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

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

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

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

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

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

Strange.

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

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

Coincidence, or fate? Qui sait?

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

Long indeed.

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

One of life's "So Anyway" friends. 

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

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

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

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

Then it's time for Banned. 

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

We don't let it get us down. 

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

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

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

And then sleep. 

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

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

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

I COULD AND HAVE GONE CRAZY ON A DAY LIKE TODAY.

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. 

It's here now. In Eigg. In Burning the Old Man. In the Infinite Hallway. And I raise my cup of coffee to it with glee.

I am going with the flow, and consequently reaching my flow, my zone, my place.

Maybe it kicked into high gear the the Austin Film Festival, when I got pulled up in front of hundreds of fellow writers for a live recording of ScriptNotes 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.

Jesus, I am in love with myself, aren't I?

Well, why not? I think I love the Vibe in me, not me in the Vibe, so karmically speaking, I should be ok.

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."

But that hasn't happened yet. 

No. I keep connecting, with myself, with my cast, my crew, my friends, my wife, and the universe in general.

This feeling is always a surprise to me. A miracle. A gift. 

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."

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.

But I don't see the point in bemoaning our fate. 

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. 

We need to get, and keep, our shit together.

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.

Man, I might as well get out a soap box, whatever that is, stand on it, and be a street preacher of some sort.

I don't mean to be didactic, but I somehow manage to be just that, often.

Sorry. 

I just feel so much energy and joy and love right now.

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. 

So be it.

May the photos and the Force be with you.

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. 

THOU MAYEST HOWL

Many, many moons ago I stood on a cliff with friends and howled at the end of summer. We were in Big Sur, and had all worked together at the Western Stage theatre company in Salinas. It was an intense time, in the best sense of the word. One of those times that sort of set the tone for how we would live our lives. I don't think anyone knew going in it would be that. We had simply auditioned for some shows. But life is like that. You walk into a room expecting one thing, and pow, something else happens. The big show we all worked on was a nine hour, three part adaptation of Steinbeck's East of Eden. If you haven't read the book, do. No spoilers here, other than it's beautiful and epic and funny and sad and uplifting. We worked our asses off, day and night. It was pretty much our existence. It filled out off hours, our few days off, our nights spent blowing off steam and talking about the show. And we all blended our souls in the process. We were one. And we were magic.

I think, to a certain degree, we are all going through a similar process right now. Our lives are dominated by one unifying event. It fills out days and nights, our conversations and our dreams. And it is shaping who we will be moving forward. I can, and do, call people I did Eden with, all these years later, and it is like no more than a few days have passed. Because we still have bits and pieces of each other inside of us. There are songs we sang, movies we saw, days at the beach, highs and lows, that attached themselves to our DNA. And isn't that what's happening now? Won't all of us, whether we watched it or not, have a gut reaction whenever the Tiger King is mentioned? Will any of us, ever, for the rest of our lives, look at someone wearing a surgical mask the same way we once did? The entire world has a stamp on it now. A bit of our souls are now infused with this time. And we are part of it too. And we howl. We listen to the Chimes at Midnight. There will be a a name for us, some Gen X or Millenial or Greatest Generation or Lost Generation moniker that will arrive, unbidden, from a surprising source. And it will fit, and that will be that.

One more thing. In East of Eden, there are two things I find relevant to life today. First, the line "life made to look beautiful to the weak and the foolish teaches nothing, cures nothing, and does not allow the heart to soar".  I have always found that to be so, ever since I first heard it. It resonates stronger than ever. Don't believe me? Turn on your television. The other thing is Timshel. It's an old word from the Bible. It means Thou Mayest. Here is the section from the original book. It's part of a conversaation between Samuel Hamilton and Lee, two of the greatest characters ever.

Do you remember when you read us the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis and we argued about them?” “I do indeed. And that’s a long time ago.” “Ten years nearly,” said Lee. “Well, the story bit deeply into me and I went into it word for word.

The more I thought about the story, the more profound it became to me. Then I compared the translations we have- and they were fairly close. There was only one place that bothered me. The King James version says this- it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says, ‘If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it was a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”

Do you remember when you read us the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis and we argued about them?” “I do indeed. And that’s a long time ago.” “Ten years nearly,” said Lee. “Well, the story bit deeply into me and I went into it word for word.

The more I thought about the story, the more profound it became to me. Then I compared the translations we have-and they were fairly close. There was only one place that bothered me. The King James version says this- it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says, ‘If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it was a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”

We have a choice. We choose how to respond to this crisis. 

Here's a song. It's Rafe Hollister singing Look Down that Lonesome Road.

And here's a bonus link of an interview I took part in about The Western Stage.

KEEP WRITING

The best- the only- advice a writers needs. Keep writing. All other ideas, advice, changes, breakthroughs, innovations, edits- the whole enchilada, if you will- only happen when you take that first bit of advice.

Read others people's stuff. Write in a journal. Cut the first two lines and the last two lines of each scene. Make sure the character has a flaw. Keep the pace moving.

Whatever.

Just keep writing. Nothing else really matters.

Even when you don't want to.

Especially when you don't want to.

After you have gone through all your excuses, your other things that must be done- walking the dog, watering the plants, calling that friend you haven't spoken to in years, checking the scores, rearranging the refrigerator.

Keep writing.

After you have read what you've got so far at least fifty times. After you've stared at the screen and gone into a sort of coma and snap out of it not sure where in the story you are, or if it is worth anything to anyone, ever in the history of time.

After you've asked friends, family, strangers, everyone in every social network you belong to and anyone else you can get a hold of to read it.

Keep writing.

Tom Wolfe once wrote that in a copy of Hooking Up for me. "Kelly, Keep Writing, Tom."

Taft Miller, the Teiresias of Salinas, was one of the most amazing people I ever knew. He was an actor, a director, a friend, a mystic- a force of nature who had gone blind shortly after I knew him and was quite ill, but always full of energy and life. He directed me in East of Eden. When I wrote a bunch of screeds about whatever was on my mind and called them "Memos from the Underground" and placed them, anonymously, in people's mail slots at The Western Stage, Taft was the only person who immediately knew it was me. And he dug it, told me to keep it up and asked if I needed any help with printing copies.

I loved Taft.

When I got word he was dying, I called his hospital room. Joyce, his lover and another amazing person I was very lucky to have in my life, got on the phone. She was crying, and Taft couldn't really talk- but I heard him in the background ask her who was on the line. "Kelly", she said. And I heard Taft say "Keep Writing".

Last words he said to me in this world.

Keep writing.

Keep keep keep writing.

Amen and hallelujah and amen again.

THE UNIVERSE IS COOL

It is. Things happen that make me think there is some sort of purpose, some hand that guides us on our journey from cradle to grave, a kind of fate if you will, that connects us all.

Like the force in Star Wars.

Do you capitalize the Force? Hmmm. Where's Obi Wan when you need him.

Anyway, I went down to Colorado Springs to see the Fine Arts Center's excellent production of Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men", directed by by Scott RC Levy. The show itself was fantastic- which is no surprise, based on the season so far. On a beautiful set, designed by Chris Sheley inspired by the art of Thomas Hart Benton (read more about it here) Levy tells a story of isolation and friendship that is alternately heart warming and heart breaking. Kent D. Burhnam plays the long suffering George, a farm hand down on his luck traveling with his friend Lennie, a man-child who happens to be very strong, played with the perfect mix of delicacy, innocence, and sadness by Logan Ernstthal. Burhham takes a no nonsense approach to the role of George, giving him a natural ease and making the final scene all the more tragic as a result.  Dean Steffen as Curley- a bully and a dandy with a Napoleon complex, is outstanding. Adrian Egolf, as Curly's lonely, flirtatious wife, takes a role that could easily be played as a stereo-type and makes us feel for her, even though she's trouble through and through. And Chris Devenport, as Crooks, practically steals the show in his scene with Lennie. His ease on stage, coupled with some truly dynamic vocal and physical work, is just excellent. If you are anywhere near Colorado Springs, you should go see this show. It's another gem offered up by Mr. Levy and company that shines.

What does this have to do with the Force and all that? Well, I'll tell you.

First off, Adrian Egolf, who plays Curly's wife, also happens to be starring in STRONG TEA, a short film written and directed by yours truly. I had already been planning on seeing Of Mice and Men before I found out that Adrian was in it. Second, at the show, as I read the program bios of the cast, I saw that Kent Burnham had worked at the Western Stage of Salinas, CA. A place I had worked several seasons as an actor, most notably as Adam/Aron in the world premiere, 9 hour trilogy of Steinbeck's East of Eden in 1992 and again in 1994. Something was trying to click in my little mind as I read that in   his bio. After the show, there was a talkback with the cast and director- and I asked Kent about his work at Western Stage- turns out he did the 2000 production of East of Eden, and played Adam/Aron as well. On top of that, we had hung out together a couple of times on the Lower East Side of NYC long ago. Weird, no? Well, maybe not weird, but cool.

Speaking of cool- please take a moment to check out the first trailer for my film- Adrian is the dark haired beauty. Devon James plays the blonde with the temper. And Tim McCracken, who plays the lead, was in the cast of East of Eden with me in 1992.

That's about it for now. Gotta keep on keeping on.

The Soul Is Like a Shark

There's a great scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen likens a relationship to a shark- if it doesn't keep moving, it dies. I think the same is true of our souls. We must keep moving, growing, trying new things- or we slump over and die, and join the living dead. Fortunately, this zombie-fication is not permanent, and there are many quasi- voo doo rituals that can restore us. A trip to India, planting flowers, learning a new language. The list is infinite and groovy and unique to each of us.

I ponder all this because of my buddy Jack, who is painting again, after many years. Hooray. He's even presenting some of his art to the public. Double Hooray. It's been something like fifteen years since he last delved into the waters, and I am vicariously thrilled.

Jack was my room mate many moons ago in the magic land of Salinas. Salinas? Si, Salinas. We lived the Bohemian life with our fellow room mate Greg- and we were always short on money but never short on inspiration. We would have parties- well, we kind approached life as a continual party. At any given time, you could find someone writing a poem, painting, making up an interpretive dance to Gershwin or Jane's Addiction.

On top of that, we were working on a three part, nine hour adaptation of Steinbeck's East of Eden at the Western Stage, which was one of the most amazing theatrical experiences of my life, so far. They were salad days in the salad bowl of the world, and we were all Caesars and Cleopatras. To put it simply, life was groovy.

So, life went on, we went on, and presto change-o, fifteen years go by and we're elsewhere, doing other things. And that's cool- but at the same time, it's become much easier to forget that life is for the living, that one must howl at the moon now and then, that the chimes of midnight demand to be heard. Somehow, we spend more time worrying and less time celebrating. And that's no good.

So Jack, who like all of us has had his share of ups and downs, of remembering and forgetting, has found his way back to creating something that expresses the mystery of existence.

And that gives me hope. It inspires me. It reminds me that we are all of us artists, that we all must keep our souls on the move, or close our eyes and stumble along towards oblivion.

Click on this: Jack : to see more on the show Jack is showing his stuff at.

And here is a poem I wrote in Bohemia:

EDEN (EAST)

Jim dropped the ball

on Greg

but then again

We all gathered in the dark

between the lights

My God

it was all so

huge

Every one of us

were in the Land of Nod

And in that filthy dirt

we reached

peace

communicated

For at least 9 hours

or maybe one act

Hard Times became

more

than just a song

and then

in the final approach

to what was death

We watched them all

stand

and cheer

as we

slowly

Walked into the grave

of a moment

that will never

never

come again