SOME DAYS ARE MAGIC

 

 

Some days are magic. Plain and simple. You usually don't realize it until after it's over, because you are too busy in Magic Land, learning secret dances and singing ancestral songs of madness and love you didn't know you knew. But later, you think back to the wonderous day that was, and say to yourself: that was a magic day.

At least, that's how it is for me.

I had one of those recently, and I'm going to try to tell you what is was like, if I can.

That's the thing about Magic Days. It's hard to convey to people who weren't there what it was like. All you can do is give inklings, sketches, partial memories.  Even so, you feel compelled to tell the world what is was like- because so much of life can be mundane and drab and sad and rough, when a day comes along and reminds you that being alive is a wonder in and of itself, you have to share it, even though you know it's impossible to share it completely. You have to- because that's part of being a human being.

I had read about Meow Wolf somewhere- I don't remember where. Just somewhere. And it sounded really cool. An interactive art installation in a converted bowling alley in Santa Fe, funded in part of whole- again, I don't remember- by George R. R. Martin (the dude who wrote the Game of Thrones books)- and what I read was something like "it's amazing and life affirming and numinous and ethereal". Or maybe that's just how I remember it being described now. Shortly after reading about it, one of my actors in Twelfth Night at Reel Kids told me he went and that it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. And this kid was not prone to exaggeration. And shortly after that, Lisa told me we were going to Madrid, New Mexico for my birthday. Madrid is right outside of Santa Fe. Some part of my brain- the smart part- thought "cool, now you can go to that Meow Wolf thing."

And we did.

And it was insane. In the good way.

How do I describe it? I can't. You go in, and the world implodes, explodes, shines, darkens, morphs, intensifies, and freaks you out. In the good way.

We walked into The House of Eternal Return- which is the name of the installation, Meow Wolf being the art collective that created it- and went on a journey. We went to the bottom of the ocean (or maybe it was the bottom of a fish tank and we were shrunk down); we explored a house where something strange and sad and unbelievable had happened; we walked into a refrigerator and found a path to a secret garden; we were transported to an ice cave where a glowing skeleton of I think a mastodon stood, and played it's ribs like a xylophone; we played Centipede in a throwback arcade that pulsed with color and power; we stood in the dark and touched beams of light that rewarded us with music; We pieced together a story of love and science and magic and wonder.

We became Universal Detectives.

After hours on the case, we took a break to get some green chile. We asked the powers that be if we could come back and take pictures. "We encourage that", was what they said. So we ate, came back, and took videos and pictures. And then found out there was a concert that night in the space. So we stayed for that, too. I was on the case during the first set, but during the second, this wild tribe band conglomerate known at Partizani Brass Band literally marched through the space, and we followed them to the performance area. And danced and became children.

Then Calliope Musicals came out.

Sometimes, you see a band perform, and right away, you know you are in for something special and new and personal and universal.  They rock, they roll, they sway your soul. The set they played was intense and real and sweet and savage.  Check them out HERE.

So. We entered the House of Eternal Return around 1pm. We left at 11pm. And we were different people. The magic worked, the doors of perception opened, and the journey continued.

Go. Go now. On your way, listen to Calliope Musicals.

Become a Universal Detective.

GET CAPE. WEAR CAPE. DANCE

Sometimes, you get to see a little magic in this life. Not all that often- but I suppose that's what makes it all the more wondrous when it occurs. I've been directing a week long theatre camp this past week, which will culminate in a performance of an hour long stage version of Harriet the Spy. The age group is kids going into third grade to kids going out of sixth grade. So there can be moments that are a little trying- like when one of the younger kids went on a half hour long crying jag after losing at a game called Mafia- a charming game of imagination involving murder, trial, and execution. But now and then, when I am teaching the younger artists of this world, something happens that makes it all worthwhile- makes me so happy to be alive in a world that has human beings in it. I got two such moments on Friday.

First moment. We were rehearsing a scene where Ole Golly is saying goodbye to Harriet. Old Golly is Harriet's nanny/friend/adviser/teacher. She lives with Harriet's family, and she loves Harriet and Harriet loves her, and it's one of those goodbye's in life that mark a turning point. We have the kid playing Harriet carrying these binoculars, because Harriet is a spy. Go figure. Anyway, in the scene, Ole Golly and Harriet recite their favorite poem together, then hug, then Ole Golly walks out of front door and out of Harriet's life. As Ole Golly walks away, we play a little music, Harriet watches her go, then turns and goes to her room and writes in her journal. But on Friday, out of the blue, as Ole Golly walks away, the girl playing Harriet watched Ole Golly go, then held up her binoculars and watched for longer- as if Harriet wanted to hold onto her time with Ole Golly as long as possible, and watch her walk down the street and into the distance. It was a little thing- a choice the actor made that was spontaneous and appropriate. But it touched me. Made me think, wow- that kid knows a thing or too about acting in the moment.



Second moment. As the day wore on- and it wore on! Tech rehearsals with young actors can be, are usually are, long and tedious. But at the end of this long day, we were practicing the scene shift into the final scene of the show. The shift takes almost a minute, and while it's happening, we have the stage in blue light and play this song, "Once More with Feeling", by a group called Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. The lights went blue, the song began- and the entire cast, with hive-mind like precision- all ran up onto the stage and starting dancing around, silently, to the music while the stage hands moved scenery. They looked like elves or something, half shadows flitting in and out of the deep blue. Their joy at being on the stage, dancing in the dark, was like a wave of joy that you could feel roll through the theatre.

We perform the show at 6pm tonight.

On other notes- my upcoming show APRIL'S FOOL, which is having it's world premiere at the New York International Fringe Festival this August. Being starving artists, we are raising funds for this show via Indiegogo- if you have a minute to spare, please to HERE and then follow, share, and/or contribute to the cause.

Or click here: http://igg.me/at/AprilsFool/x/3385268

And I wish you all some magic.

HOW TO SUCCEED

Last Thursday night, I wanted to explode. It was the final dress rehearsal for How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying at StageDoor Theatre in Conifer, and things were not going so well. The actors were forgetting their lines. The scene shifts were taking so long they felt like waiting in line at the DMV. The band was hitting a couple of clunkers. And the hardest working actor that night- a young man understudying the lead role of Finch who was set to perform opening night due to the tennis schedule of the other Finch- came down with some sort of virus and almost collapsed during "Brotherhood of Man", the big final number.  We had added twenty minutes to the show- not with new dialogue or bits of business. Just with delay. I really wanted to explode.

But things can, and do, get better.

The understudy Finch had to take the next night off. But the other Finch was available due to not going to State Finals- usually a sad thing but for the show, a godsend. Friday night, we opened. Things started to click. We erased the twenty minutes we had added to the show. The band played sublimely. The cast  got back into the groove of things. And the audience really liked it. By Saturday night, our Finch understudy was back in good health, relatively speaking, and wanted to go on. I looked him in the eye, and asked him is he felt ready. He said yes. It was up to me whether or not we let him perform. I decided to go with it, based on my gut. Something felt right. There was electricity in the air, or something like it. Some weird sort of energy was filling the theatre. I don't know why, but sometimes, in theatre, a strange magic happens. Maybe it happens everywhere, but being a theatre person, I have experienced this rare sorcery through the stage. For whatever reason- hard work, confidence, rehearsal, and/or a set of un-named theatre gods who smile down on us from time to time- there are certain performances and shows that go to this other place- a level of existence where everyone is psychically connected, where every member of the cast is fearless, inspired, and brilliant. Saturday night, How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying became one of those shows. Every single member of that cast took exponential leaps in their performances. I don't remember at exactly what moment I realized that something special was happening, because I was too busy enjoying the show, laughing and clapping and shouting along with the rest of the very enthusiastic crowd. But every time another cast member went the extra mile, it would inspire one of their fellow actors to take an equally daring leap of faith in both themselves and the show.

So now, the show has become one for the ages, one of those productions I will speak of fondly, and tell legends about, and refer to when directing other productions.

As my wife always says, leap and the net shall appear.