This is What I was Afraid Of

More theatre in my life, less time and attention to ye olde 'blogge. Oh sweet 'blog, I want not for thee to be a mere band-aid for my theatrical ego. Whist! Whist! 'Zwounds! Other archaic exclamations! Be true to me, mine 'blog, and I shall carry thee onward like that guy in the sandy footprints poster!

In lieu of my own writing, I present you with some text I'm using as part of my "homework assignment" for

The Torture Project

, which renews its vow to become a real show someday--no strings attached--this evening. The following are terms and definitions harvested from the Grand Old

D.O.D.

I've already begun editing them for the piece I'm presenting tonight, so the "See also" portions at the end do not necessarily reflect the actual references on the website.

unaccounted for — An inclusive term (not a casualty status) applicable to personnel whose person or remains are not recovered or otherwise accounted for following hostile action. Commonly used when referring to personnel who are killed in action and whose bodies are not recovered. See also casualty status.

casualty status — A term used to classify a casualty for reporting purposes. There are seven casualty statuses: (1) deceased; (2) duty status - whereabouts unknown; (3) missing; (4) very seriously ill or injured; (5) seriously ill or injured; (6) incapacitating illness or injury; and (7) not seriously injured. See also casualty type.

casualty type — A term used to identify a casualty for reporting purposes as either a hostile casualty or a nonhostile casualty. See also prisoner of war.

prisoner of war — A detained person as defined in Articles 4 and 5 of the Geneva Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War of August 12, 1949. In particular, one who, while engaged in combat under orders of his or her government, is captured by the armed forces of the enemy. As such, he or she is entitled to the combatant’s privilege of immunity from the municipal law of the capturing state for warlike acts which do not amount to breaches of the law of armed conflict. For example, a prisoner of war may be, but is not limited to, any person belonging to one of the following categories who has fallen into the power of the enemy: a member of the armed forces, organized militia or volunteer corps; a person who accompanies the armed forces without actually being a member thereof; a member of a merchant marine or civilian aircraft crew not qualifying for more favorable treatment; or individuals who, on the approach of the enemy, spontaneously take up arms to resist the invading forces. Also called POW or PW.See also hostage.

hostage — A person held as a pledge that certain terms or agreements will be kept. (The taking of hostages is forbidden under the Geneva Conventions, 1949.)See also missing/MIA.

missing — A casualty status for which the United States Code provides statutory guidance concerning missing members of the Military Services. Excluded are personnel who are in an absent without leave, deserter, or dropped-from-rolls status. A person declared missing is categorized as follows. a. beleaguered — The casualty is a member of an organized element that has been surrounded by a hostile force to prevent escape of its members. b. besieged — The casualty is a member of an organized element that has been surrounded by a hostile force, compelling it to surrender. c. captured — The casualty has been seized as the result of action of an unfriendly military or paramilitary force in a foreign country. d. detained — The casualty is prevented from proceeding or is restrained in custody for alleged violation of international law or other reason claimed by the government or group under which the person is being held. e. interned — The casualty is definitely known to have been taken into custody of a nonbelligerent foreign power as the result of and for reasons arising out of any armed conflict in which the Armed Forces of the United States are engaged. f. missing — The casualty is not present at his or her duty location due to apparent involuntary reasons and whose location is unknown. g. missing in action — The casualty is a hostile casualty, other than the victim of a terrorist activity, who is not present at his or her duty location due to apparent involuntary reasons and whose location is unknown. Also called MIA. See also duty status – whereabouts unknown.

duty status - whereabouts unknown — A transitory casualty status, applicable only to military personnel, that is used when the responsible commander suspects the member may be a casualty whose absence is involuntary, but does not feel sufficient evidence currently exists to make a definite determination of missing or deceased. Also called DUSTWUN. See also casualty status.

I wish to make it clear that, in spite of the themes of

The Torture Project

, I believe our military system is one of the best in the world. Any beaurocracy is going to have the silliness of acronyms and the categorization of terrible or ridiculous statuses. It's unavoidable. I admire the spirit of our country that creates such a furor over retrieving POWs and accounting for every MIA soldier; it's not like that everywhere.

I'm building something of a clown piece around this text (in, like, the next five hours) and though that may make it seem like I am taking lightly something horribly serious, I assure you that is not all that is going to happen. One of the fascinating things about red-nose clown, as I was trained in it, is that everything that happens must have personal resonance and be dire for the clown to function properly. To go even further with it, and brutally paraphrase much greater artists, what the audience responds to in the clown is the clown's plight, or even misery.

Because, whatever else, the clown keeps fighting.

East meets West

This was one a hell of a trip.

Imagine what I did to get out to California (see 2/19/07), but overnight.I am about as tired as I get.It’s hard even to type sufficiently.I departed on a 10:00 pm Pacific time flight from San Francisco Friday night, which got into my transfer at Atlanta (get out your time-conversion calculators, kiddies) around 5:00 am Eastern, not to depart for Philadelphia until 7:00 am.It’s Philadelphia airport at 10:00 am, then the SEPTA train to the really real train, on which I now ride as the minutes tick toward noon.When I get to Pennsylvania Station (which is in New York City, all you un-traveled west-coasters) I will head immediately to the subway for an hour-long ride home to Brooklyn, where I expect to find a pile of bills and dirty dishes, though hopefully not piled together.The real kicker (seriously guys—between the rattling track and my exhaustion you should really see some of the typos I’m correcting) is that I need to be back in Manhattan at 5:00 for an audition. These things always seem more possible to me in theory than they do in practice.

Lawsy, y’all.Lawsy.

The trip to California wrapped up well enough.There was very little time for…well, anything, for a few days there.The days spanning Ann Zarko’s viewing and burial were shot for any other activity.There was time, mind you, but all the events were so exhausting themselves that afterward David and I rarely had energy to eat.And so perhaps that is a major contribution to my current state of the typographically challenged.I’m just praying that there’s time for a quick nap and bite between landing in KingsCounty and lighting on the isle again.

It was amazing to experience the ceremonies of this week, and all the folks who attended them.Ann’s send off stood in sharp contrast to my Dad’s Dad, who had only ourselves at the ceremony and a priest who hadn’t known him.Ann had literally hundreds of friends and relatives, from her work with the church (Roman Catholic) and the historical preservation society of Sunnyvale.I must have spoken with dozens of people who knew and loved her, and everyone had their own stories to tell.There were a few incidences of people who had not seen David in a long, long while mistaking me for him (a mere twenty-seven years’ difference in age) but in an odd way I appreciated that.There were many times when I felt I rather shouldn’t be there, when I didn’t know where to stand or what was expected of me, but then I would catch David’s eye and experience a gratitude from him that made me want to just make it all already be over for him, and I would remember that I was there for all of us who are part of his other life.

The week was good for him.I had a few harrowing moments when I worried for his state of mind, and heart.In particular, he had the impression that Ann had said her final farewells in her sleep, blissfully unaware of her own passing, but her night time caretaker revealed at the viewing that this was not so.She was present, heard Ann moan, and when she checked on her found her pale blue and unresponsive.Helen (the caretaker) began to resuscitate her, and succeeded, but Ann held up her hands and said, “No more.No more.”She slipped away again when Helen spared a second to ask her husband to call the EMTs, and again Helen resuscitated her, but Ann held up her hands in the same manner, unable now to speak.She saw Helen’s husband in the doorway, then the EMTs were there, and Helen and her husband were taken from the room.

When Helen told David this at the viewing, as distraught as though it had just happened, I thought either David would break down or I would leap a pew and strangle the woman just to stop this revelation.It was definitely, at first, difficult for him to hear.He remained relatively composed, however, and a few minutes later reiterated the story to his friend Alan, down from Seattle for the ceremonies, who responded, “That’s wonderful.That’s wonderful.”And in that moment we all understood that maybe, just maybe, Ann had known exactly what was happening to her and, as much as anyone might, chose her moment to be done.She had no fear of death, and no regrets for her life.

After this kind of moment and others, after all the condolences and catching up and story telling, you can imagine just how spent we could be. Yet David and I did make some good use of our time after it was all said and done. It was along the lines of more nostalgia for him, and I enjoyed being taken on the tour as much as, if not more than, those visits we made prior to the funeral. Thursday, once we had relaxed with a walk and drive, we visited the Winchester Mystery House, which was a childhood favorites of David’s (which explains a lot) and settled in early for Chinese food and Gregg and Denise’s wonderful company. Then Friday David scheduled himself a massage, and treated me to my own, which is the kind of luxury that alone could justify the various aspects of trickiness involved in getting there and back. It was at a spa on the beach, so I got to visit briefly that terrain as well. Finally, Friday we visited Santa Cruz once more to meet an old friend of David's, Phil. He's an actor and playwright, and author of fiction and non-fiction. A great guy, he started out in a rather dark place conversing with us about the large number of his friends who have died in the past fifteen years, but perked up into a man I knew David loved once we moved on to the subject of theatre and writing. It's funny. David later told me that Phil was to him something of what David has been to me--they met at approximately the same ages as David and I did and worked together on various projects for years. The really funny part--to me, anyway--was that they met in a theatre workshop/class David decided to start conducting when he was about twenty-five, and I could plainly see that it was David who elevated Phil back to an optimistic mood during our day together. I think David is what he is to everyone, regardless of age. An inspiration, plain and simple.

I know: sappy. You know though? True.

Things are picking up for me theatre-wise right now, just in time. I have a play-lab at NYU coming up, a new workshop session for "The Torture Project," and I was just cast as Frankie in "A Lie of the Mind." (We're at 11:45 pm now [that's 8:45 in California].) It's a little bit like a family reunion. Now I just have to convince all of the people I love working with here to move to Santa Cruz with me.

The Art of the Quest

Yesterday I saw for the first time in person the great Redwood trees of

California

.

David and I had been busy all morning with the initial preparations for his mother’s service, and by the time it was mid-afternoon he had had enough, so off we went to

Big

Basin

national park.

I saw, photographed, smelled, touched and even stood inside what are—as far as we know—among the oldest living things in the entire world.

Apparently the great Sequoias are the oldest trees, a sheer 4,000 years as compared to the Redwoods’ paltry 1–3,000.

It was amazing just to be in such a forest, much less among that kind of ego-dwarfing natural occurrence.

These are the moments when I feel closest to divinity, and not even the mightiest spires of il duomi dell’Italia can compare to the architecture of Redwood.

God is, of course, on my mind a lot during this journey.There’s nothing for a reaffirmation of one’s faith in a higher power than being immersed in need for such guidance and support.I’m spending a lot of my time just trying to be ready for whatever David needs, and thus far it’s not much in the way of practical help, just someone to keep him in the moment and remind him he’s not alone.In fact, we’ve had some conversations about things like theatre and life in general the likes of which we haven’t known since the first year of working together, when we were just discovering how much we enjoyed one another’s company.It’s hard to say if that’s a direct result of recognizing how fleeting such moments can be, or just a side effect of spending a significant amount of time together again.It’s not all that important to me to come up with a reason, either.

Ann Zarko really was an amazing woman, by all accounts, and she and her son David are unusually deserving of one another.It’s easy to see where David gets his compassion, openness and love of life from.I wish I had known Ann.Everyone we speak to not only has their own important memories of her, but says the same thing eventually: They know that everyone will miss her, and she will be remembered by a lot of people.She was continually making new friends, and nothing about who she was faded, even in her final days.Tomorrow evening will be a viewing and rosary, and Thursday morning will bring mass and the burial.David’s being almost stubbornly strong.I hope he can find times to let himself go in the coming days.He loves his mother very much.

Possibly more magical even than BigBasin, yesterday David also gave me a walking tour of his life around my age…say 25 to 31.It happened rather spontaneously in the early evening, driving through Santa Cruz (where I now plan to retire once I’m Absurdly Wealthy & Famous) after the forest.I think David was a little embarrassed by his want to share those stories, but I couldn’t have been more excited to get that peek into the early years of Zarko.Santa Cruz is now very reminiscent to me of Austin.Well, maybe a blend of Austinwith Old Town Alexandria.It’s very funky and artsy, not just with college kids but a good proportion of twenty-somethings and young families.The Mall-like stores are definitely moved in, but I would say local businesses are still dominant.Apparently when David was there it was not even in a larval state of this resurgence, and his nostalgia is clearly tinged with a love for what was once run-down, as well as some envy of the success the town has known since.

He told me about opening his café there (stock Zarko lore) and I actually saw the building and bought coffee from a well-pierced prepubescent there.He told me about being young, and his friends at the time, and hanging out with Spalding Gray before he was Spalding Gray.Best of all, he explained to me why his theatre company at the time was named “Parcifel’s Players.”When he was young (and, I’d wager, on into this day) David loved this story of the knight, Parcifel (or Percival, or Pursifel, etc.).As we walked the darkening streets of Saint of the Cross, he told me the story as he had heard it, of a knight so foolish that he barely got by.His mentor ultimately instructed him, out of irritation for his inability to understand things innately, never to ask any questions of anyone who was his superior.

One day, Parcifel, quite by accident, bested the red knight who had been plaguing the court of King Arthur.As he walked into the castle in the knight’s armor, he was greeted with great enthusiasm. In order to complete his status as a knight of the round table, however, he of course had to go on a Grail quest.Parcifel does so, and finds a castle that promises the Grail.The duke of that castle promises him the Grail, they proceed through various ceremonies and celebrations.During this revelry, Parcifel has the impulse to ask three questions, but resists according to his mentor’s lesson.When he awakes in the morning, he discovers the castle long abandoned and dusty, the formerly lush surrounding lands barren, and an old woman who bears a striking resemblance to a young lady who had entertained him the night before informs him that if he had only asked his questions, the Grail would have been his.

So Parcifel, feeling the utmost failure and shame, pledges never again to return to Camelot until he rediscovers the Grail.He spends years and years traveling the countryside, deposing evil knights, saving the people from harm and spreading the good word of Arthur.Finally, in his late years, he encounters a knight and by custom challenges him.The challenges begin with insults, and as these insults progress it becomes clear that the two knights share the same father.They throw down their arms and armor and embrace, and suddenly the castle reappears to Parcifel, this time he asks the questions (which have changed) and achieves the Holy Grail.

This is a powerful insight to life, to the idea of always having to learn and relearn, to question and accept.It’s also a great peek at what it’s like to work on a show with David.His rehearsal is concerned with process, always process, and he understands that you may achieve brilliance quite by accident, and it will be impossible to return to that brilliance without time, effort and more time to understand something larger than yourself.It’s hard to accept that we don’t know.It’s hard to go on in good faith in the face of that.It’s worth it.That’s what I think.Maybe there is no grail at the end; it’s still worth it.Lao Tzu reminds us that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.The Redwoods grow huge one minimal ring at a time.And life may be brief, but it is full, full, full.

"Oh man. Oh dude. Oh no."

I've had a lot of occasions to contemplate the act of writing dialogue of late. Conversations with playwrights, readings, participating in

NYU

's First Look acting company and their film school, etc. It's kind of coming out of the walls, actually. Yesterday I was emailed two new scripts, one inviting me to participate in a reading (probably can't) and one asking for my feedback (see

Nat's 'blog

). A few days ago a friend made an unlikely request that I connect him with someone well-versed in screenwriting (Surprise! I know NONE, save my boss's husband [co-wrote a little movie called

Monster's Ball

] and that's just too weird.). I've done some play writing, to greater and lesser degrees of ill-advised notions (see tha' website for

one of my monodramas

...for two actors...sh'up!) and whereas when I was younger, short stories were the most natural milieu for me to narrate in, now I find myself inclined toward dialogue. Perhaps that's a result of surrounding myself with theatre. It's hard to say.

What's funny is that at times I get these snippets of dialogue bouncing around my brain that have no recognizable source. I'm a big fan of movie quotes, so my first inclination is to imagine that I'm randomly sampling some moment from some movie I've seen in the past twenty years. More often than not, however, when this Mad-Libs style of quote pops up (and lingers on) it is from nothing but my own noodle. It's a little like I'm quoting my own imagination . . . but I haven't even seen a teaser of what I'm imagining, much less the DVD with commentary. Which can be frustrating.

It's fine when it happens and the line or lines is/are rather poetic, or well-trenched in some context, but sad to say that is not the norm. The norm is akin to what you see in the title of this 'blog entry. Something on the level of stoner/slacker comedies from the nineties. In fact, the above is the quote of my day. I'm not dishing any money out for it, because it hails from my imagination and any money I paid you you'd have to pay right back to me in royalties. At some point not long ago, I realized I had been repeating this "line" over and over in my head today. Not just repeating the words, actually, but imagining myself acting them. Fiddling with the beats, the intonation, wondering about the person saying them and the scenario he's (it is a guy, that much I'm certain of) in. All of this is happening quite below the radar, as I go about my various activities, to the extent that I wasn't even fully aware of it until I started writing about it. And it's taking up some mental power. The rest of the stuff I'm doing is kind of getting the shaft. I mean, it's getting done, but not necessarily well, or quickly.

So:

Buttons

. I am rehearsing, entirely in my mind over and over again, a single line of dialogue, consisting of six words, which I made up from absolutely no criteria or context, and it's not even

good dialogue per se. (I like it, actually. I'm doing a lot with it, sort of hashing through the changes in perception the guy experiences as he progresses through the line, toying with how to communicate that he's really just at a loss for words, but still trying to find them, etc. ...) What. The hell. Is wrong. With this picture?

I really don't want to write another entry about how lame it is not to be working on a show.

So I won't. What I will write, is that I do verily dig the art of play writing. I can't claim to have insight into it, really, because it is an art and I do not approach it as such. It's a kind of miracle to write a conversation, and, while making it unobtrusive and believable, make it also rich, full of meaning and change. Because you start with nothing, and somehow get this self-contained world of experience and consequence that is vastly, intricately interwoven. Novels can achieve this, of course, but it's not the same. They often weave things like themes, or events. Plays (and to a lesser extent [lesser because it's a more purely visual medium, ergo less word-driven] film) weave together real-time moments, people instead of just "characters,"

lives

in the most encompassing sense of the word. It's amazing. McNally. Kushner. Churchill. Endless others, these people amaze me. Amaze me.

So I hesitate to call myself a playwright, sort like I hesitate to call myself a dancer, or like how I wish more people would hesitate before calling themselves actors. Because yes, I have written four full plays, had some of my work produced, etc., but I have too much respect for the people who really dedicate themselves to that craft to call myself in league with them as yet. It's not a self-deprecating pretense at all; rather a humble nod to fellow artists whom I respect. Shout -out to ma' homies o' the quill! What up, ninjas!

Now: "Oh man. Oh dude. Oh no." Write something incorporating this line. I dare you.

I'm Ready for My Close-Up Now, Mister Strindberg

James Lipton strikes again (see 2/12/07):

"If you haven't yet seen the Manhattan Theatre Source's production of August Strindberg's Miss Julie, go directly out and attach your nipples to a car battery until you can smell the burning of your own hair. It . . . is . . . A DELIGHT."

Sadly, as I type this entry, they are closing the last show of this production. So if you didn't see it, you have officially missed out. For those of you not familiar with the play, it's an intense, three-character exploration of power, desire and class inequality. And it is funny as hell. I had no idea it was funny as hell before I saw this production. Without compromising the stakes at all, the director and cast made for some very funny moments, and they kept me laughing right up until the title character convinced herself to commit suicide. So yeah: It's dark. But definitely funny, and I wonder if this doesn't relate to some of my theories regarding humor (see 1/24/07). I must admit my bias here, when it comes to lauding the production. I have worked with the director of it three times before, twice directed by him and once acting with him, and I have performed with the actress playing the title character. Nevertheless, I like to be honest with my critique, in particular when my friends are involved. Laura and Daryl, in addition to being an amazing couple, seem to bring out the best in each others' theatrical work.

It was quite a contrast to sit in the audience for such a tightly woven live production last night, then act in the second half of the film class at NYU today. I had to switch mental gears, and it was a bit like the first time my friend Barbara tried to teach me to drive a manual transmission. Today the work was not about well-timed, crisp dialogue, nor drastic status shifts, but ultimate naturalism and hitting the marks. Yet somehow it was my job to make as much truth of that scenario. It's no less artificial than the conventions of live theatre, I suppose. But I've had almost twenty years of experience with those conventions, and virtually none with those of film and television. At its most complex, in a physical sense, theatre can have arena or environmental staging, which requires the actors to move in circles, face each other, make sure any group of audience can at least see somebody's face. Acting for three independently mobile cameras, alternately behind me or behind the person I was facing, reminded me of trying to learn how to use an PlayStation controller for the first time.

(That's not quite clear to everyone, is it? 'K: I grew up playing DOOM on my PC, mostly, which was [still is, in fact] a "first-person shooter" game in which I used a couple of fingers to navigate forward, backward, right and left. You could jump and climb stairs too, but as far as aiming control went, you were pretty much concerned with general direction--everyone was on the same plane. When I finally got back to exploring such games, suddenly I was faced with a controller that had more in common with a starfish than a remote control, and included two thumb joysticks in addition to about 74 buttons. Suddenly, too, my first-person shooter was a multi-dimensional world in which enemies could come at one from any ol' direction, and in which I had to use them thar sticks to pick one, specific point of a complete sphere of motion at which to fire. It was then that I surrendered any aspiration I still had to become the morally justified hit man of movie fame.)

I believe that amazing ability to track multiple movement points and still deliver a line as though one's life depended on it can be developed. In the meantime, I will provide nigh-endless amusement for undergraduates learning to operate their cameras. Today I had to deliver a line of great import ("I'm just dropping off my stuff..." [but you had to be there]) whilst getting a door closed and placing a suitcase and shoulder bag on the right place on the floor, all in time to look in a prolonged, meaningful fashion at one of my fellow actors. I got the door closed, I got the bags to the right place, and I engaged in the requisite four-second eye contact with my scene partner . . . and realized I hadn't yet let go of the strap of the shoulder bag. Perhaps that doesn't seem so bad. It was. I had at least half of the crew in stitches, presumably over the awkwardness it lent the would-be meaningful moment. Funny how such simple mechanics can influence that work. And here I am worrying that I'm using my eyebrows too much.

Two appetites battle in me. Perhaps they're not mutually exclusive. I hope not. Some part of me wants to have worked very hard on that relatively unobserved Miss Julie and just know in my heart that I did good work that had something to say. Some other part of me wants to have a job in television, with a crew I joke around with and stories that turn not on a series of lines, but on a glance, or raised eyebrow. The moral of this story? If you are reading this: I WILL TAKE ANY WORK. I AM AN ACTING WHORE. USE ME; ABUSE ME; CALL ME YOUR DOG AND MAKE ME RESPOND TO "ACTION!"

I am at this moment reminded of the immortal Mitch Hedberg:

"You know, I'm sick of following my dreams, man. I'm just gonna ask them where they're going and hook up with them later."