTSn3GcFUGVIL6TI2WCohG70f3ZUP6lzjdOYy3nuw6KbH8mW7hkR3IdgLKShx5d2dp2Zjkz-S5n_tnxGPEwLa5_BS1zWn9JrZ3fkgzxitCz4BF-FlxyL/s598/RWS_Tarot_01_Magician-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="598" data-original-width="340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIaElIyz-tpo9YUtQHdamoR9V1RDyUqBLcdbH6sRGULgx4kWzQkZtJ1wZl3NWMrJ8iF_zYzbKtTSn3GcFUGVIL6TI2WCohG70f3ZUP6lzjdOYy3nuw6KbH8mW7hkR3IdgLKShx5d2dp2Zjkz-S5n_tnxGPEwLa5_BS1zWn9JrZ3fkgzxitCz4BF-FlxyL/s320/RWS_Tarot_01_Magician-1.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><br /><div>One of the Howling Men turns to me, says thank you, tells me how most people don't stop. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know that. Like most of us, I have been The Person Who Doesn't Stop in other chapters of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then he says:</div><div><br /></div><div>My names Michael, but they call me Magic. I'm a Magician, you see.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he leans in close, with the saddest face in the history of this moment, confesses to me:</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been on smack for twenty years now.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walk away, join Cooper, who has been there the whole time. Coop tells me he stayed to make sure I was okay, gives me a hug, and we journey on.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suddenly feel like crying. I tell the cast to meet me at the theatre, head out.</div><div><br /></div><div>And as I walk the lovely, lonely streets of this town, I think about what's important. What if anything has any meaning. Why do we do theatre, create stories and songs, dance with each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the world opens up to me. Each step fills my soul with an intense love of this world. Each stranger seems a saint.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1r-5k88cOaFf6f4TFTtvhJ1CrLaRHI9CjbNuZlX9bAggTKAREVZ4EBnVBY3mE5puYBJhuG1QQBHfzVRtHhQ6OCRQQkd7kq7KGTvUOtuc4X-djlspcJCLTwRMDkA__iHpTcJaGZrnnlveyCuVzhEXwE5XKz4C19xINFa3m8KeCp_oLZu7GXTfrIJdIGzuR/s4032/IMG_1341.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1r-5k88cOaFf6f4TFTtvhJ1CrLaRHI9CjbNuZlX9bAggTKAREVZ4EBnVBY3mE5puYBJhuG1QQBHfzVRtHhQ6OCRQQkd7kq7KGTvUOtuc4X-djlspcJCLTwRMDkA__iHpTcJaGZrnnlveyCuVzhEXwE5XKz4C19xINFa3m8KeCp_oLZu7GXTfrIJdIGzuR/s320/IMG_1341.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>A kid handing out flyers for her show asks me if I want a strawberry. She says she's saving them for the cast, but that I can have one. </div><div><br /></div><div>I take it like communion, bless myself with a bit of kindness of strangers.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the theatre, more madness. Running to and fro. No one sure what is going on.</div><div><br /></div><div>And in the sweet darkness of the first blackout, we make our own magic.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ggk8g_p-Thg" width="320" youtube-src-id="Ggk8g_p-Thg"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-51476344874378147262023-08-03T00:09:00.001-07:002023-08-03T00:09:14.052-07:00IT'S A SPIRITUAL PRACTICE<p>At the Newport Folk Fest, Jon Batiste said, many times, "this is not a concert, it's a spiritual practice." I think that applies to life. It is not a trial we endure, it's a journey we actively experience. These past few days, I've seen music, heard colors, felt smiles... I've leapt through the looking glass into the mad world of the now. </p><p>And it's glorious.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UHExcmR6OUK66Zy9G-v6xDo8ZnezuI2JvqyGMdyAWxFdALeJKNduVS2hNqNsHpjE0PRqMWRoz9Jdwy9Y5yN3AEioa9N4Aix3Ml0qVvw9pdM5mkNvmiQKdMaxqH0JaJHzaPtAQ6P5meEpWSmyV9f5eDM0GbW-2BuQMPv_2scX8bGnLLExvMOX2UGpeQwM/s4032/IMG_1267.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5UHExcmR6OUK66Zy9G-v6xDo8ZnezuI2JvqyGMdyAWxFdALeJKNduVS2hNqNsHpjE0PRqMWRoz9Jdwy9Y5yN3AEioa9N4Aix3Ml0qVvw9pdM5mkNvmiQKdMaxqH0JaJHzaPtAQ6P5meEpWSmyV9f5eDM0GbW-2BuQMPv_2scX8bGnLLExvMOX2UGpeQwM/s320/IMG_1267.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I am a very lucky person. I know this. I think I always have been. Not to say I haven't had my share of tough times, tragedy, and turmoil. Times so bad I use alliteration when describing them. Still, I find this world so amazing. So magical. <p></p><p>I am sitting in a coffee shop in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the beginning of my first Edinburgh Fringe. So of course I am feeling good. Great. Grand. So wonderful I have to use alliteration to describe it. It's been about 48 hours so far. I've met many people. Walked many streets. Absorbed a lot of good mojo. </p><p>And it feels right.</p><p>Do you ever get that feeling when you are somewhere, doing something, and you think "this is where Ia m supposed to be. Right now. Right here. </p><p>Right.</p><p>Or Left, for my fellow left handed geniuses.</p><p>So much worry in the world. So much sorrow. So much to do. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVe8nAGlHzN-3O1DNwQbpG6t1spXxkz_BTM6pE_a10cua8vuGVaiSEJ0wA_WCC-YRZ6y7Dlp7Xt0EQVVKhlj_ywgjd_rNFlmLne0ypSAwHSCNUaR4Ydao8XLs_iCUZ0J9MXUjH-BsAUsWnEtdGMpfrmRblcB3ClsxJ8ecGRJENUNPCEval28lEnz9CJq9/s2048/IMG_1274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVe8nAGlHzN-3O1DNwQbpG6t1spXxkz_BTM6pE_a10cua8vuGVaiSEJ0wA_WCC-YRZ6y7Dlp7Xt0EQVVKhlj_ywgjd_rNFlmLne0ypSAwHSCNUaR4Ydao8XLs_iCUZ0J9MXUjH-BsAUsWnEtdGMpfrmRblcB3ClsxJ8ecGRJENUNPCEval28lEnz9CJq9/s320/IMG_1274.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>I think the sadness in the world necessitates the joy. We have to live well, to cherish this life, in order to defend it properly. We have to know love and wonder. We have to. We have to always remember how amazing it is to be alive. Particularly in tough times. </p><p>And these are tough times. The planet is clearly fucked, environmentally speaking. Fascism seems to be on the rise. War is raging in various countries. Constantly. There are shootings, almost daily, in America. And death waits for us all.</p><p>But that is why I find it so easy to celebrate life. </p><p>I'm quite the preacher today. I imagine my happiness in a world gone mad can be quite annoying to folks.</p><p>Consider it my illness, my coping mechanism. </p><p>I can't and won't change my love of life. Why should I? Every time I let myself be myself, life turns out fantastic. Every damn time. </p><p>So. </p><p>On with the journey. The spiritual practice. The show.</p><p>Here's a song. It's By and By by Caamp. And yes, I just wrote a sentence with three "by"s in it. Yahoo!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wo4HVz8aWXE" width="320" youtube-src-id="wo4HVz8aWXE"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1oPh6VYCpw0" width="320" youtube-src-id="1oPh6VYCpw0"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-68402272291514351172023-07-31T12:01:00.001-07:002023-07-31T12:02:30.517-07:00IT'S NOT A CONCERT<p>I am on a journey of music and mojo. Of theatre and haggis. Of life. I can feel it in my bones, in my skin, in my soul. I don't dream so much as have visions. I don't walk so much as float through fields of energy. </p><p>I am sitting in Brooklyn right now. Got in last night around 2 am after driving down from Newport. We were there for the folk fest. 3 days of music and feeling like a hippie. Being a hippie. And the best kind of hippie. Not the weird, stupid, bullshit version of hippies as portrayed on shitty tv shows and old movies. I mean feeling connected and kind and happy with everyone as you dance along. </p><p>Being a hippie is all about trust. Both in yourself and in everyone around you. Newport Folk has been around forever. Or at least longer than me. And anything older than you is ancient and forever. It's where Dylan went electric. Where Joni came back last year. And where I went this year wide open for anything and everything.</p><p>It did not disappoint. First up, caught a little MDou Moctar. A magician on the guitar. A mystic. A revelation.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwXP4IPJW9w2F5SlcttnftFFO3jvtBvFAY8hyzoQy8UOBrBVRn5AZtQ3ta569CezHJqNYID0iRI8ehpJr3zZg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was insane. There are 3 big stages at Newport. And a couple little ones. And everyone everywhere is happy to be there and for the most part cool. So we wander through the notes and chords, catching My Morning Jacket and Caamp, Goose and SistaStrings.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then someone gets sick, and at the last minute, James Taylor walks out to do an impromptu set. At first I thought it would be okay, hearing JT. Like mellow, old timey music or something. I had his greatest hits on a cassette when I first moved to NYC after college. Back when I was on the starvation/walking diet and the world was brand new exciting and crazy and I wrote in my journal every day and listened to that album oh so much. And so James Taylor comes out and starts playing Something in the Way She Moves, and I start to cry as that time fills my soul and I am 24 and I am 57 at the same time. It's funny how much those songs have been a part of my life. Fire and Rain. Good Night Sweet Baby James. And everyone in the audience seemed to feel the same. Like something holy was happening, something real and fine. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jNO3a9qz-dw" width="320" youtube-src-id="jNO3a9qz-dw"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So good. And on it went. The Heavy Heavy. Nickel Creek. Maggie Rogers & My Morning Jacket doing a cover of Fleetwood Mac's "Say That You Love Me". Chance Emerson, young dude who grew up in Taiwan and Hong Kong and plays some sweet tunes. Jobi Riccio. The Backseat Lovers! The Hold Steady. And for those who don't realize it, we are all The Hold Steady. Jason Isbell. Angel Olson. Jon Batiste and Friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now that was something else. He said, many times, that the show was not a concert. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was a spiritual practice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I believe that to be so. I know it is. Same goes for theatre, Lana Del Rey, writing, The Earls of Leicester, gardening, Madison Cunningham, Remi Wolf, taking long walks, The Black Opry Revue, writing in my journal, moving to NYC, Los Lobos & Neko Case, Gregory Alan Isakov, moving to Denver, Billy Strings who I am fairly certain has a little door to the cosmos in his mind lets the spirits in who guide his playing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All of it if a spiritual practice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So. I walked and rocked and swayed and swung, and now I am gearing up to journey on to Edinburgh Scotland to present a show I directed and act in a the largest theatre festival in the world. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You can read about it here:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.westword.com/arts/local-creative-team-premieres-eigg-the-musical-at-the-edinburgh-festival-fringe-17324241">https://www.westword.com/arts/local-creative-team-premieres-eigg-the-musical-at-the-edinburgh-festival-fringe-17324241</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And here:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://igg.me/at/eiggmusical/x/3385268#/">https://igg.me/at/eiggmusical/x/3385268#/</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">More on Eigg later today. I plan on doing part 2 of this little jaunt from the airport. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For now, Rock-a-by Sweet Baby Jane, Keep on Rockin' in the Free World, and don't forget to Feel the Earth Move Under your Feet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2SIP2CbfELo" width="320" youtube-src-id="2SIP2CbfELo"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-68934225760576887542023-07-21T07:10:00.000-07:002023-07-21T07:10:02.247-07:00DUN DUN DUUUUNNNNNN<p> Ever have one of those songs stick in your head but you only remember a tiny part of it? Happens to me all the time. And then I'll ask anyone and everyone: Do you know that songs that goes doo ba da do da da do da da-aa-ah?</p><p>And whomever I've asked will look at me like they think I just farted.</p><p>It's pretty much been that way my whole life.</p><p>A prime example. Fire on High by Electric Light Orchestra, or ELO. It's this instrumental song that you'd hear on FM radio back in the day. It's sort of scary and awesome and not one you find on a lot of top 40 stations, but I always thought it was cool. It wasn't one of my favorite songs. Not one I'd put on a mix tape or anything. Just a song that lodged itself in my brain long ago, to sleep like Rip Van Winkle, waiting to come back to the forefront of my mind and drive me to distraction.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjYXaFqwVHZ6jMzYRuS46qake2p1lZ64LutNWDJw9p0uAgYyJdv59XXxk0JkSRAfpYkmarfytx8Xjmty_TmO5GlWBip7S4A1EcyyT2zvWW0MfbYIU97qElQ8TsN2XDSJuX7dd846JYub2cqYzSR2H6laoNczO09NJH8_rKhCemVinUczVm8VERblHmA7L/s644/37e6ce400b2dc868cd6b3a08f944a03b--movies-at-s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjYXaFqwVHZ6jMzYRuS46qake2p1lZ64LutNWDJw9p0uAgYyJdv59XXxk0JkSRAfpYkmarfytx8Xjmty_TmO5GlWBip7S4A1EcyyT2zvWW0MfbYIU97qElQ8TsN2XDSJuX7dd846JYub2cqYzSR2H6laoNczO09NJH8_rKhCemVinUczVm8VERblHmA7L/s320/37e6ce400b2dc868cd6b3a08f944a03b--movies-at-s.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><p>That song came out in the other world known as the 1970s. Land of Happy Days, Viet Nam, Watergate, and leisure suits. A world I navigated on my bike and/or skateboard, traversing the streets of San Jose, obsessed with comic books, KISS, and after the Ralph Bashki animated version of it came out, the Lord of the Rings. I can recall hearing that song in my friend Chris Carver's family's garage. It had this backward tracking section that made you think maybe the devil could hear your thoughts while you listened to it. </p><p>If there was such a thing as the devil. And ever since The Excorcist came out, we were all pretty sure there was.</p><p>So, the song was part of the fabric of my childhood.</p><p>Cut to many years later. I'm in NYC. I haven't thought of that song since forever. I'm a starving artist, waiting tables at Bryant Park Grill behind the main branch of the New York Library, doing theatre down town, struggling to make ends meet, having the time of my life. </p><p>And that song pops into my head. Well, not the whole song. Just this one section where the orchestra goes: DUN DUN.... DUUUUUUUNNNNNN. </p><p>I start asking people if they know it.</p><p>And I get the "did you fart?" look everytime.</p><p>Years go by. I'll be at a party. I'll meet someone who seems knowledgeable all things music. I'll ask the question. I'll get the standard response. </p><p>Now, I was still drinking back then, so maybe my question was asked a bit more off key than I'd like, and a tad more garbled. At any rate, no one had a clue.</p><p>Was I mad? Had I invented this fake memory of this song with backwards tracks and a section that goes DUN DUN DUUUUUNNNNNN?</p><p>Years go by. I'm driving a rental car back to NYC after going to a wedding up in Connecticut. It's summer, and some radio station is playing all things seventies. And the song comes on the radio. The song! Now this is before cell phones, and there wasn't a note pad in the car, and I was on a bridge over the Harlem River in very heavy traffic. And worse, the song was in a long set of songs with no interruptions. I waited and waited, praying to the radio gods that they'd say who it was. </p><p>And they did! Finally, after what felt like hours. </p><p>Fire on High! I said it out loud, over and over, making sure I'd remember. My girlfriend at the time, who was in the car with me, did not find this amusing, and told me so in no uncertain terms. </p><p>So I stopped the car, opened the trunk, pulled out my backpack which had a notepad in it, and wrote the name of the song down. </p><p>The cars behind me didn't appreciate this.</p><p>I didn't care. I had found the Great Lost Song of the 1970s. I had found a dimensional door to the Carver's garage, to bell bottom jeans and AC/DC before Bon Scott died. To a piece of me.</p><p>I collect those pieces, work them into my various projects, shows I direct, roles I perform, scripts I write.</p><p>It informs who I am.</p><p>A deranged seeker of lost moments, an Indiana Jones of my own soul.</p><p>Here's Fire on High, by ELO.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wntHSse3yec" width="320" youtube-src-id="wntHSse3yec"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Bonus track:</p><p>Two things: First, I'm doing Rocky Horror Show with Organic Theatre up in Boulder this week end. Info Here: <a href="https://www.onthestage.tickets/show/organic-theater-dba-reel-kids-and-dba-boulder-music/64b20c8f3d38220e4092f78c">https://www.onthestage.tickets/show/organic-theater-dba-reel-kids-and-dba-boulder-music/64b20c8f3d38220e4092f78c</a></p><p>I'm taking a new show, Eigg the Musical, to the Edinburgh Fringe. I'll be writing another blog on that next, but wanted to let you all know we have an Indiegogo campaign, raising funds to feed the actors, cover expenses, and all that. More info here: <a href="https://igg.me/at/eiggmusical/x/3385268#/">https://igg.me/at/eiggmusical/x/3385268#/</a></p><p>And here's one of the numbers from the show:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fGLKCj_11EQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="fGLKCj_11EQ"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-34561083669850455542023-06-29T09:11:00.001-07:002023-06-29T09:11:49.682-07:00I COULD AND HAVE GONE CRAZY ON A DAY LIKE TODAY. <p>I think there is a power in the universe, a creative force or mojo or zone of some type, that visits us at certain times, giving us clarity of purpose and vision, joy in what we do, and a feeling of being exactly where we are supposed to be doing precisely what we are meant to do. I've been thinking about that a lot lately, because I think I am in one of those times, one of those eddies in the cosmic river. I think this run started with the production of The Addams Family I did down in Parker with Sasquatch. One of those shows where everything clicked, top to bottom, and we all spoke in psychic shorthand to each other. It carried on into SpongeBob at StageDoor, Sound of Music also at the PACE, the Shakespeare Fest, and on and on. Even with a second round of Covid in the middle of that, I feel this connection to something larger than me. I don't know why, or really how, but I am not questioning it. </p><p>It's here now. In <b><a href="https://www.eigg.show/">Eigg</a></b>. In Burning the Old Man. In the <b><a href="https://writers.coverfly.com/projects/view/720162a7-ba03-4a51-aea6-b7097b456fc3/Infinite_Hallway_Pilot">Infinite Hallway</a></b>. And I raise my cup of coffee to it with glee.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LDFYCNcRHrljukSL4waBPDyXr5LrEqa19qlKOZ9vJ_ESOcEQJ7nngjMjYQEsVVzVdreBMbftE4sBMmuvr7sGgoTJb29qrs5WNCeze1Ufad8k8y04vLbR3XuQGLVGyw13WqF3MF-OzJ-zdu-HEtzCeWfa1aXYzzBh-TClIUWnFUMVdQGkPePWaCYN7GnL/s414/71053767_10157583461727288_7838495330164277248_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LDFYCNcRHrljukSL4waBPDyXr5LrEqa19qlKOZ9vJ_ESOcEQJ7nngjMjYQEsVVzVdreBMbftE4sBMmuvr7sGgoTJb29qrs5WNCeze1Ufad8k8y04vLbR3XuQGLVGyw13WqF3MF-OzJ-zdu-HEtzCeWfa1aXYzzBh-TClIUWnFUMVdQGkPePWaCYN7GnL/s320/71053767_10157583461727288_7838495330164277248_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I am going with the flow, and consequently reaching my flow, my zone, my place.</p><p>Maybe it kicked into high gear the the <b><a href="https://austinfilmfestival.com/">Austin Film Festival</a></b>, when I got pulled up in front of hundreds of fellow writers for a live recording of <b><a href="https://johnaugust.com/2022/live-at-the-austin-film-festival-2022">ScriptNotes</a></b> and lost my mind and had a crowd chanting my name while I paraded up and down the floor like a Mad Dog Poet Visionary Lunatic.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-ONkzktSGkSgDn92DG_BuEQfeMC9SRsyvYG5MVJKTQMfdekJFTgw6lvSCcb0k6J5asEjWcmeUHjj7zKB8na7CgsC8tqMwy4mVOtpkCU1nZI9niJ3I6gX3P6gz2n8ia238_WAUQzcG2vW8KC6USghaPkMvy-zn_1-mNsk4BbfFeqSCzLg7uG6rFndpbB-/s414/314361336_10160827622905087_3880369115095223408_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-ONkzktSGkSgDn92DG_BuEQfeMC9SRsyvYG5MVJKTQMfdekJFTgw6lvSCcb0k6J5asEjWcmeUHjj7zKB8na7CgsC8tqMwy4mVOtpkCU1nZI9niJ3I6gX3P6gz2n8ia238_WAUQzcG2vW8KC6USghaPkMvy-zn_1-mNsk4BbfFeqSCzLg7uG6rFndpbB-/s320/314361336_10160827622905087_3880369115095223408_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Jesus, I am in love with myself, aren't I?</p><p>Well, why not? I think I love the Vibe in me, not me in the Vibe, so karmically speaking, I should be ok.</p><p>And if I'm not, I am sure at some point soon, Life will say "okay, enough of that, McAllister, here's a big steaming pile of sorrow. Enjoy."</p><p>But that hasn't happened yet. </p><p>No. I keep connecting, with myself, with my cast, my crew, my friends, my wife, and the universe in general.</p><p>This feeling is always a surprise to me. A miracle. A gift. </p><p>And also makes me say to myself "Of course! This is how it is, stupid! You really can make the best of life, and should, because as far as I know, this is it. Once around, and then off to Oz. So live it up, live it well, live it now, and sing as loud as you can."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibA1pkLn8CzT4psGzn-rKEjBKLwxf8pfRd7xTDWN4JAel6Ypjy4B8Mu4LmAJnlBbVn6crod6Yi2Nl5-5mUwUKk4FknL0aVBa2unTSDS0iiFjiQxfe-AAT4S-S1f6QdCcYeKSUgQ57Lbz0iR1VxEUO80UPR52-_20tvsq3qRmV8cv64NObXcmjHhkfG1_H2/s414/28867_389337629086_3730994_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibA1pkLn8CzT4psGzn-rKEjBKLwxf8pfRd7xTDWN4JAel6Ypjy4B8Mu4LmAJnlBbVn6crod6Yi2Nl5-5mUwUKk4FknL0aVBa2unTSDS0iiFjiQxfe-AAT4S-S1f6QdCcYeKSUgQ57Lbz0iR1VxEUO80UPR52-_20tvsq3qRmV8cv64NObXcmjHhkfG1_H2/s320/28867_389337629086_3730994_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>There is a lot in this world that is crazy. So much. Death and War and Famine and Plague. As a species, we seem bent of destroying ourselves and the planet, with a sort of insane glee. The sky is poisoned, the oceans are warming, and there is so much awful shit we could and probably should run up and down the street all day every screaming, weeping, gnashing our teeth, and so on.</p><p>But I don't see the point in bemoaning our fate. </p><p>I think we have to remember what it is to be alive if we want to live. We have to revel in what joys are afforded us. We must embrace the mystic wonder of being a human being if we want to save humanity. </p><p>We need to get, and keep, our shit together.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLsQTYeSlynmFxhbLXw5esf-CNhvBzn04vvq2MRup0djr4ffFPNQiSmvfKeEDGukv9XdtgxmRBRoMJH6xuITIWEbaI1THc71Pg6UmQpqMN4WpLID_gB1_eKu4t8iLsi-6mDxorFm6Bwwr7Ah7g-Oa86rO3zNhRM0_vCww8bQYO8CJsLbcjQpLtN4fP3UK/s414/1929881_14893894045_2702_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLsQTYeSlynmFxhbLXw5esf-CNhvBzn04vvq2MRup0djr4ffFPNQiSmvfKeEDGukv9XdtgxmRBRoMJH6xuITIWEbaI1THc71Pg6UmQpqMN4WpLID_gB1_eKu4t8iLsi-6mDxorFm6Bwwr7Ah7g-Oa86rO3zNhRM0_vCww8bQYO8CJsLbcjQpLtN4fP3UK/s320/1929881_14893894045_2702_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>This involves: listening to music; dancing at every opportunity; calling old friends we haven't called in forever; picking up instead of letting it go to voicemail when they call back; speaking up when we are hurt; calling out ourselves and our friends and loved ones when doing stupid shit like we all do from time to time; forgiving as much as we can; listening; letting go; being in the moment; not faking a thing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZckHHHJpyJ86-al6HvBe3Df4-13_J-KIefCxhe7NkG2bOHVwAz9Q3uQ1Znf9cmww22_rfFE_umfXojf4StwbwsI2tcc4UOn_DaSXHA6Qv9wX-QYDkPE35JQInJJWGqIlAON3-Q6Y9O-kzqdSV0wWLgSrQsFcezjOWYleEOakiO0BajhIuqBYL7rJQ4F3j/s298/1930854_40718855086_1861_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="298" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZckHHHJpyJ86-al6HvBe3Df4-13_J-KIefCxhe7NkG2bOHVwAz9Q3uQ1Znf9cmww22_rfFE_umfXojf4StwbwsI2tcc4UOn_DaSXHA6Qv9wX-QYDkPE35JQInJJWGqIlAON3-Q6Y9O-kzqdSV0wWLgSrQsFcezjOWYleEOakiO0BajhIuqBYL7rJQ4F3j/s1600/1930854_40718855086_1861_n.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p>Man, I might as well get out a soap box, whatever that is, stand on it, and be a street preacher of some sort.</p><p>I don't mean to be didactic, but I somehow manage to be just that, often.</p><p>Sorry. </p><p>I just feel so much energy and joy and love right now.</p><p>Also, it's my blog, and I can say whatever I want. I can post various photos from my life showing times of awareness that have meaning to me but might just look like random shots to you. </p><p>So be it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsByDK0f6BNxktacqRaLLp2OI7p3cjyJq04F3I_zqCSPRnfFD_t-zBpDJzhAO62rCzVgPZZJp3OFoswcOjScYHGinQuzhOzgoLhIUqlFoHBe74FMBxxFXqgBJvVh6XloNdsyWnYlvPGQWYZsDE4PEP4LmXUFp_I9HqB657EKVRkFiO2sRpNpxWPh9Kd-0/s414/1040065_10152962949995022_112780849_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="414" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsByDK0f6BNxktacqRaLLp2OI7p3cjyJq04F3I_zqCSPRnfFD_t-zBpDJzhAO62rCzVgPZZJp3OFoswcOjScYHGinQuzhOzgoLhIUqlFoHBe74FMBxxFXqgBJvVh6XloNdsyWnYlvPGQWYZsDE4PEP4LmXUFp_I9HqB657EKVRkFiO2sRpNpxWPh9Kd-0/s320/1040065_10152962949995022_112780849_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>May the photos and the Force be with you.</p><p>So here's a song from the summer of 1994. A seminal year in the story of my life. It's Mystery by Indigo Girls, and I dig it immensely. Still, after all these years. Still crazy. Still. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DCSUfGJjwVY" width="320" youtube-src-id="DCSUfGJjwVY"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-21744427609653225302023-06-27T10:04:00.002-07:002023-06-27T10:04:40.168-07:00BIT BY BIT, PUTTING EIGG TOGETHER<p>Marching on, regardless. What choice do we have? Things are crazy, always. World overheating. Unrest in Russia. Global Economy sort of uncertain. <b><a href="https://www.newsnationnow.com/space/ufo/we-are-not-alone-the-ufo-whistleblower-speaks/">UFOs</a></b> on their way. And most of us seem to pretend the shut down never happened, or was just some sort of nuisance that happened and is over.</p><p>Time for some musical theatre.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChS8hLZo3UVE-MfatD2O8M7w7PWdrYZIJG2fMcAkU7Z2Q7j55auvdWDhtdak4cx4Ahe59oaKOS_aTybxz_wICbDyY8MpEzgQe4rkwmSi7TbUOALwjBUl2Rk_VqUGIiKKjHW_mh8XCQ2P5Lo5iMyiq4lS0W4P4BrUm_sbx1-Gxi2HzNc2LemVZ7z2DYZ4z/s275/download-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChS8hLZo3UVE-MfatD2O8M7w7PWdrYZIJG2fMcAkU7Z2Q7j55auvdWDhtdak4cx4Ahe59oaKOS_aTybxz_wICbDyY8MpEzgQe4rkwmSi7TbUOALwjBUl2Rk_VqUGIiKKjHW_mh8XCQ2P5Lo5iMyiq4lS0W4P4BrUm_sbx1-Gxi2HzNc2LemVZ7z2DYZ4z/s1600/download-2.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>Which sounds a little crazy, I know, but that's how it is.</p><p>In October, I got approached by Heather Westenskow, a friend and frequent collaborator about directing a new show, <b><a href="https://www.eigg.show/">EIGG THE MUSICAL</a></b>, that would be going to <b><a href="https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on#q=%22Eigg%20the%20Musical%22">Edinburgh Fringe</a></b>. That's the biggest theatre festival in the world. Thousands of shows from all over the world. And it's in Scotland, land of haunted castles and Nessie. I've wanted to go there forever. I became a playwright at the New York International Fringe Festival, which was modeled in large part of the Edinburgh Fringe, and had some of the best experiences of my life doing shows there. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JXUluTir4G0PFXbrA8esN1ei7IiO8u1shKTfkmc3v-QsRhQ1JldSupn3nz0wyvr_4y9WbgljFrLlbEH3kUi0T8NC3SjE1zAgTDROFyiQqOZ-H99Jy1EtqUukLRm-QcHK_q-Va0WBJWevihEpRSb7iou665YUvyM4QNIzXxVcbiuV5-LqA9FsWl5BuMX5/s279/download-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JXUluTir4G0PFXbrA8esN1ei7IiO8u1shKTfkmc3v-QsRhQ1JldSupn3nz0wyvr_4y9WbgljFrLlbEH3kUi0T8NC3SjE1zAgTDROFyiQqOZ-H99Jy1EtqUukLRm-QcHK_q-Va0WBJWevihEpRSb7iou665YUvyM4QNIzXxVcbiuV5-LqA9FsWl5BuMX5/s1600/download-3.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><p>I with April Alsup, the show's composer, and she told me about the Isle of Eigg, a tiny speck on land in the Hebrides, which in 1997 became the first island to be bought by it's inhabitants from their overbearing landlord. Or Laird. So about five years ago, she teamed up with playwright Mark Sbani and they made a new musical all about it. I listened to the story, the music, the basic pitch, and said "yes, please".</p><p>I started gathering the cast. Had to be people who are super talented, funny, strange, and perfect for the show. I felt like Nick Fury, putting together the Avengers. Happily, being the Left Foot of <b><a href="https://www.sasquatchproductionsltd.com/">Sasquatch Productions</a></b> means I have worked with a lot of actors in the greater Denver area. Folks who I worked with on Addams Family, Sound of Music, Little Shop of Horrors, Wizard of Oz, to name just a few. Actors who I first worked with in high school shows up in Conifer at <b><a href="https://www.stagedoortheatre.org/">StageDoor</a></b> or at the Denver JCC. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmr37kQcYBBiy0QlvA7TloUPJ0E9tvNuTGNC7JHocxD1wX0ikrW2cBhn8aXQvdam06bJfunFSc6n973vXBUXPhoLj2Q17aaWL77v4ok8B3UWCJ1cQKdl9jMaPiO7rM0ewzSrDz16Q9jAMP0S2_ly191BMJIIlqbYLJLDdwSr38cFtPoF0hB_qmMVrBsBl/s640/E78039B1-0D2D-4BC4-8C50-B302860B961E%20(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmr37kQcYBBiy0QlvA7TloUPJ0E9tvNuTGNC7JHocxD1wX0ikrW2cBhn8aXQvdam06bJfunFSc6n973vXBUXPhoLj2Q17aaWL77v4ok8B3UWCJ1cQKdl9jMaPiO7rM0ewzSrDz16Q9jAMP0S2_ly191BMJIIlqbYLJLDdwSr38cFtPoF0hB_qmMVrBsBl/s320/E78039B1-0D2D-4BC4-8C50-B302860B961E%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>I know people.</p><p>It's quite a treat to call someone you've worked with and say "Hey, want to do a show in Scotland?". </p><p>Some of the cast I've worked with since they were in high school. Some I've met more recently. The criteria was simple. Be uber-talented and not crazy. If we are going to create a new show, fly across the ocean and spend two weeks together in Edinburgh, we need to all get along. One hundred percent. I have learned over my many years that surrounding yourself with people who challenge you, excite you, make laugh, and so on is not just something to say on an Instagram post, but the smartest thing you can do. Indeed, it's one of the guiding principles we use at Sasquatch. </p><p>And now, we are in the midst of it. Working out scenes and songs. Making those breakthroughs that come out of nowhere. Hitting those bumps in the road that frustrate to no end, only to find a way past them when we least expect it. Getting it together. </p><p>And I love it.</p><p>Every now and then, no too often but enough to keep me going, the universe will open up and say "this is where you are supposed to be, and this is what you are supposed to do." The night I met my wife. The summer of 1994. Now. </p><p>I lead a charmed life. I don't know why, but I'm not going to question it. </p><p>I bring all this up because the next month is all about the <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/@EiggMusical">Eigg</a></b>. You will be hearing more about it. About our show, our Indiegogo campaign, which will be going live later this week. About our previews at the <b><a href="https://www.vintagetheatre.org/">Vintage Theatre</a></b>.</p><p>About all sorts of shit involving Eigg.</p><p>Here's a song. It's from one of my all time favorite musicals, Sunday in the Park with George. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TU8xjLNOuII" width="320" youtube-src-id="TU8xjLNOuII"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-69929250474240528602023-06-25T10:52:00.005-07:002023-06-25T10:52:43.715-07:00LOOKING FOR SOUL FOOD, TRYING TO BE LIKE BOY GENIUS<p>Having one of those mornings where I realize that what we really need to do, we writers, artists, thinkers, parents, children... is remember that we are human beings, first and foremost. We are at our best when we take care of each other, because that's part of the deal. When we deal with both the world we dream of and the one we live in now. When, on top of satisfying our immediate, usually no so brilliant needs like having a cookie or doom scrolling or whatever it is that isn't all that important and we know it isn't but still do it, we take a step back and deal with the here and now. We ourselves and each other. With both the pain and glory of life. And I know that seems simplistic, and of course it is-- super clear, obvious, a no shit Sherlock vibe-- </p><p>And yet, I often forget that.</p><p>It's hard to not fret about the little things when you aren't sure what the little things are any more.</p><p>This happens to me all the damn time.</p><p>And then, also all the time but not quite as often, I'll remember that being alive is groovy. That I have lived a life, have friends, stories, moments in time. That I am genuine. That we all are. I do not subscribe to the idea that if everyone is special, no one is. That's a bullshit phrase born in fear and encouraged by people who want to sell you something that, according to them, is the thing you need to be special.</p><p>Fuck that.</p><p>I'm thinking on this for three main reasons.</p><p>Number One: I'm working on a show that's going to Scotland for the Edinburgh Fringe. <b>Eigg</b>. (for more info on that, go <b><a href="https://www.eigg.show/">HERE</a></b>) And it's reminding me of why I chose to live the life I live. Because making theatre is hard, crazy, and at times, once in a while, magic. And the secret sauce to the magic is to just be in the moment, leaning in, using all the skills and structure while at the same time letting myself into the process- who I am, warts and all. And encouraging/celebrating everyone else in the show doing the same thing. We are doing that, kicking it in the ass, and having a hell of a time in the process. There will be come shows in Denver late July, then off to Scotland! More info will be on these pages soon.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fGLKCj_11EQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="fGLKCj_11EQ"></iframe></div><br /><p>Number Two: I just started work on a short film/proof of concept for Burning the Old Man with Tim McCracken. It's based on my play of the same name. Tim and I met for coffee, talked it over, and something in my brain exploded. I came home, started writing-- and I felt like some sort of magician, conjuring worlds and people. I haven't felt this creatively excited in a long time. A lot of writing is keeping structure in mind, format, using the logic of plot and all that. Which is vital. But I think without that spark that got you there in the first place, with out the vulnerable, strange me/you of it, whatever you're working on becomes a knock off, a bit of the same old thing, and not so exciting. I am finding the me/you in this. The words are flowing. More on this soon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtup-qsKEwR0nSIDOHYA-_v4N6eSJktddF5DTFc4XemtRx0gh2tw6CdJqhVOVuHRR6Had8CdWVmF6qVIWQdeqMXeIHe9VuMvPNJDplXu5AXJu413X8XBSS2rSm62wAQSiiSvsTj4tUgvDGW-pkn2bSxttteYnQvZnNpFMa9wgn6RBR3_h6vGw7TasZCb0/s206/1512090_10152252185195087_1965080795_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="206" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtup-qsKEwR0nSIDOHYA-_v4N6eSJktddF5DTFc4XemtRx0gh2tw6CdJqhVOVuHRR6Had8CdWVmF6qVIWQdeqMXeIHe9VuMvPNJDplXu5AXJu413X8XBSS2rSm62wAQSiiSvsTj4tUgvDGW-pkn2bSxttteYnQvZnNpFMa9wgn6RBR3_h6vGw7TasZCb0/s1600/1512090_10152252185195087_1965080795_o.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><br /><p>Number Three: I saw a movie yesterday. A big Hollywood blockbuster kind of movie. And it was fun. But it didn't have that organic, specific and therefore universal moment, that made me believe. And I need that, both in what I watch and what I write. If there isn't some moment that makes it clear, on an emotional level, that this thing is being made not just to make money but to express some aspect of the artists life, why should I give a shit. </p><p>Often, I find movies with flaws very inspiring. </p><p>So. that's today. </p><p>I plan to write more blog entries between now and Edinburgh. So stay tuned.</p><p>Here's a song that I think exemplifies sticking to the rules while not sticking to the rules, baring one's soul, and using the very specific to make the very universal. It's BoyGenius, who are fucking awesome, and the song is "Not Strong Enough".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bIX_ouNJsTs" width="320" youtube-src-id="bIX_ouNJsTs"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-26529888147528104362023-05-15T13:30:00.002-07:002023-05-16T14:42:50.345-07:00IN PRAISE OF GHIDORAH<p>I watched a lot of monster movies growing up. Anything weird, scary, strange, and I was in. This included all the Godzilla movies. Not just the big guy, but Rodan, Gamora, Baby Godzilla, Mothra, and Ghidorah, the three headed monster sometimes just called Monster X. Very weird shit but I loved it. All of it. And Monster X was just... sort of like life. The three heads sort of flopped about, shot lazer beams every where, looked absurd, but managed to kick the living crap out of everyone and everything in its path. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhai-wwxcK4IIVSg7z6CY7lHW7HxvNcNFomwnJqYz75JkyK4EAjaNOeMl5YsbNRKnJN771u3rACU9fH-97sb5WPI6mOnvyw2ZQ_IOFcyu5RR4NBC-OPyxjSXaHdTgzOaziks74E32N9vVn7VTGUWVpenZtlXlUGV3uJ-kYgQo9it53fFuvj2f1qNRQ01g/s259/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhai-wwxcK4IIVSg7z6CY7lHW7HxvNcNFomwnJqYz75JkyK4EAjaNOeMl5YsbNRKnJN771u3rACU9fH-97sb5WPI6mOnvyw2ZQ_IOFcyu5RR4NBC-OPyxjSXaHdTgzOaziks74E32N9vVn7VTGUWVpenZtlXlUGV3uJ-kYgQo9it53fFuvj2f1qNRQ01g/s1600/images.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><p>I think King Ghidorah eventually ended up living on the moon, like you do.</p><p>Of late, I think of the beast with three heads.</p><p>Because I lack focus, blaze a path of destruction, and feel like I live on the moon.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdaCg2-cqzDW-w7ltzPFz9-NH_mqpgmhkoZ7jcL2hQNGBkhNhcLRKBP24jUCjQ0nUvu-3KWMYkCmQRsAXZJyA_Xyo71YsKj6fxi8b-lJV06AnXhuhjb4CD2llTjxT1pDuAjZgqc_Y6XPrUb9EDBRRDpQj8BwA5IRMKCVwTJlgEc2H-DCWomaIB2QV8A/s2400/Eigg_oval1%202400%20Square%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdaCg2-cqzDW-w7ltzPFz9-NH_mqpgmhkoZ7jcL2hQNGBkhNhcLRKBP24jUCjQ0nUvu-3KWMYkCmQRsAXZJyA_Xyo71YsKj6fxi8b-lJV06AnXhuhjb4CD2llTjxT1pDuAjZgqc_Y6XPrUb9EDBRRDpQj8BwA5IRMKCVwTJlgEc2H-DCWomaIB2QV8A/s320/Eigg_oval1%202400%20Square%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><p>I just took over a job at one of the schools I work at, going from 4 hours a week to 32. I am directing a new show, <b><a href="https://www.eigg.show/" target="_blank">EIGG the MUSICAL</a></b>, that is going to the <b><a href="https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/eigg-the-musical" target="_blank">Edinburgh Fringe Festival</a></b> this summer. I have summer classes coming up at <a href="https://tickets.denvercenter.org/Online/default.asp?doWork::WScontent::loadArticle=Load&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::article_id=B1329629-B620-41A7-91C2-24F2BB09DDB0&returnTo=https://www.denvercenter.org/education/adult-acting-classes/" target="_blank">DCPA</a>, <b><a href="https://www.stagedoortheatre.org/" target="_blank">StageDoor</a></b>, and <b><a href="https://www.myreelkids.com/projects-3" target="_blank">Reel Kids</a></b>. I am finishing a new pilot that I hope to submit to the Austin Film Festival, which has a hard final deadline of May 25. (more on all those in future blogs)</p><p>AND I AM STUCK IN ACT THREE OF A FIVE ACT STRUCTURE.</p><p>Yes. I am Monster X. I wake up dazed and confused, looking at three things at once, roaring nonsense and dusting things up with Godzilla, Gamora, Mothra, and some unnamed monsters that look large but fuzzy at the edge of my peripheral vision.</p><p>And I love it. </p><p>I am not able to sit still. It makes me anxious. I hear silence and I don't like it. I crave it at the same time. Silence.</p><p>Maybe that's why Ghidorah was always pissed off. It wanted and didn't want the same things at the same time, and was furious at those with seemingly simpler desires. </p><p>Godzilla wanted to kick the shit out of some buildings and then go back to the sea. Baby Godzilla wants to blow smoke rings. Mothra wanted those miniature women to sing her theme song. What did Ghidorah want? Deep down inside its heart? Who can say? </p><p>Also, did it have three hearts, one for each head?</p><p>I don't know. </p><p>All I know is, like Bilbo, I am too little butter spread over too much bread, and I want to see mountains again, Gandalf.</p><p>We are all lost monsters, I think. </p><p>So, that's it. My first blog entry of the year, I think. Better late than never.</p><p>Now I'm off to find Godzilla.</p><p>Here's a song. It's Mahra Mothra, and God Damn is it awesome.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4y4gCQ9_ns4" width="320" youtube-src-id="4y4gCQ9_ns4"></iframe></div><br /><p>PS: The classes I am teaching are:</p><p>Playwriting at DCPA, this June & July, evenings. </p><p><a href="https://storage.googleapis.com/dcpa/pdf/EDU23_Summer-Adult-Catalog_V4.pdf">https://storage.googleapis.com/dcpa/pdf/EDU23_Summer-Adult-Catalog_V4.pdf</a></p><p>Broadway Boot Camp at StageDoor Theatre in Conifer, June 5-9, days.</p><p><a href="https://www.stagedoortheatre.org/">https://www.stagedoortheatre.org/</a></p><p>Web series, Acting Improv, and D&D at Reel Kids, June and July</p><p><a href="https://www.myreelkids.com/projects-3">https://www.myreelkids.com/projects-3</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-19286270501354750052022-12-29T08:20:00.004-08:002022-12-29T08:20:54.591-08:00I EVEN SAW A GHOST<p>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? </p><p>What is going on here?</p><p>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.</p><p>Isn't that what we all do? </p><p>So, this year. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86wmS4z9DestymlnEaTGOQgYJ1UD9PkJDFlhX9e4xsCQuJPmVEb9vAqeoMAa86fYZQ_eIPdwIcD-F0Ar9xfCDiaTpqvThxScOEi0s54YLLa5wOW_TBy0T9zToKcBQv2PF22Z_1b9QBwVWfr1S53NOp-6vEzVWcjWWrsBpVV6NoAfYuCTrBOg2BwzNg/s640/IMG_0400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86wmS4z9DestymlnEaTGOQgYJ1UD9PkJDFlhX9e4xsCQuJPmVEb9vAqeoMAa86fYZQ_eIPdwIcD-F0Ar9xfCDiaTpqvThxScOEi0s54YLLa5wOW_TBy0T9zToKcBQv2PF22Z_1b9QBwVWfr1S53NOp-6vEzVWcjWWrsBpVV6NoAfYuCTrBOg2BwzNg/s320/IMG_0400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>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. </p><p>I like directing. Let's me boss people around. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigOQaF47_2cqJwcjRjwWAw99bMMInWxJex88qXzjmRWNtLOG_wkYVQ-NyWrnBXgTSZXfSsKym8ZAzo8RC02bgzATuQOj9SDFX1ra47IdQQq1XKLZsSoCnjFY2WR5Afxf4JNj8N1-gWucdist59-ogtdTsEv3XX7cRdSGgbXwRTYrppNfWFM1rk8MVbA/s640/E78039B1-0D2D-4BC4-8C50-B302860B961E.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigOQaF47_2cqJwcjRjwWAw99bMMInWxJex88qXzjmRWNtLOG_wkYVQ-NyWrnBXgTSZXfSsKym8ZAzo8RC02bgzATuQOj9SDFX1ra47IdQQq1XKLZsSoCnjFY2WR5Afxf4JNj8N1-gWucdist59-ogtdTsEv3XX7cRdSGgbXwRTYrppNfWFM1rk8MVbA/s320/E78039B1-0D2D-4BC4-8C50-B302860B961E.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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. </p><p>I like teaching. Let's me boss people around.</p><p>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.</p><p>I like writing. Let's me boss my little made up worlds around.</p><p>I suppose I like to boss.</p><p>Keeps me off the streets. </p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYUoWszOPQJowVB2231EXf7yjIXARsAeeFg9sbUCSrze5KU0jqow9lscIxDAb4-ie0vJ_7pf3g5fd-tQvhoP-B0DUtxiCk-FIMwGtuKF9-4y8KMlIzs4nF24HcN9-8RqoIzF9wolQvQzU2Ob7oH0xilgOHcBPLCsOF5rG19LJt0KOC0ihCmCEJ82Srg/s640/IMG_0570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYUoWszOPQJowVB2231EXf7yjIXARsAeeFg9sbUCSrze5KU0jqow9lscIxDAb4-ie0vJ_7pf3g5fd-tQvhoP-B0DUtxiCk-FIMwGtuKF9-4y8KMlIzs4nF24HcN9-8RqoIzF9wolQvQzU2Ob7oH0xilgOHcBPLCsOF5rG19LJt0KOC0ihCmCEJ82Srg/s320/IMG_0570.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><p>It fills the soul. </p><p>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. </p><p>And also where we stay up late dancing and laughing and having the time of our lives.</p><p>I always think of that line from Fiddler on the Roof. It takes a wedding to make us say let's live another day.</p><p>I say let's live another ten thousand or more. </p><p>Let's just live. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqFtLTz0xA5FISeXCBj1gVyr8S8Hh1-wWD2CjdbbLra1EzI6po3N8ath7FMQdH-C5E6BxIDz25LW6CpOi1CHHxpkKMYBDXi3iGWBZ7bnSbDKOj00wXRJlKJFscFy6kXwTPdCn6S568vQvYBx7XCp5574ic0GlK79mXmibsuN87_yp5abBiYIpw530HA/s640/8078DBBD-6EDB-4852-A1FA-897C10861941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqFtLTz0xA5FISeXCBj1gVyr8S8Hh1-wWD2CjdbbLra1EzI6po3N8ath7FMQdH-C5E6BxIDz25LW6CpOi1CHHxpkKMYBDXi3iGWBZ7bnSbDKOj00wXRJlKJFscFy6kXwTPdCn6S568vQvYBx7XCp5574ic0GlK79mXmibsuN87_yp5abBiYIpw530HA/s320/8078DBBD-6EDB-4852-A1FA-897C10861941.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p>The world is in a constant state of flux. </p><p>Let's be cool with that. </p><p>Also, I saw a ghost this year.</p><p>This is the second time I can say for sure I saw one. I wrote about the first one here: </p><p><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7891430757253929065/770461654933686503">https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7891430757253929065/770461654933686503</a></p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JwlBpywnCNTnfAlAQoCyXFvy7HrRR1s2YycFLvzTC0C6-ZC2ctNjPFAvjv_DfOTH3cfmevF0AfTyiGKGh8swzy36OG_2xOYl4d3IejX8yABxUBAqiymw50MXd4O31itZ9jooFc8REzoC9Yo3-D2TV9BRyPVqS-6g_lYw2Cf6ZiZo7C0xuFilzVskbg/s640/20221027_071636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JwlBpywnCNTnfAlAQoCyXFvy7HrRR1s2YycFLvzTC0C6-ZC2ctNjPFAvjv_DfOTH3cfmevF0AfTyiGKGh8swzy36OG_2xOYl4d3IejX8yABxUBAqiymw50MXd4O31itZ9jooFc8REzoC9Yo3-D2TV9BRyPVqS-6g_lYw2Cf6ZiZo7C0xuFilzVskbg/s320/20221027_071636.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>And then they vanished. </p><p>Now, it was dark, and the theatre was packed, and I figured maybe I was mistaken. </p><p>But then I figured "No". </p><p>I saw something. </p><p>When the movie was over, I found the manager, and asked, feeling a bit ridiculous, if the theatre was haunted. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>You can here that podcast, which was an episode of the excellent ScriptNotes, here:</p><p><a href="https://johnaugust.com/2022/live-at-the-austin-film-festival-2022">https://johnaugust.com/2022/live-at-the-austin-film-festival-2022</a></p><p>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.</p><p>So. Happy New Year. God bless... Us. </p><p>Everyone.</p><p>Here's to more blog entries, and screenplays, and shows produced.</p><p>To life.</p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-23010834022588893462022-10-13T08:12:00.006-07:002022-10-13T08:13:07.342-07:00CAN'T STAND IN THE SHALLOWS<p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7E267VeB-AH_n1NuhME4_-NbvSYl4P8rzYkaF1WGtDnNUU-pf8CvmY7AmUL-8v8-8VB6ECRQEHenz_OO_Fcuq8Pp0MNVfrXPeIstEijpaLiUj_wjw5i641XwioTptD03stm6XY3pfjobLB5ccBWoDDDKEq6hemwL5yCchaQku8lppM1leaclvBlJ5bA/s272/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7E267VeB-AH_n1NuhME4_-NbvSYl4P8rzYkaF1WGtDnNUU-pf8CvmY7AmUL-8v8-8VB6ECRQEHenz_OO_Fcuq8Pp0MNVfrXPeIstEijpaLiUj_wjw5i641XwioTptD03stm6XY3pfjobLB5ccBWoDDDKEq6hemwL5yCchaQku8lppM1leaclvBlJ5bA/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><p>It is the only way to do it.</p><p>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.</p><p>It is the only way to do it.</p><p>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. </p><p>Very strange.</p><p>Like not breathing or being alive strange.</p><p>But I think the Covid is giving a good fight and not quite ready to cede the battle yet.</p><p>To which I say "fuck that". </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>But the waves still crash, the water is still cold, and I am still alive. </p><p>Here's a song. It's the theme from The Rockford Files. Because it's bitchin'</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hj8V5sRVXGk" width="320" youtube-src-id="hj8V5sRVXGk"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-57346992787254880762022-10-06T08:23:00.002-07:002022-10-06T08:23:56.974-07:00I'M KEIR DULLEA. FOR AT LEAST FIVE DAYS.<p>Well, I finally got Covid, and I can confirm, it sucks.</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-VrDCYrfvdTLqJk5D0cAWddfKS3e8-1zir-Aa8b3VuoFb-5UPsPAs-GW1j70dFKK0k7qQip5n8ozvOdhVMQzyTwVvzuYz5pke3R9VKWsOVV3RScFGhRsncD7dEXFsv6Jxv5ZIGDUxu4-8gcd5P_BAtubF_JFBYEt6o9i4ohTy5L-dZM9eEN5hRlhcA/s225/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-VrDCYrfvdTLqJk5D0cAWddfKS3e8-1zir-Aa8b3VuoFb-5UPsPAs-GW1j70dFKK0k7qQip5n8ozvOdhVMQzyTwVvzuYz5pke3R9VKWsOVV3RScFGhRsncD7dEXFsv6Jxv5ZIGDUxu4-8gcd5P_BAtubF_JFBYEt6o9i4ohTy5L-dZM9eEN5hRlhcA/s1600/images.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p>It boggles the mind.</p><p>Anyway, I have Covid. I was feeling feverish Sunday after rehearsal for <b><a href="https://parkerarts.org/event/the-addams-family/?search=&audience=All&interest=musicals&time=All&utm_source=Google_Ads&utm_medium=Search&utm_campaign=2022-July-Dec-Plan&utm_content=General-Promo-Events&gclid=Cj0KCQjw-fmZBhDtARIsAH6H8qjFr5DCZ1L0UmWFtHvFeLe4EojojIpUxa_gnRzNKTyP0Qpowaxa4lgaAvi7EALw_wcB">The Addams Family</a></b> - which is produced by my company <b><a href="https://www.sasquatchproductionsltd.com/">Sasquatch Productions</a></b> 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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCD-5NgvwtrvHs_2UTfZ0owzPpvDavZly7e4zBgYGgajYpdkMdjUSvZs5NXMMe4YOMiGLXy0Rf8VoDo6IFTEsFRCcvy0HPq_qF7c_ixE2osHwFjdwLllKEYjog_dDCOTChiZ8mksBV_4FF-VA1JNAIqGfTdFqnlg1T9UFQdsUr1dYOOO-X9GIi5_Hbug/s300/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCD-5NgvwtrvHs_2UTfZ0owzPpvDavZly7e4zBgYGgajYpdkMdjUSvZs5NXMMe4YOMiGLXy0Rf8VoDo6IFTEsFRCcvy0HPq_qF7c_ixE2osHwFjdwLllKEYjog_dDCOTChiZ8mksBV_4FF-VA1JNAIqGfTdFqnlg1T9UFQdsUr1dYOOO-X9GIi5_Hbug/s1600/download.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>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) </p><p>After a few seconds of denying reality, I said "Shit". </p><p>And then called every job I have and every person I've been in contact with and let them know what was up.</p><p>Current protocol is to quarantine for five days, then mask for five more. And of course, do not go out until you test negative. </p><p>This is day four is sitting at home, and let me tell you, it is no fun.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AXS8P0HksQo" width="320" youtube-src-id="AXS8P0HksQo"></iframe></div><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>I want to kick the shit out of it.</p><p>On a continual basis.</p><p>So. To surmise, Covid sucks. Denying reality is not healthy. And magic is important.</p><p>Here's a song. It's That's Entertainment by The Jam.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/m-H0uIH5HHQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="m-H0uIH5HHQ"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-25384747532094134522022-09-15T08:03:00.002-07:002022-09-15T08:05:40.284-07:00EIGHT O'CLOCK! THE LIBRARY IS CLOSED!<p>I got snippy with a librarian last night. Shouldn't have.</p><p>Sometimes, I get offended easily. </p><p>This was one of those occasions.</p><p>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 <b>HERE</b>)</p><p>We were a loud group. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>The clock ticked.</p><p>The hour to leave came.</p><p>I sent the young thespians off into the night, and headed out with my Stage Manager.</p><p>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!".</p><p>This was to a room with only me and my stage manager in it, hands full of books, already heading for the door.</p><p>I thought to myself, "poor woman, she's clearly mad."</p><p>After her rather dramatic pronouncement, she was gone, and we continued towards the front door.</p><p>This was around 8:02.</p><p>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!"</p><p>Same tone. Same urgency. </p><p>I thought to myself, "This must be the only place she can come close to controlling in her life."</p><p>We got to the door.</p><p>It was now the ungodly hour of 8:03.</p><p>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.</p><p>I had to pee.</p><p>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.</p><p>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!"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqJjdSz2bn3NuacXHZvBs1ewO64GSA9dYN-_p7nMgwPZAtdfrHEjr3VompoQFhH_IJ-d9P78pJKvr9EZw_VrVKAon6PDwm3G0uhmq7x5pi2MEVJNEU3TE-AgKMHz2FwL-jP8kGopNx8slGG0HFQKTwYO2ieTAVF8Rr13i7Tc79gCzD28vd67nGamTqA/s275/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqJjdSz2bn3NuacXHZvBs1ewO64GSA9dYN-_p7nMgwPZAtdfrHEjr3VompoQFhH_IJ-d9P78pJKvr9EZw_VrVKAon6PDwm3G0uhmq7x5pi2MEVJNEU3TE-AgKMHz2FwL-jP8kGopNx8slGG0HFQKTwYO2ieTAVF8Rr13i7Tc79gCzD28vd67nGamTqA/s1600/images.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><p>She walked swiftly towards us as she repeated her mantra.</p><p>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!"</p><p>It was not my best reply, but I had had enough.</p><p>And then I self righteously marched out.</p><p>I hate getting mad like that.</p><p>But sometimes, it happens. People act unkindly. Rudely even. </p><p>And I get angry, try to be pithy, and usually end up sounding just at ridiculous as the person I bark at.</p><p>Ah well. </p><p>Such is life.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ULylog3mw50" width="320" youtube-src-id="ULylog3mw50"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-84236648600167701942022-09-13T08:03:00.002-07:002022-09-13T08:03:26.853-07:00I'M A ROOKIE. AND THAT'S OKAY.<p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>And I thought, what a fantastic way to put it.</p><p>I was a rookie.</p><p>As in, I was a rookie in being a human being.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>No.</p><p>That's not being a rookie.</p><p>That's being an asshole.</p><p>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. </p><p>I feel like Stuart Smalley.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bd3g0K9KlBI" width="320" youtube-src-id="bd3g0K9KlBI"></iframe></div><p>And that's okay.</p><p>I don't want to be all touchy-feely. But sometimes I am. </p><p>I don't want to beat the shit out of myself when I fall short. But sometimes I totally do.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NK9-6yucshQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="NK9-6yucshQ"></iframe></div><p>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.</p><p>And here's the song for today. Road to Hell from HadesTown.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RtlTvqTtCa4" width="320" youtube-src-id="RtlTvqTtCa4"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-30862738917016622692022-09-06T14:00:00.000-07:002022-09-06T14:00:03.511-07:00HOLLY, NO PRETENDER SHE<p>So I click on Facebook to wish my friend, student, and fellow playwright a Happy Birthday. And on her page, I see:</p><p>Happy Birthday, Holly, in Heaven.</p><p>And I think to myself: well, shit. </p><p>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. </p><p>Of late, pretty much everything that has ever happened to me feels like it was just yesterday. </p><p>And also forever ago.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>It was a magic night for all of us, I think. </p><p>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. </p><p>I got asked back again, and Holly followed. </p><p>This cycle continued. Class, reading, new class, Holly back, and so on.</p><p>And lo and behold, a day came, after a few years of the class, when Holly's play was done. </p><p>By then, I had a fairly consistent group of students in my classes, and most of us knew Holly and her work. </p><p>And we were ecstatic. </p><p>Holly beamed with pride. </p><p>And something in her changed. A power filled her, a glow. </p><p>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. </p><p>And on the way out of the building that night, she gave me a million dollar smile and said "Thanks, Kid".<br /></p><p>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.</p><p>The joy.</p><p>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. </p><p>And cherish it. </p><p>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.</p><p>She was a tough, funny, wonderful woman, and I shall miss her.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsZxXSGNgFjSr1ZUWFUp-yy3w4-3KbSeUc9fvhDuG6NKcp5lpW2MduE0SnJu1AKqpqlCcfLTYRiPsATYmlqvThe8t0ONTtVOGy2icqiQ7bOMl5DZy5qLui4l2BQPSp_gz0DnuXJMNeD_cpFoazE4psRqxTNpO3wK8f3uVQAarBPAXsnD1ed7ij6BzxQ/s255/download-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="197" data-original-width="255" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsZxXSGNgFjSr1ZUWFUp-yy3w4-3KbSeUc9fvhDuG6NKcp5lpW2MduE0SnJu1AKqpqlCcfLTYRiPsATYmlqvThe8t0ONTtVOGy2icqiQ7bOMl5DZy5qLui4l2BQPSp_gz0DnuXJMNeD_cpFoazE4psRqxTNpO3wK8f3uVQAarBPAXsnD1ed7ij6BzxQ/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Here's a song for Holly. It's The Great Pretender, of course.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IEzfhclKO8Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="IEzfhclKO8Q"></iframe></div><p>PS - if you feel like taking a class, click <b><a href="https://tickets.denvercenter.org/Online/default.asp?BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::permalink=ACAD-ADULT-TEXT&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::context_id=">HERE</a></b>.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-38032403995106031042022-09-01T08:22:00.000-07:002022-09-01T08:22:28.334-07:00A TRINITY OF LUNATICS<p>I was on a break at rehearsals the other night down in Parker for <b><a href="https://parkerarts.org/event/the-addams-family/">The Addams Family</a></b>, 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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8UmfjSEfI_lT7y8MVx_BDFjUkfMqwbIJRkAlmFcTZpE7wLCG-_bGP5UIJSeOM3kWSrx7JPXYIxoqcT8U6ZJPsggzCtBpB1xD-cGKEgE3G3tkY6JHK9oT1Vty-ouuCopFaaoZevKbGKg7FxF-1xxL3HoeAC94ocUyfW9-gfOE2qouqGUN69y1w3-g9g/s275/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8UmfjSEfI_lT7y8MVx_BDFjUkfMqwbIJRkAlmFcTZpE7wLCG-_bGP5UIJSeOM3kWSrx7JPXYIxoqcT8U6ZJPsggzCtBpB1xD-cGKEgE3G3tkY6JHK9oT1Vty-ouuCopFaaoZevKbGKg7FxF-1xxL3HoeAC94ocUyfW9-gfOE2qouqGUN69y1w3-g9g/s1600/images.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>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. </p><p>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? </p><p>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? </p><p>I think the latter.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikihsqW1tJlfcbG1i0RaaV1egyTN1BE8hA9NojCNVSbz5POCKkoVDWyc8oWJ6-VWGX_lcm5z7Ezn1dkTFT-4yZWyr3d3BYAiwlr1n_Jnnx6dfdWyo0DzLrB3_0mE-i5P9_ObJCGFuv99U6xb-lVh5RAilc5gJHBVxfwSX4ZZ3a5_dB9HIIWC_0yct8OA/s225/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikihsqW1tJlfcbG1i0RaaV1egyTN1BE8hA9NojCNVSbz5POCKkoVDWyc8oWJ6-VWGX_lcm5z7Ezn1dkTFT-4yZWyr3d3BYAiwlr1n_Jnnx6dfdWyo0DzLrB3_0mE-i5P9_ObJCGFuv99U6xb-lVh5RAilc5gJHBVxfwSX4ZZ3a5_dB9HIIWC_0yct8OA/s1600/download.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><p>So there I was, looking at the sunset, seeking coffee, driving around Parker, Colorado, listening to <b><a href="http://www.elviscostello.info/wiki/index.php/Spanish_Model">Spanish Model</a></b> (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.</p><p>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". </p><p>None.</p><p>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. </p><p>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... </p><p>And there is this beautiful sunset, and Elvis Costello, and coffee.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5ibj87fwRaM" width="320" youtube-src-id="5ibj87fwRaM"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-27214346281917362882022-08-12T07:10:00.004-07:002022-08-12T08:41:04.895-07:00GROOVING LIFE'S DETECTIVES<p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvi6bNe3jGyNw7eZKGyIMnqE4IuENd2Rb9LeX3VwIcNyiFwP19KlpRTtjGev-OrynxNg64FQ9LATvn204DVjzCpgoaq38CwO-Ct6STgCGx1CBG54Y59-TDBMvvX8UZinv2Krw57Px3mwejOlhkfn_Vt5l18ZH-mWdvVjpi4xCtCPoVn0ZM8D_YzJoANw/s4032/EAA2C1B0-9E15-4E9F-86DE-42B09208BB7A.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvi6bNe3jGyNw7eZKGyIMnqE4IuENd2Rb9LeX3VwIcNyiFwP19KlpRTtjGev-OrynxNg64FQ9LATvn204DVjzCpgoaq38CwO-Ct6STgCGx1CBG54Y59-TDBMvvX8UZinv2Krw57Px3mwejOlhkfn_Vt5l18ZH-mWdvVjpi4xCtCPoVn0ZM8D_YzJoANw/s320/EAA2C1B0-9E15-4E9F-86DE-42B09208BB7A.heic" width="320" /></a></div><p>It was worth the wait. </p><p>Not that I don't wish I had seen him often.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>'Twas most groovy.</p><p>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). </p><p>What I dug, what got me excited, was the joy, the danger, and hunger on stage.</p><p>The fact that he wasn't fucking around. </p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_r8BMpFhInCK47LaFYSlgLuW9qFEndSVZ8cBOgALHEW5ttaGyNawoZQjvIQULt1b8Vez-usfKLMevwvYioGzsPY6pJgyRIoMyyneJaresII8U2K6F1c3URaLcsUNpdOgrB5zf7fgGcyy0kszp9ibQs8z8mYxxJC9GUL3Ga4ElQYaLpoD7xmLXlLMzLg/s299/download-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_r8BMpFhInCK47LaFYSlgLuW9qFEndSVZ8cBOgALHEW5ttaGyNawoZQjvIQULt1b8Vez-usfKLMevwvYioGzsPY6pJgyRIoMyyneJaresII8U2K6F1c3URaLcsUNpdOgrB5zf7fgGcyy0kszp9ibQs8z8mYxxJC9GUL3Ga4ElQYaLpoD7xmLXlLMzLg/s1600/download-1.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>And that is how it is today, here in the greatest city in the world.</p><p>Here's a song. It's Watching the Detectives, live.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K--POHTLGY0" width="320" youtube-src-id="K--POHTLGY0"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7891430757253929065.post-27345117486962972942022-07-29T07:15:00.002-07:002022-07-29T07:15:18.521-07:00I WRITE WHILE THE WORLD BURNS. AM I NERO?<p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsljW_CHuHCIkcNeeVsIBETMpqdU3XhRGeRu5A0uQyaZgTLz4hIdzwN_L_YJ_mCI-QOLDoPELTISAYYd4OUPuEgtgA3d4i-dmQUGqQV-SsjF3dkHcXsRp5snEtwufRWBRO6ODfvU5dvxLXydY_vneIjMsy5xPNSZINmzm3wjqgevDq9wXwZ3_8ArQF7w/s263/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="263" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsljW_CHuHCIkcNeeVsIBETMpqdU3XhRGeRu5A0uQyaZgTLz4hIdzwN_L_YJ_mCI-QOLDoPELTISAYYd4OUPuEgtgA3d4i-dmQUGqQV-SsjF3dkHcXsRp5snEtwufRWBRO6ODfvU5dvxLXydY_vneIjMsy5xPNSZINmzm3wjqgevDq9wXwZ3_8ArQF7w/s1600/download.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><p>And I write.</p><p>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". </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>I write as the world burns so I can deal with the fact that the world is burning. </p><p>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. </p><p>That can't be good.</p><p>A lot of people still steadfastly support the Orange One, like deranged, damaged lemmings. </p><p>Also not good.</p><p>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.</p><p>Not only is it a good story, it helps me. Gives me hope. </p><p>Hope is the other thing with feathers.</p><p>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.</p><p>Yes, I follow structure and infuse it with humor and action and all those things Aristotle thought made a good story. </p><p>But mainly, I fill it with my soul.</p><p>Here's a song. It's Soul Man by The Blues Brothers.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FTWH1Fdkjow" width="320" youtube-src-id="FTWH1Fdkjow"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robert Kelly McAllisterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14946781256245104588noreply@blogger.com1