It's been a week since the end of the Fringe Festival. My Mom has moved back to Idaho, I completely failed to meet up with my online buddy Nina during her visit up here, we secured at least one musician to work on RadioStar episodes, dates for the return of Vagina Dentata have been re-established again, there was a Guy's night, I saw Cassidy and Chris H. in a show, hung with Rachel Efron, had a blind date and had a spontaneous brunch with Eden, Angela, Tristan, Oliver, and Joseph. I also backed out of a show that I had agreed to do.
I had been approached to audition for a local company that I have no real history with, and the role was a small one. I figured that it'd be good to work with them, and the role was so small that I forsaw about three to four rehearsals and the run throughs as the totality of the schedule. What I got was well over half my month consumed by the project. I just couldn't do it. I had a fight for flight reaction so strong that I could think of little else for 24 hours. I'd never backed out of a project after being cast, though... although I was no stranger to the experience from the other side of the table.
I needed to protect my time though, and my sanity. I have been more and more aware over the last few weeks of all the wonderful people in my life that I spend too little time with. I don't want to back away at all from my projects, but I want balance and the scales have been dangerously tipped for most of this year.
This doesn't necessarily mean that I'll be any less busy for the next few months. There's a project on the horizon that will be fun, but will also require minimal work to prepare (and it won't be all me). With bringing musicians on board, we need to get several shows prepped in advance so that the musicians can score them and that means a bit of a crunch now. But Chris DeJong and Brian Shirmer are coming aboard to edit shows as well, so it shouldn't be long before we have a good month's worth of shows ready for music and we can focus more on promoting the podcast rather than crunching away on editing them.
The novel still languishes, but I am hoping that once the episodes are caught up, I can spend time polishing up scripts and working on the book. I don't mind being busy, as long as I can move things around as needed and see loved ones when I want to (and when they are available). That's the positive aspect of editing and writing instead of rehearsing and performing... I'm more in control of the when and where of the process.
Which is why I'm sitting in my favorite pub, eating a good meal, using their wireless, chatting with friends on IM and getting ready to go to RadioStar.
Hope you all are having as good a Sunday!
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
considering rewrites
I’ve never had much fear about putting my stuff before the public. I’ve met a lot of people who write, but are quite adamant about not showing it to anyone. That’s always baffled me. Art, to me, seems a thing that is to be shared. It’s part of its very nature. I only really understood it in the sense that one’s art is so close to who they are as a person that they feared it being judged. As the art is judged, so is the person. Now, in truth, most of the people doing the judging aren’t thinking in those terms. But as an artist, it feels like someone looking into your soul and, possibly, giving it an “eh”, or even worse, unleashing their disdain upon it.
Still, I never really had that fear of judgment. Again and again, I’ve just put my stuff in front of audiences and seen what response I got. Of course, when people have issues with it, and you’re right in front of them, they tend to be rather polite and they think through their critiques before unleashing them. If they don’t like certain things, or have opinions that are less than flattering, they couch their thoughts in a way that invites dialogue and discussion.
So, the anonymous reviews on the Fringe website have been a bit of a stunner to me. I was afraid of getting blasted by the papers, and indeed the Guardian and the Weekly may still prove unkind. But the Chronicle was honest, but supportive in a way I was pretty happy with. The reviewer felt the script needed some work, but generally enjoyed the show and seemed to get what I was doing. But some of the reviews I’ve gotten from audience members, either completely anonymous or leaving only a rather generic first name, have been… well, wrathful. Absolute and utter hate and anger towards the show.
I’ve always been fine with people having issues with my stories, and I knew that I was taking some big risks with this particular piece. Hell, I wrote it with the express intent of taking chances. But I wasn’t expecting people to hate it so much.
What seems to be the point of contention, though, is that I refuse to define the “it” that “Get it?” is about. That was rather the point of the piece: the indefinable thing that we’re all striving for, but that is always eluding us. Happiness, faith, hope, joy, contentment, serenity, peace… no matter what you try to define it as, once you start looking at your definition it seems lacking. And yet, we’re all trying to fill that void, that emptiness, with something. Very few of us, if any of us, are able to articulate what exactly it is that drives our actions. It is this inability articulate, this enigmatic aspect to “what are we striving for anyway?” that the piece is about… and that seems to be the big complaint.
From a writer’s standpoint, my failure seems to have been to think that the audience would “get” that. I don’t like to come right out and say the point of a story, because I feel like it should be imparted inference and allusion whenever possible. I don’t like being hit over the head with “the moral of the story”. My third act of “411” almost had the same problem as “Get it?”, but various readers told me outright that I needed to be clearer so that the audience could follow along. I didn’t get that kind of feedback from anyone on this piece until we were in the rehearsal process, and that was from some of my actors who were having difficulty making specific internal choices. I wasn’t in a place where I could hear it, because it would have meant re-writing the piece.
People who have talked to me face to face about the script seem to think that it just needs another draft. Reducing characters perhaps, and clarifying what is going on a bit. I get feedback about the number of characters being overwhelming, as the audience is having a hard enough time sorting it all out, when someone totally new comes on stage. It’s hard though, to think of cutting any of these characters out. Doing so would mean a complete rewrite. But perhaps that would indeed be in order.
From an author’s standpoint, it creates very hard choices. Who would go? Stim and Franco? My comic relief? My Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Hamburg, my distraught perfectionist seeker? Without him, there is no journey. If Stim and Franco make the journey, then what does that do to the play? Take out Jasmine, Bosko and Gino, and there is no journey to take. Take out Felix and Kippi, and there is no reason for the journey in the first place.
The answer, if there is one, may lay not in reducing but expanding. Take this half hour piece that moves like a freight train through the existential dilemma, and give the relationships more time to develop. Slow the pace down, and lay more clues for the audience. Above all, define the indefinable just enough so that there is a hook for the mind to hang on.
People liked “Got it” and seem to like the beginning of “Good!” although they seem split on the last half of it. It may just be that “Got it.” Is its own piece. It is laden with references to “Get it”, but that could be remedied. Simply writing a series of comedy sketches with these characters and placing “Got it.” In the midst of those would allow it to thrive in more fertile soil.
“Good!” may transform into one of those sketches. It may even split into two different bits.
In this way, I could keep what I love about all the pieces, without sacrificing anything but their initial unity. I might even be able to pare “Got it” and “good” into a smaller cast and make the show something that could travel to other festivals. (which, with an 8 person cast, the current show could never do.)
This will be a good project for me to tackle, before diving back into the novel and the rewrites on "Vagina Dentata". I’m still sorry that those two people hated the show as much as they did, but they have helped move me to something that has more potential. And after all, my own characters argue that “politeness is pointless.”
Still, I never really had that fear of judgment. Again and again, I’ve just put my stuff in front of audiences and seen what response I got. Of course, when people have issues with it, and you’re right in front of them, they tend to be rather polite and they think through their critiques before unleashing them. If they don’t like certain things, or have opinions that are less than flattering, they couch their thoughts in a way that invites dialogue and discussion.
So, the anonymous reviews on the Fringe website have been a bit of a stunner to me. I was afraid of getting blasted by the papers, and indeed the Guardian and the Weekly may still prove unkind. But the Chronicle was honest, but supportive in a way I was pretty happy with. The reviewer felt the script needed some work, but generally enjoyed the show and seemed to get what I was doing. But some of the reviews I’ve gotten from audience members, either completely anonymous or leaving only a rather generic first name, have been… well, wrathful. Absolute and utter hate and anger towards the show.
I’ve always been fine with people having issues with my stories, and I knew that I was taking some big risks with this particular piece. Hell, I wrote it with the express intent of taking chances. But I wasn’t expecting people to hate it so much.
What seems to be the point of contention, though, is that I refuse to define the “it” that “Get it?” is about. That was rather the point of the piece: the indefinable thing that we’re all striving for, but that is always eluding us. Happiness, faith, hope, joy, contentment, serenity, peace… no matter what you try to define it as, once you start looking at your definition it seems lacking. And yet, we’re all trying to fill that void, that emptiness, with something. Very few of us, if any of us, are able to articulate what exactly it is that drives our actions. It is this inability articulate, this enigmatic aspect to “what are we striving for anyway?” that the piece is about… and that seems to be the big complaint.
From a writer’s standpoint, my failure seems to have been to think that the audience would “get” that. I don’t like to come right out and say the point of a story, because I feel like it should be imparted inference and allusion whenever possible. I don’t like being hit over the head with “the moral of the story”. My third act of “411” almost had the same problem as “Get it?”, but various readers told me outright that I needed to be clearer so that the audience could follow along. I didn’t get that kind of feedback from anyone on this piece until we were in the rehearsal process, and that was from some of my actors who were having difficulty making specific internal choices. I wasn’t in a place where I could hear it, because it would have meant re-writing the piece.
People who have talked to me face to face about the script seem to think that it just needs another draft. Reducing characters perhaps, and clarifying what is going on a bit. I get feedback about the number of characters being overwhelming, as the audience is having a hard enough time sorting it all out, when someone totally new comes on stage. It’s hard though, to think of cutting any of these characters out. Doing so would mean a complete rewrite. But perhaps that would indeed be in order.
From an author’s standpoint, it creates very hard choices. Who would go? Stim and Franco? My comic relief? My Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Hamburg, my distraught perfectionist seeker? Without him, there is no journey. If Stim and Franco make the journey, then what does that do to the play? Take out Jasmine, Bosko and Gino, and there is no journey to take. Take out Felix and Kippi, and there is no reason for the journey in the first place.
The answer, if there is one, may lay not in reducing but expanding. Take this half hour piece that moves like a freight train through the existential dilemma, and give the relationships more time to develop. Slow the pace down, and lay more clues for the audience. Above all, define the indefinable just enough so that there is a hook for the mind to hang on.
People liked “Got it” and seem to like the beginning of “Good!” although they seem split on the last half of it. It may just be that “Got it.” Is its own piece. It is laden with references to “Get it”, but that could be remedied. Simply writing a series of comedy sketches with these characters and placing “Got it.” In the midst of those would allow it to thrive in more fertile soil.
“Good!” may transform into one of those sketches. It may even split into two different bits.
In this way, I could keep what I love about all the pieces, without sacrificing anything but their initial unity. I might even be able to pare “Got it” and “good” into a smaller cast and make the show something that could travel to other festivals. (which, with an 8 person cast, the current show could never do.)
This will be a good project for me to tackle, before diving back into the novel and the rewrites on "Vagina Dentata". I’m still sorry that those two people hated the show as much as they did, but they have helped move me to something that has more potential. And after all, my own characters argue that “politeness is pointless.”
Sunday, September 10, 2006
First reviews
Tonight is our second night, and reviews are starting to come in. the Chronicle seems to have largely liked it, although the review feels that (like most Fringe shows) it's under-developed. I've only gotten one audience review from someone who absolutely hated the piece. I've had a lot of verbal compliments, and people who quite liked the show and enjoyed the mental stimulant of unresolved identification... but I don't want to dismiss the critiques at all. Indeed, some of the actors had the same conerns that my unknown angry audience member did. I don't think I'd change it, as the entire point was to literalize an existential and spiritual issue.
All creative endeavors are open to varying responses, and it's good not to let responses on either end of the taste spectrum get to you. New works are even more prone to this. After all, I had never heard the play read aloud before last month. Minor tweaks and changes have taken place, but even then, by that point, I was not prepared to make any major changes to the script.
When we bring back Vagina Dentata, it will incorporate several things I learned doing it before a live audience, and things are cut and things are changed. It's still 95% the same play, but better. "Get it? Got it. Good!" was even more of an experiment, so it's fitting that it's getting even more of a varied reaction. I'll re-examine it, to be sure. But I don't know that it will ever be the kind of theatre that is for "everyone".
All creative endeavors are open to varying responses, and it's good not to let responses on either end of the taste spectrum get to you. New works are even more prone to this. After all, I had never heard the play read aloud before last month. Minor tweaks and changes have taken place, but even then, by that point, I was not prepared to make any major changes to the script.
When we bring back Vagina Dentata, it will incorporate several things I learned doing it before a live audience, and things are cut and things are changed. It's still 95% the same play, but better. "Get it? Got it. Good!" was even more of an experiment, so it's fitting that it's getting even more of a varied reaction. I'll re-examine it, to be sure. But I don't know that it will ever be the kind of theatre that is for "everyone".
Friday, September 08, 2006
opened
We opened the show last night. Thanks to everyone who came out for opening. I know that Jennifer Jajeh, Suraya Keating, Christopher DeJong, Ann Spayer, Diana Brown, Stacy Marshall, Claudia Weeks, Eleanor Reinholdt, Brian Schirmer, Tom Kelly and Rob Avila where out there. Your support is greatly, greatly appreciated.
It was our first time on the actual stage, working with lights, and we were doing it in front of a very respectably sized opening night fringe audience. That's a terrifying thing. Our light operator had never seen the show before. We had never run the show with her to be sure that she'd be able to make the cues in time (she did!). I added a sound cue that afternoon, and I had assigned myself a voice over role, so in addition to calling the show, watching it like a nervous father, and running a couple of sound cues... I was performing as well.
Now, I don't get nervous before shows... at least not much. But as we approached my "appearance" I found that my hands were shaking. I am fairly certain that I rushed my lines a bit, although the bit still worked. It was almost like stage fright, which is an affliction I've been spared up until now.
Afterwards, I was amped for about 45 minutes before my heart finally slowed down and the "runner's high" faded.
We have three shows left, but now we all know that we can do it... and that the show works.
Hopefully my hands won't be shaking on Sunday night.
It was our first time on the actual stage, working with lights, and we were doing it in front of a very respectably sized opening night fringe audience. That's a terrifying thing. Our light operator had never seen the show before. We had never run the show with her to be sure that she'd be able to make the cues in time (she did!). I added a sound cue that afternoon, and I had assigned myself a voice over role, so in addition to calling the show, watching it like a nervous father, and running a couple of sound cues... I was performing as well.
Now, I don't get nervous before shows... at least not much. But as we approached my "appearance" I found that my hands were shaking. I am fairly certain that I rushed my lines a bit, although the bit still worked. It was almost like stage fright, which is an affliction I've been spared up until now.
Afterwards, I was amped for about 45 minutes before my heart finally slowed down and the "runner's high" faded.
We have three shows left, but now we all know that we can do it... and that the show works.
Hopefully my hands won't be shaking on Sunday night.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Time Warp
I’ve been going through my photo library lately. I got a free Flickr account, and have been going through my iPhoto, naming images, fixing erroneous dates, and uploading particular favorites.
I’ve been focusing largely on pictures taken from the 2004 Europe vacation, when I spent a month in the U.K. and France with Oliver, Elyse, Angela, Alexis, and Elizabeth. I took a lot of pictures, and Angela took enough, that I look like a slacker in comparison. She’s an excellent photographer, and has a camera that suits her skills. (I went out and bought a new camera after that trip, amazed at how we could take shots of the exact same thing, but hers look brighter and sharper by a very noticeable degree.
And so, my mind has been very much with these five people as I look at pictures and pick particular ones to share with the wider world.
I don’t dwell much on the past, but I marveled that it had been two years since the trip. Two years, in which so much had happened. And yet, we had done so little as a group in those two years. Each of us has been following our passions and checking in with each other when possible, but infrequently enough that each gathering feels like an “event” unto itself.
I went to go and see one of the RadioStar guest artists, Julie Kurtz, in “Comedy of Errors” in San Leandro on Saturday. After the show, I was approached by another member of the audience. “I think we did a show together”, she said. She didn’t initially look familiar, but then she mentioned the name of the Neil Simon show that marked my return to theatre when I came back to California. “Leslie?” I replied. I hadn’t seen her in a good six or seven years, and to say that it blew my mind would be an understatement. We talked for a bit, and I gave her a card for the upcoming show. It felt like nothing so much as a brush with my past.
Afterwards, Julie and I got a drink and some food and got into a lengthy conversation about life, art, and faith issues. Julie is a Christian, which is a lonely thing to be in the San Francsico theatre scene. I was amazed at my own mind as I pulled thoughts and observations and historical details from my mind that had no relevance to my ongoing existence, and surely bored her castmates terribly. It many ways, it felt like I was tapping into an old version of myself, something that had been largely overwritten, but still remained under the existing code.
The conversation was engaging enough that I completely missed getting to Berkeley to catch a ride with Suraya to watch her production of “Comedy of Errors”, which I will now watch on Friday. I felt terrible about it, but before Julie and her “Antipholus” were able to drag me off to watch “Merchant of Venice”, I got a phone call from Alexis, who was in the area and interested in some time together.
So a mistake on my part allowed me to spend time with someone I see entirely too infrequently. We walked the lake and talked while I noticed, and not for the first time, the inexpressible beauty of this place I live in. We walked among the feral cats and the wild geese that live around the lake. The water reflected the moon, and the strings of lights that rim the shore year-round. I don’t walk the lake enough, I thought. We so often go elsewhere, and forget to look at the beauty right in our own backyards.
I got a call from Eric Rath as well, letting me know that Angela was in the hospital. He was very good to let me know immediately that she was fine, but was wondering if I wanted to go and visit her the next day. I most definitely did, so we arranged to meet up the next morning. The time came, and Eric wasn’t ready to go, so I took my houseguest out to brunch. Since my cell phone had the ringer off, I managed to miss his return call at noon, and we didn’t actually leave until well after 2:30 to head out to Concord to see her.
Now, I generally only go to the East Bay to see Angela, and it’s always a somewhat odd experience for me. I lived in Pleasant Hill from the age of five to nineteen, and going back there always feels like playing in my childhood sandbox. Part of me has always had a discomfort around the idea of coming across someone who knew and remembered me from my highly religious period. I consider myself quite the heretic now a days, and while I no longer follow the tenets of Evangelical Christianity, I have no real desire to enter into confrontation with people who I have loved who would be deeply saddened and disappointed by my current direction in life.
But here I came with Eric, into the suburban womb that I had once dwelt so comfortably in. Angela was staying in the Concord campus of John Muir Hospital, and I didn’t put two and two together until we pulled into the parking lot. The last time I had been here, was when my Dad had suffered one of the most significant heart attacks before the one that took his life. A wash of emotion hit me, and I felt a bit shaken as we pulled in and walked up to the hospital. The waiting room seemed populated with the shades of my mother and brother, waiting nervously for news of my father’s surgery. We walked quickly through them, however, and headed up to Angela’s room.
As we visited Angela, I thought of Alexis, and all of our shared time together, and how odd it was that Jesus would have admonished us to visit the sick, as if it where a thing that needed urging. To be with those we love in times of adversity seems like something that needs not be encouraged, although I suppose the truly saintly are those who would make it their practice to visit those who lack a supportive community.
But what truly blew my mind was our exit from the hospital. As we emerged from the elevators and turned towards the exit, I saw a face I have not seen for a good fifteen years. As I turned the corner, across the waiting area, and the reception area, in almost silhouette was one of my dear high school friends… and I could not remember her last name. Even from that considerable distance, I recognized her face immediately. “God, is that Kris?” I thought. As we prepared to pass each other, I called out her name and she looked at me, blinking once or twice before the voice and face registered. “Dan?”
The last place you want to run into an old friend is in the lobby of a hospital. On a beach in Fiji, perhaps, or the party of a friend who you never knew was mutual… but in a hospital waiting room? She was there for her own crisis, and we passed a few surprised pleasantries before Eric and I exited and she and her fiancée entered.
Still, as I got in the car and Eric took us back to Oakland, I found myself drowning in memories. Two years ago with Angela and Alexis, dear friends undergoing very different trials, but who I had been allowed to spend time with. Five years ago, with my father’s surgery. Seven years ago with Leslie, who was present at the beginnings of my own artistic rebirth. And finally fifteen years ago, with someone who embodied my entire high school experience.
Eric dropped me off and I got on BART. It was time for RadioStar’s recording session. The present demanded my attention.
I’ve been focusing largely on pictures taken from the 2004 Europe vacation, when I spent a month in the U.K. and France with Oliver, Elyse, Angela, Alexis, and Elizabeth. I took a lot of pictures, and Angela took enough, that I look like a slacker in comparison. She’s an excellent photographer, and has a camera that suits her skills. (I went out and bought a new camera after that trip, amazed at how we could take shots of the exact same thing, but hers look brighter and sharper by a very noticeable degree.
And so, my mind has been very much with these five people as I look at pictures and pick particular ones to share with the wider world.
I don’t dwell much on the past, but I marveled that it had been two years since the trip. Two years, in which so much had happened. And yet, we had done so little as a group in those two years. Each of us has been following our passions and checking in with each other when possible, but infrequently enough that each gathering feels like an “event” unto itself.
I went to go and see one of the RadioStar guest artists, Julie Kurtz, in “Comedy of Errors” in San Leandro on Saturday. After the show, I was approached by another member of the audience. “I think we did a show together”, she said. She didn’t initially look familiar, but then she mentioned the name of the Neil Simon show that marked my return to theatre when I came back to California. “Leslie?” I replied. I hadn’t seen her in a good six or seven years, and to say that it blew my mind would be an understatement. We talked for a bit, and I gave her a card for the upcoming show. It felt like nothing so much as a brush with my past.
Afterwards, Julie and I got a drink and some food and got into a lengthy conversation about life, art, and faith issues. Julie is a Christian, which is a lonely thing to be in the San Francsico theatre scene. I was amazed at my own mind as I pulled thoughts and observations and historical details from my mind that had no relevance to my ongoing existence, and surely bored her castmates terribly. It many ways, it felt like I was tapping into an old version of myself, something that had been largely overwritten, but still remained under the existing code.
The conversation was engaging enough that I completely missed getting to Berkeley to catch a ride with Suraya to watch her production of “Comedy of Errors”, which I will now watch on Friday. I felt terrible about it, but before Julie and her “Antipholus” were able to drag me off to watch “Merchant of Venice”, I got a phone call from Alexis, who was in the area and interested in some time together.
So a mistake on my part allowed me to spend time with someone I see entirely too infrequently. We walked the lake and talked while I noticed, and not for the first time, the inexpressible beauty of this place I live in. We walked among the feral cats and the wild geese that live around the lake. The water reflected the moon, and the strings of lights that rim the shore year-round. I don’t walk the lake enough, I thought. We so often go elsewhere, and forget to look at the beauty right in our own backyards.
I got a call from Eric Rath as well, letting me know that Angela was in the hospital. He was very good to let me know immediately that she was fine, but was wondering if I wanted to go and visit her the next day. I most definitely did, so we arranged to meet up the next morning. The time came, and Eric wasn’t ready to go, so I took my houseguest out to brunch. Since my cell phone had the ringer off, I managed to miss his return call at noon, and we didn’t actually leave until well after 2:30 to head out to Concord to see her.
Now, I generally only go to the East Bay to see Angela, and it’s always a somewhat odd experience for me. I lived in Pleasant Hill from the age of five to nineteen, and going back there always feels like playing in my childhood sandbox. Part of me has always had a discomfort around the idea of coming across someone who knew and remembered me from my highly religious period. I consider myself quite the heretic now a days, and while I no longer follow the tenets of Evangelical Christianity, I have no real desire to enter into confrontation with people who I have loved who would be deeply saddened and disappointed by my current direction in life.
But here I came with Eric, into the suburban womb that I had once dwelt so comfortably in. Angela was staying in the Concord campus of John Muir Hospital, and I didn’t put two and two together until we pulled into the parking lot. The last time I had been here, was when my Dad had suffered one of the most significant heart attacks before the one that took his life. A wash of emotion hit me, and I felt a bit shaken as we pulled in and walked up to the hospital. The waiting room seemed populated with the shades of my mother and brother, waiting nervously for news of my father’s surgery. We walked quickly through them, however, and headed up to Angela’s room.
As we visited Angela, I thought of Alexis, and all of our shared time together, and how odd it was that Jesus would have admonished us to visit the sick, as if it where a thing that needed urging. To be with those we love in times of adversity seems like something that needs not be encouraged, although I suppose the truly saintly are those who would make it their practice to visit those who lack a supportive community.
But what truly blew my mind was our exit from the hospital. As we emerged from the elevators and turned towards the exit, I saw a face I have not seen for a good fifteen years. As I turned the corner, across the waiting area, and the reception area, in almost silhouette was one of my dear high school friends… and I could not remember her last name. Even from that considerable distance, I recognized her face immediately. “God, is that Kris?” I thought. As we prepared to pass each other, I called out her name and she looked at me, blinking once or twice before the voice and face registered. “Dan?”
The last place you want to run into an old friend is in the lobby of a hospital. On a beach in Fiji, perhaps, or the party of a friend who you never knew was mutual… but in a hospital waiting room? She was there for her own crisis, and we passed a few surprised pleasantries before Eric and I exited and she and her fiancée entered.
Still, as I got in the car and Eric took us back to Oakland, I found myself drowning in memories. Two years ago with Angela and Alexis, dear friends undergoing very different trials, but who I had been allowed to spend time with. Five years ago, with my father’s surgery. Seven years ago with Leslie, who was present at the beginnings of my own artistic rebirth. And finally fifteen years ago, with someone who embodied my entire high school experience.
Eric dropped me off and I got on BART. It was time for RadioStar’s recording session. The present demanded my attention.
Friday, September 01, 2006
time off?
I've been luxuriating in the idea that after September 15th, closing night for "Get it? Got it. Good!", I have nothing other than RadioStar Improv scheduled. Ah, months of comparative relaxation. Everyone just laughs at me and says "that's not going to last."
I know it won't, but at least for a bit I won't be running around, right?
I got an email today asking if I wanted to audition for a show at the end of the month. Performances are in November.
Of course, I agreed. It's a cast I'd like to work with, so if the script is any good.. why not? It isn't like I *really* thought I'd have six months off.
I know it won't, but at least for a bit I won't be running around, right?
I got an email today asking if I wanted to audition for a show at the end of the month. Performances are in November.
Of course, I agreed. It's a cast I'd like to work with, so if the script is any good.. why not? It isn't like I *really* thought I'd have six months off.
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