The Riddle of the Sphynx

"We thought this was going to be about Egypt."

That's not a quote from a movie. That's one of the reactions we received this weekend from the thirty-odd senior women of Scranton who attended the reading of

the play

which is the namesake of today's 'blogination. Instead of being a history of the famous statue, the play was inspired in large part by the riddle the Sphynx (or Sphinx, but never Sfinks) poses to the people of Thebes before using their failure to answer it as an excuse to slaughter excessive amounts of ancient Greeks. ("Wot...is your favorite color?" "Blue. NO, YELLOOOOOOOO...." [There's your movie quote.]) Said riddle being:

What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening?

And the answer is, naturally: Ya' momma.

'Twas a goodly weekend, and 'tdid start practically Friday midday with my commute to the Bronx to begin anew the filmmaking classes at Validus Academy. The spirit in the school was bright and eager, and all we were doing was announcing and describing our class to the students so they'd have a better idea what to sign up for. Thus leaving earlier than usual, I had plenty of time to stop by work to get and deposit my check for the week before high-tailin' in to Penn Station to catch the train to

Port Jervis

, riding with Friend Heather and possibly-newly-acquired-friend

Greg Fletcher

, the playwright.

The weekend was just what the doctor ordered. I knew I was hungry for stage time, but in spite of my griping these

past weeks

I somehow underestimated just how badly I needed it. We didn't do much with the reading, just sat semi-circle and read, and my part, though significant to the story, was not overloaded with lines. Yet performing the thing made all the hassle of the trip out, the preternatural cold of northern Pennsylvania, the junk food, etc., quickly meld into contributions to the bliss of reading lines, of playing a character. It was just a reading of a play in development. Still, it did the trick, and today I feel alive again. How do I forget so easily what that feeling is until I have it again?

Part of what was wonderful about the weekend--a huge part--was the warm sense of family I receive every time I go out to Scranton and play my part for

TNT

's modest notoriety. It's like a homecoming, without all the actual family angst and urgent self-examination. I know my way there, and everything I do makes sense and has some sense of purpose to it. Perhaps this is because it always contains some aspect of vacation--being away from my daily concerns, socializing as part of every place I am, etc. (I can hear Patrick frustratedly [yet playfully] barking: "Like that's a bad thing?!") Certainly our activities whilst not in rehearsal or performance were very recreational. Hedonistic, in one regard. Saturday night we sat and watched the entire season of a Canadian (Canada=hedonism) television series. It was something David and Heather had been specifically wanting to do

with me

since they happened upon the series about a month ago.

Slings and Arrows

, season one, is a six-episode comedy of characters surrounding the creation of a production of Hamlet. It aired on A&E or Bravo (I can't remember which; maybe it was Sundance) a little over a year ago, and I had been psyched to catch it but, as with all things regularly scheduled, forgot about it and missed it, save the final episode, which I caught entirely by chance one Friday night back when I still had cable television. I loved it, that solitary and (for me) undeveloped finale, and was curious about the show thereafter. It didn't resurface in my life until Heather and I were talking and she mentioned that David had seen it and wanted to watch it (again) with me. So we did just that. The whole thing. At a go.

It necessitates a

James Lipton

ian response. "If you haven't yet seen

Slings and Arrows

. . . you must go to your local Canadian video outlet, purchase the DVDs, drive to a cliff of at least 100 feet in height, cry mercy there to the Gods of Television and cut yourself with the edges of the DVDs in chronological order and allow your wasted blood of life to fall over the cliff's edge before promptly driving home and watching the whole series seventeen times over without cessation for bodily needs. It is

SCRUMTRULESCENT

. . . ." And that doesn't quite cover it. It takes funny-because-it's-true to all new levels, and not just for theatre people, but people people. After watching it, I felt like I understood again what was so great about what I'm trying to do. It's insane. It's supposed to be insane. As they say in the series, after experiencing the sensation of everything going right on stage, how can life compare?

In April, Friend Heather is moving out to

Scranton

. In theory, this is a trial run for her, but it includes letting go of her apartment in Brooklyn (due to money needs) and purchasing a car (due to day-to-day needs), so the theory is really more of a hypothesis: This move may be what Heather needs, and good for her life. I hope she's accurate in that. I understand her desire, I think. This weekend past, I could envision myself making the same move. If I settled in Scranton, I would get regular acting work at the theatre, and become a name in that smaller town. I could manage more of my life by myself, creating my own work for my own audience base. And I would be surrounded by a network of friends who bordered on family, and who were much easier to be in regular touch with than my friends in this nutty city of millions. Yeah. I get it, and think about it every time I work out there.

The answer, of course, is Man. As in Humanity. As babies, in the dawn of our existence, we crawl on all fours, then we learn to walk with two legs before needing a cane to progress as the sun sets on our little story. Taoist thought, as I understand it, also divides life into stages, albeit with some greater attention to detail. That's one of the differences betwixt (

S&As

has had an obnoxious effect on my syntax, and for that I apologize) Tao and Zen; Zen, roughly speaking, says purify and divorce oneself from this material plane toot-sweet, whereas Taoism takes you by the shoulder and says, in a voice that's audible to you but not the rest of the party, "Look, you've got to do what you've got to do right now, and it would be unnatural for you to do otherwise. All I'm saying is, when you get through the ambition, and ardent desire, and angst, you're going to see none of it was what was really important. So don't fight it, but plan for that. I'm going to go get some

vinegar punch

. You want I should bring a bit back for you?"

So, I could move to Scranton (or New Hampshire, or Maryland, or Virginia) now and get on with it. There's no gauge of legs to dictate when we should change our lives; would that there were. Instead, we're left with our feelings, those unpredictable faeries that Puck us up whenever they get a chance. Stupid Feelings. Being all better-informed about what we want than our brains are. Send out memos, Feelings; send out memos!

They do, of course. The trick seems to be getting our brains to keep their fax machines on and full of paper and toner. And check the fax machine every once-in-a-while, Brain! It's in another room! You gots to check it!

This entry now ending, due to recognition of the fact that I have succumbed to day-job metaphor.

The Invisible Man

No finsky for the quote today, only the gratification of knowing you're the grand prize winner.

"...I'm going to take back some of the things I've said about you. You've...you've earned it."

Some of you (three) may have felt I was a little harsh with the mediums of film and television a few entries back (

1/29/2007

). Let this entry serve as my apology for such slander. It's not that I find these mediums lacking in value. Rather, it is that they diverge from my priorities--and experience--to date, and I can't help but feel that they're overly popular. Something is lost if you never see the acting live, something important. But I want my MTV. I seriously worship movies. It's genetic. Next time I'm home I'm going to try to remember to photograph my Dad's DVD/video collection for you.

So today I suffered again from oversleeping (gad durn it, but how that bothers me) and commenced my breakfast over a viewing of "

Of Human Bondage

," the film adaptation of Somerset Maugham

's awfully autobiographical novel of the same name, starring Leslie Howard and

Bette Davis

. It's the first Bette Davis film I've seen (Leslie Howard too, for that matter) and it's plain to me her appeal. There's one shot of her eyes over drinking a glass of champagne that suddenly made that damn

song

from the 80s make sense to me. The movie is pretty marvelous, but awfully dated, particularly in acting style. Actually, for the time it was probably naturalism bordering on the shocking (which is apt, given the subject matter [sex, obsession, poverty, modern medicine]) but now it reads rather stilted most of the time, particularly any time Phillip (Leslie) has a moment of reverie. I still recommend it highly;

Maugham

always delivers, and if you see it for no other reason, see it for Mildred's million-dollar freak out.

What was interesting for me was to start my day in this way, then venture off to NYU to work with their TV/film directing class on a short project. The set-up for today's work was very much like a soap opera set, with three cameras, all the technical roles filled by some 20+ students: the works. We began with a five-page scene that myself and two other actors had received about a week prior. There were no given circumstances for the scene, and very little contextual background. This was intentional, as part of the lesson for the class was about learning to work with actors (apparently a much-neglected aspect of direction in film schools). So we spent a good deal of time reading through and having table discussions before putting it on its feet. All-in-all, it was two hours of rehearsal before we actors

broke

in order for the class to confer about shot lists, etc. All we were aiming for today was different aspects of rehearsal; Tuesday we'll film.

So when we returned to the set, everyone was ready in their role. And I began to learn. My character makes a surprise entrance in the scene after about two pages of dialogue. As anyone who's worked on a film or TV set can tell you, that usually means at least a half hour before you'll get taped. Like something of a schmuck, I stood backstage to await my cue. Theatre instincts. (People kept offering me a chair out in the "audience," and didn't seem to understand why I wouldn't want to sit down.) There was a monitor back there, so I could watch the action on stage through a cut-out in the set wall, or one of the three shots they were working on. As I learned to watch the monitor instead of my fellow actors, I made a couple of observations.

It could be said that whereas theatre is constructed to celebrate profound moments, film (in this case meaning anything taped) is constructed to celebrate the intimate. This is an incredible generalization, and of course the intimate can be profound, and vice versa. But I was struck in particular today by the way a camera allows us closeness and angles of visual perception that we otherwise only have when we're in an intensely intimate relationship with someone. The scene we shot today began with a couple in bed, and as camera 3 kept a tight shot on the woman, she rolled to face her bedmate. On stage, it was a simple motion, unremarkable. On screen, however, I recognized it as a specific image I had only seen with people I had slept with (and, of course, in other films). We take it for granted, an aspect of contemporary storytelling, but it's an amazing thing.

The second observation I had to make today had to do with super powers. (You can take a geek out of the comic store....) I have a favorite hypothetical question. Actually, I have several:

• Trapped on a desert island with only a CD player for company, which 5 albums would you take?
• What deceased historical figure would you most want to share a lunch with?
• What animal would you most wish to be?

But the big one for fanboy #1 here is:

• Would you rather be able to fly, or to turn invisible at will?

Most people choose flying. It often descends to a discussion of practicalities (If you flew, you'd never escape public attention...invisibility would change your personality...what good is flying unless you're

invulnerable

, too...if you turn invisible, do you have to be naked...etc. ....) but the point is to understand why one appeals more than the other. Of course, everyone would like to have both. Well, you can't. Them's the breaks. Me, I choose invisibility. Don't get me wrong--I'd love to be able to fly (invulnerable or no) but I see such wonderful possibilities for invisibility. (And once again, I'm going to have to ask you all to remove your collective mind from the metaphoric gutter.) You'd be the ultimate ninja. You'd have information. You'd be able to taunt politicians and just go around miraculously rewarding the just and punishing the unjust. It. Would. Rule.

We're already experiencing it! That is exactly what film allows for. We're not just voyeurs at a

glass wall

; we're "invisible wo/men," getting just as close to the experience as if we were literally there. We go in for the kiss. We rock back from the hit. The only thing missing is the physical sensations, which in many cases our body is all-too-willing to supplant. We are the "invisible man" when we watch a film. What's more, particularly with contemporary visual short-hand, we're allowed the additional super powers of teleportation and slowing-down or speeding-up time. Film empowers us in this sense, giving us this sense both of investment in the actions of the story, and a subtle sense of control over it. Sure, we're along for the ride, someone else is driving, but we're used to that. It's called dreaming. Haven't you ever had a dream in which you saw everything going on, but couldn't intervene or didn't perhaps even exist in the same reality? Oh . . . no? Just me then? Awesome.

Awesome

. . .

I'm certain I'm not the first to suppose this connection, but I may be the first to parse it in such geeky terms. And of that, I am proud. I'm proud, too, to have made discoveries that reignite my excitement for the technological entertainment mediums. It seems to me now that when I consider film in these terms, it is a far-less-tapped mode of exploration and expression than I had imagined. I had an art history teacher in college who insisted that there was no progress in visual art (or perhaps he meant art in general); that artistry merely changed modes, never "improved" or in some way refined itself. Naturalism is not better than cave painting, cubism is not better than pointillism. I agree.

Oedipus Rex

, across centuries and translations and reinterpretations, can still work brilliantly as a play. Film is not an improvement on mediums for acting, nor a refinement. It simply suits our time more closely, and our time suits it (art:life::egg:chicken). What does that say about our time?

Maybe that we all want to be superheroes(tm).

Sticking Up

A little something from my passive-resistance, anti'blogger friend (see

1/7/07

for said friend's impressive dramaturgy), who met a young actor at an educational gig:

"C____ was actually a really interesting guy, who had only been acting for about four months, and had already had a speaking part in the

upcoming Ridley Scott/Russell Crowe movie

--Russell Crowe pulls a gun on him. So awesome! But he used to be a stick-up kid. He talked really honestly about it later when S___ and I were walking back to the subway with him. He also said that he felt the need to pursue acting because of what had fallen in his lap--that from talking to other people on set he had begun to realize and appreciate how hard it is to do that, how hard the life is, and how hard it is to work to perfect the craft. He felt that to honor it--the opportunities that have been flung on him, and the lifestyle that usually accompanies it--he had to see it through to wherever this took him. So there's something for your blog (make no mistake--I do not condone that sort of thing): choosing this life because in part it chose you. And honoring what you have intrinsically. That there's some idea of a blessing involved, and that giving back, utilizing these tools is part of the respect you pay to the work. I think it's rather beautiful."

I agree.

This is not a perspective I come to naturally, this idea that some people have gifts (or "talent") that others do not. I would even go so far as to say: Most people who say they believe this idea, when pressed or drawn into a need to defend their position, would discover they were operating from an assumption. There are these axioms we are all inclined to accept through the sheer pressure of public opinion. It reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister (who, being a fellow

Unitarian Universalist

, tends also to be a questioner--

1/3/07

) on different subjects, but with the same question applied to them: Why? Why is saving a life automatically the best choice in every situation? Why should there be someone out there for everyone? Why should it be that people have natural talents, rather than abilities that are either cultivated or not?

The Why Cycle is a vicious one, of course. Ever have that conversation with a beebler (read: fully verbal but

very

young child) that starts out with something simple, like, "Why do birds fly?", only to end up with a question equivalent to "Why are we here and how do we, in fact, know we are here at all?" Ah, the birth of abstract thought! Ah, the Medea-complex it can inspire! So let's not build an

Escher staircase

, please. But the question "why" was made to draw back the curtain, show us through the frame to a broader horizon of possibilities, so it's a good place to start.

C____ reminds me of my mother, midway through seminary. (Stick with me here.) (Come to think of it, he reminds me of myself, midway through college [see

1/29/07

]. But my Mom has always been more inspiring, so:) A middle-aged Unitarian Universalist at

Wesley Theological Seminary

(an ecumenical Christian school) studying to become Reverend Wills. She came from teaching elementary school for years, and after volunteering for a year or two as Director of Religious Education (DRE) at our church--

AUUC

--began setting her sights on the ministry. That part of the story's unique enough, but the point (yes, I have one this time) is that about midway through her ten-year tenure as a student of ministry, her peers began to swap stories about their Calling. This is not calling, as in holla-back-shorty, but Calling, as in holla-back-Jesus. (Jesus: I ain't no holla-back prophet, but here's some blessing for the effort. And Haddock. H-A-D-D-O-C-K... [Just a little ecumenical

humor

, all in good fun...Sir...]) Of course all the acknowledged Christians had little difficulty with this in concept, regardless of how it might apply to them in practice.

My Mom, however, had to think about it for a bit. (It's what we do, UUs: think. Alla' time. It's irritating.) She also had to soul-search, pray, meditate and probably do some new age crap that I still respect but is awful, awful crap. Ahem. Sorry, New-Agers. And Wiccans. I do some of it myself. I'm just an upstart UU. WATCH OUT! Anyway--and this is funny--I can't remember what conclusion she came to. Which is the funny. I thought I had a point, and yet I have made a liar of myself. God did it, probably, for my non-UU-ness a few lines ago. Thanks, God. I needed that like I needed another crisis of faith. Anyway, my Mom is indeed Reverend Wills now (she even answers the phone that way; try it: 301-745-6576) so she and God must have gotten right about it somehow.

But how's this for a point: For whatever reason, my Mom is absolutely gifted at being a mother. It's what she was born to do, no doubt about it in my mind. Something silent in her reaches out to you in whatever need you're in and--whether it's by conduit to God or a powerful ability for empathy--gives you what you need. It's a fact of faith for me, and I don't have too many of those (mostly I have theories of faith, which is how we UUs generally like it).

My point, my friends, is that it doesn't matter how we do what we do. The source(s) of our power in the world, be it nature, nurture or divine providence, does not seek to answer the question of "why." What matters is that we do it. Perhaps we were meant to do what we're doing. Perhaps we've just spent a lot of time working really hard at it. I believe it's good to honor something other than yourself with what you do with your life. Any ambition means more, and will accomplish greater things, when it is serving a larger purpose. So honor thy mother and father, honor humanity, honor God, but honor something say I. Though not

L. Ron Hubbard

, please. That was based on a bet. I guarantee it.

There's a lot of banter between actors about the specific "right way" to get into character (it was a much-heated debate toward the beginning of the 20th century; now it's mostly just banter [like religion in the west, more and more people are beginning to see multiple perspectives with the same goal]), with camps that claim success is achieved when you

become

your character, transformed, and camps that insist success lies in the character

becoming

you, essential, real and true. A thousand grays lie between. I, and most peers with whom I've discussed it, see it as a meeting halfway. Halfway in this context meaning a point in time (rather than distance) when the two converge; sometimes the actor has to do more traveling, sometimes the character. I willfully apply this scenario to the question of our choice, or being chosen. And I think it is a constantly shifting ratio. Sometimes we just have to keep choosing and choosing and CHOOSING to do what we love. And sometimes, the love calls to us.

Holla-back, love. Holla-back.

Car! . . . Game on!

Five bucks to the first person who can name the movie quote.

I'm here today, folks, to talk about an addiction. My usual methods of coping with an addiction are two-fold:

1. Keep all resources and enablement as far away from me as possible; or
2. Indulge it.

The first is what I do with cookies and ice cream. Most of the time. The second is what I do with things like theatre, circus, etc., which, though legal, are often more difficult to attain than certain controlled substances. I practice "TYPE 1" coping with a number of things, not the least of which is television. I have no cable service, and a roommate who is okay with that. I've never attached an antenna to my TV. The only thing attached to it is my DVD player, and I'm seriously considering locking my DVDs in a time-sensitive safe that only opens on weekend evenings. This may seem excessive to you, but I assure you, it comes of self-awareness. And it always surprises me when I am praised for my discipline; for anything, really. Because it ain't discipline

.

Nosce te ipsum

. That's my only "discipline." If I am successful in working out regularly, it has more to do with circumstances that I can manipulate to make it easier for me than it does with any great, internal control. If I am at all impressive in my dedication to pursuing acting, it is as much because I have made my life so it's harder without the theatre, as it is because I feel theatre on a deeper level than some. It's choices, hopefully wise ones. I suppose maybe that's all discipline really is--a series of helpful choices.

My point? I have no point. (Haven't you been reading my 'blog long enough to know that?) But my purpose is to reveal that I have accidentally tripped over TYPE 1 into TYPE 2 on an old addiction. My circumstance became less helpful, I wasn't vigilant enough, and one thing led to another. Thus, I am indulging, once again, in that most insidious addiction:

Games.

More specifically:

Video games.

I know.

I know

. Therein does not lie the most productive use of my time! In point of fact, it is an astonishingly effective time-sucker. If you play, you know what I mean. You sit to play, maybe an hour, and when you look blearily up from your electronic pursuit, it's dawn. Someone is poking you in the head, making sure you aren't in a reflexive coma. Your survival instinct has been channeled into a screen for half a day, in which time your Mom has called saying she's fallen and she can't get up, and you didn't hear it because you thought it was the aliens firing plasma at your sidekick. The last time I was this plugged-in to the gaming world was when I was about 14, playing a

D&D game

in the basement (you flew dragons; it was really cool) while listening to Nirvana on my grandfather's

single-speaker cassette player

.

How did I come to this prepubescent nexus? A variety of factors are involved:

1. Friend D. Younce started emailing me about a year ago about game theory.
2. I gave unto myself a chemical epiditymitus (see 12/31/06), rendering me unable to exercise with purpose for months.
3.  
4. Friend Heather loaned me "Catch-22" to read.
5.  
6. Friend Adam got an XBox 360.
7. Friend Mark started playing "City of Heroes" again, and had my account reactivated so we could play together.
8. Friend D. Younce got his own "CoH" account and created a character to sidekick my own.

Perhaps you're wondering what Joseph Heller's immortal classic of war-time bureaucracy "Catch-22" has to do with my current plight. Well, I hate it. I am not enjoying it at all. This must be

my

problem, for it is widely acknowledged as hysterically funny. My feeling is that it excels with great vigor at telling the same joke ad nauseum.

War doesn't make sense, and neither do people, and we'll never, ever, stop.

I know: It doesn't even have a fart in it. Nevertheless, I am compelled to finish it. I only have 100 more pages to go. One hundred unrelenting pages, just sitting there, getting read four or five pages at a time. But oh, here's that

GameBoy Advance

dear Megan got me two years ago. So portable. So full of colored light patterns bent on my destruction...

So here I am, visiting Adam way up in Washington Heights to play "Gears of War," coming back home to sit at my laptop to play "City of Heroes," and during the subway ride I make Luke Skywalker my avatar for our journey through the only three Star Wars movies that matter. I am the addicted. I am the damned.

But it will pass (God, please make it pass). Because when all's said and done, I'd much rather be rehearsing a play or bettering my handstand, which is why the guilt. If I were "normal," and had a 9-5 job, and after I paid the bills could afford sections of time to save the virtual world, I doubt I would have this complex. But mine is not the "normal" life, and my "free" time is needed for a variety of pursuits, such as mailing resumes/headshots/cover letters, rehearsing audition pieces, networking and learning at long last how to do a kip-up. Hence: guilt.

But it's not rewardless. Sure, it's easy and artificial and time-consuming, but the game(s) has changed since I started wondering what it would be like to kiss a girl. Last night, for example, I signed on to "CoH" and discovered Youncey online. He lives in NoVa, and I see him maybe twice a year, if I'm lucky. And last night our heroic personae, Peppah (yours truly) and Salt Shakah (his, truly) got their asses whupped together for a couple of hours. Having a reason to see Adam more frequently than whenever the latest kung fu movie comes out is also great, and we end up talking about his stand-up comedy and my commedia dell'arte more than we might otherwise.

So all that remains (when my "discipline" kicks back in) is to sell my GameBoy on eBay. Maybe with the funds I can afford the Cliffs Notes on "Catch-22" . . .

The Food of Love

Still buzzing from my musical experiences this weekend past. I listen to music so much, I take it for granted. Silence becomes deafening, like a presence rather than an absence. Yet listening to my iPod any time I'm in travel, or alone . . . or breathing . . . has rather blunted my musical appreciation. Seeing live shows this weekend reawoke that sensibility in me a good bit. Obviously music is more emotionally affective when it's performed live (assuming it's performed competently [remind me to tell you about my one and only experience seeing

Smashing Pumpkins

perform]) but somehow I lose more and more sight of that connection the longer I spend not attending a live show. Which is ridiculous, because the exact same thing occurs in the theatre, so you'd think little ol' me could keep the notion in his little ol' brain long enough to remember to get out and see more live music. {I and Me are going to have to have a talk to figure out exactly what My glitch is.} It's cheaper than a movie, and there's all that wonderful subculture begging to be coolly appreciated.

Back when I was still in school, at

Virginia Commonwealth University

(V.C.U. ... unt V. haf vays of meking U. tok!), I realized one day that I hadn't thought very hard about why I was doing what I was doing with my life. Which was funny, because I'm generally a pretty thoughtful kind of guy, and moreso back when I didn't have a head crammed with bills, taxes, health issues and pressing social concerns. Specifically, I recognized that a lot of what I was getting out of my practice of acting was therapeutic satisfaction and, while that's all fine and good and all, I didn't judge that to be a very good basis for a (potentially) life-long pursuit. So I thought about it a bit, which led me to question what good theatre itself specifically accomplished. I mean, what is its particular value? I thought that if I could figure that out to my satisfaction, I could judge if it was worth doing. Because I didn't want to be doing something for my whole life that was only for me. If all I was accomplishing was a little much-needed venting and personal exploration, I may as well have hung up my aspirations and become an accountant who occasionally performs in community theatre productions. {A noble occupation, of course. Dad. If you're reading this.}

So I thought about it, backstage, in my dorm, in English classes, etc. And what I came up with has carried me through a lot of questioning times in my career. And I was reminded of it last night, when I was out

way

too late for a school night, listening to friends play music in a downtown basement.

My perspective of contemporary, western society is that we are all becoming dehumanized by little bits. Pixels. Zeroes and ones. Tiny squares. Great, big flat squares. All of them windows, all look, no touch. I don't hold myself above this, nor do I rail against the mediums. (I mean, I'm writing you from a weblog here, and it's not like I'm turning down

Spielberg

when he calls. Yes:

When

.) Rather, I see my stage work as restoring some of that sense of humanity, of actual connection. If you get coaxed to see a play, regardless of its artistic merit or content you are connecting in actual space with that pair of round windows most of us have attached to the fronts of our faces. And it matters. Moreover, theatre allows us the experience of being lifted into this experience rather than forcing it upon us. You go to be entertained, to ostensibly receive similar entertainment to movies and television, in that a fictional performance with some emphasis on verisimilitude is going to occur. A story will be told. In this way, we relax into a familiar arrangement. But theatre, and only theatre, takes this journey

through

its window. Anything can happen, in real time with real people, and if it succeeds a play leaves us feeling

more

human,

more

connected. Awakened instead of subdued.

I have a lot of short-term gigs coming up (including one in film), so it was good to be reminded of the personal value of this work from an unexpected source. Go out and support the lively arts, folks. I acknowledge that it can be expensive and risky. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Play on.