CAN'T STAND IN THE SHALLOWS

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

It is the only way to do it.

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

It is the only way to do it.

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

Very strange.

Like not breathing or being alive strange.

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

To which I say "fuck that". 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It boggles the mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to kick the shit out of it.

On a continual basis.

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

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

 

EIGHT O'CLOCK! THE LIBRARY IS CLOSED!

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

Sometimes, I get offended easily. 

This was one of those occasions.

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

We were a loud group. 

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

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

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

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

The clock ticked.

The hour to leave came.

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

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

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

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

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

This was around 8:02.

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

Same tone. Same urgency. 

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

We got to the door.

It was now the ungodly hour of 8:03.

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

I had to pee.

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

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

She walked swiftly towards us as she repeated her mantra.

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

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

And then I self righteously marched out.

I hate getting mad like that.

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

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

Ah well. 

Such is life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a rookie.

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

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

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

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

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

No.

That's not being a rookie.

That's being an asshole.

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

I feel like Stuart Smalley.

And that's okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOLLY, NO PRETENDER SHE

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

Happy Birthday, Holly, in Heaven.

And I think to myself: well, shit. 

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

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

And also forever ago.

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

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

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

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

I got asked back again, and Holly followed. 

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

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

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

And we were ecstatic. 

Holly beamed with pride. 

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

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

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

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

The joy.

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

And cherish it. 

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

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

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

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

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

A TRINITY OF LUNATICS

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

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

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

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

I think the latter.

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

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

None.

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

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

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

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

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

GROOVING LIFE'S DETECTIVES

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

It was worth the wait. 

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

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

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

'Twas most groovy.

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

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

The fact that he wasn't fucking around. 

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

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

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

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

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

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