Moved by a Clown


It has been a busy weekend. Rehearsal went late Friday night, and I was up early Saturday to help Friend Kate finalize her moving out of the loft that parented Kirkos for years. I inserted a break of a few hours to hold a rehearsal with Friend Anna on her clown piece, then it was back to the verities of moving out. The rest of the weekend was a lot of rehearsal as we come closer to the opening night for A Lie of the Mind. In fact, I just arrived in from our first run in the space. As these things so often go, everyone felt completely disconnected from their work, floating in the endless ether of a new, permanent space and sudden costuming. We'll get past it, and by Wednesday. We'd best, anyway. Opening week brings reviewers and an entire acting class one night. The time until then is to be spent in "tech," which, for the uninitiated, is the time just before opening a show when everyone recognizes all the stuff they were supposed to accomplish yet haven't, and rushes around trying to do that, simultaneously revving the metaphoric engine of the whole production up to eleven.

Does that count as a movie quote? I think not, as "eleven" as a gauge of anything has entered the public lexicon apart from any actual awareness of This is Spinal Tap.

The subject of this blogination, though, is that Saturday spent in the deconstruction the Kate's loft and Anna's clown piece. It was a revelatory day for me. Not in a noisy, declamatory way ("Hear ye! God is dead! Thanks for listening!"); rather as a day of much to do, no time to do it, and irregular but powerful moments of recognition. In fact, narrating the events of the day chronologically doesn't serve it best, methinks. First I uninstalled some shelves, then I complained about Kate's stereo already being moved, then we shredded documents.... No. Dumb. So where to begin?

Well (and good), the first thing to note is a few aspects the essential nature of Kate, at least insofar as I know her. Kate:
  • Loves every thing and person that she loves so much that there is no undue haste when it comes to saying goodbye to said thing/person.
  • Self-justifies with the best of them, including Clinton, with his eternal question of what "is" is.
  • Has principles so beyond question that they occasionally create astonishingly time-consuming obstacles in situations in which the rest of us would probably figure, "Oh, so what if that public trash can is overflowing? I'll just precariously balance my disposable coffee cup atop the ruin of western society."
Which is all to say, Kate simply can't do anything of any significance simply. It's part of what's so lovable about her, and makes her an amazing director/leader. So the loft move became a months-long epic that, in spite of such time spent in prep of that ultimate departure, still had a lot to accomplish in its final stages. I didn't accomplish much in terms of sweeping, effective measures for getting the remainder of her things into boxes. I mainly focused on tasks which, as a result of a shoulder injury, Kate shouldn't attempt herself. Anything that involved reaching up, or lifting weight, basically.

And in the process of this total of about six hours, I said my last goodbyes to the loft. There's something about a space that has fostered your creativity and effort that makes that space a kind of home. It becomes as personal a space as where you lost your first tooth or your virginity, you know? It can, anyway. I've lost touch with that feeling somewhat. I used to have a ritual of saying goodbye to a theatre at the end of every show. Now I mainly only do it for spaces that have held multiple productions of mine, when I'm uncertain if I'll ever return to them. The ritual is simple (and not scary, involving very little mammalian blood). I just stand in the middle of the space, alone, and say a little. Maybe I speak a speech from the show I did there, or some Shakespeare (that just always sounds good), and usually I literally speak the word "Goodbye." And when I say it, I'm saying, "Thank you." Froo-froo, I know. But hey: It makes me feel real.

What was this for the loft? It was more little stolen moments. I sang (Bohemian Rhapsody and tunes from Rent, no less [Nat, calm down.]), took photographs when we broke for lunch, reminisced with Kate and, ultimately, practiced throwing knives at the wall I helped build when they moved in. YES. Knives. They were my pay for my help that day. In so doing, I covered a lot of the bases for what Kirkos was, and . . . in my mind, anyway . . . may someday be again. It was weird, unabashedly sincere, sentimental, beautiful and chaotic. And now, it's part of who I am, as performer and person.

For over two hours, in the middle of all this light-removal and reminiscence, Anna Zastrow and I convened to visit with her clown, Helda. It went well, I thought. Her goals were very much focused upon getting a sequence in better shape for her upcoming performances. I wanted that for her as well, but also had a priority to revisit her clown with no assumptions. In conversation with Anna lately, I have heard much that I identify with: a certain uncertainty, a disconnection from her creative id (that's id, not I.D.) and doubt. Plain ol' doubt. I don't know where these feelings in myself will lead me, but I'm confident Anna's clown is a valid, living character, and that she simply needs to revisit her and listen to her to regain (or rediscover) that validity.
(Uninitiated: I'm speaking here of red-nose, or occasionally Lecoq, clown. It's hard to synopsize that theory in a sentence, but essentially the idea is simple. Each person has his or her own clown, a single character as individual as the person and rather representative of that person's id, or free will, unbounded by society-as or other inhibitions. Along with this goes the idea that what people appreciate in a clown is his or her unabashed flaws and difficulties. [Anonymous--Don't freak out. Think of The Little Tramp.])

So Anna and I discussed much, then I put her through an exercise that my clown teacher, Grey Valenti, put me through when I was receiving my (somewhat limited) training. I asked Anna to enter a room in her clown character, and to imagine that she was there for an interview, though she wasn't allowed to speak. This created a situation in which she had to express herself, yet without parameters and in a context in which there were great consequences. Anna took to it with gusto, and before too long she was no longer making choices, but allowing her instincts to make choices for her. It was great, and frightening, to watch. I kept thinking, "Am I a total bastard to put her through this? Do I really know what I'm doing?" Yet she stuck with it for over ten minutes before I called an end, and ultimately found it helpful. As we moved on to reexamining her established routine, we both had in our minds a priority for allowing for her clown to speak for her, and listening when Helda had something to contribute.

That work was rushed, and of necessity technical, but valuable both to her piece and to our burgeoning working relationship (see 3/12/07 for a bit of history). We succeeded in creating a working space in which I felt I had something of value to contribute, and she felt the ownership and creative daring to challenge my opinions as well as simply try them out. It was great. I only wish I had more time before her upcoming show (April 14) to play like that.

As I moved on, of necessity, to the next effort after Kate's loft and Anna's clown (leaving the loft--for the last time--in slightly more orderly disarray, and Helda hopefully in more disarrayed order) I felt a wonderful gratitude for having work to do, and that work being the sort I care about. Soon (read: already) I'll be back to angst over difficulties in the birthing of A Lie of the Mind, but hopefully amidst that angst-ination I will recall that gratitude. It's a powerful blessing.

"Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart give yourself to it."

The Buddha said that. I'm fairly confident he didn't speak English, however, so there may be room for interpretation. In fact, he may have said something more along the lines of, "Your work is silly, and stop it, so you can discover that I ordered

large

french fries. You bastards."

Mm. Hot, tasty french fries.

This quote (the real one, not the fast-food version) encapsulates nicely the craft of acting, as well as the art of living. We begin with an openness to discovery, be it in developing a story or approaching a script for the first time, and throughout the process we strive to give ourselves over to it entirely. Both aspects are challenging, at least for those of us not born with some supernatural talent for finding and believing. (Equating belief with abandoning oneself to life and/or a play is probably an entirely other 'blog entry.) There's the need we feel to be perceived as experienced and knowledgeable, which blocks most possibilities for discovery. There's just plain assumption and bias, and the little "truths" we live with from day to day as people that help us get by, but may have nothing to do with the world of the play. There's just being plain acute enough to perceive discoveries, and open enough to accept them from others. You get through all that, and then there's the part of your heart.

Damn it. This stupid

play

has me making inappropriate, obvious rhymes.

It's not a stupid play, however. It's a very intelligent

and

visceral play. Ideas and feelings clash with one another in fascinating ways, and on the whole it is posing some of the more fascinating "unanswerable" questions of human existence and behavior. Why can't we shake the yoke of needing to please our parents? Why, when we love, can it be so difficult and insane? How do we live with a love that consumes us? Why can't we all just get along? What is wrong between women and men? Why is America the way it is, violent and obsessed and often delusional? What is true? I love questions, particularly ones that we can never quite answer to our own satisfaction. They give me hope, in an unsettled sort of way. They help me believe that there are great discoveries yet to be made.

But this business of the heart . . . it's difficult. I'll be very frank (or Frankie [oh God I kill me][somebody has to]) and admit that I'm having trouble at this stage of rehearsal with giving myself to it with all my heart. Why? Well, it's probably a terribly involved question I ask on your behalf, but foregoing the venting of intense personal details (and collective sigh...and GO: "Aaahh...") let's us just trace the journey of Frankie for a moment. Who knows? Maybe we'll make a discovery or two. Come along with me!!!

He's one of Shepard's sensitive, intelligent brother characters (already I enter in judgment, eschewing discovery). The play opens with Frankie on the phone with his brother, Jake, trying to sort of talk him off a ledge, emotionally speaking, and get his brother to tell him where he is and what's happened to put him in this state. He keeps trying to calm him down. Eventually, it comes out that Jake has killed his wife. Then he hangs up, leaving Frankie to shout into a dead line after him.

The next we see Frankie, he's joined his brother in a hotel room somewhere and is trying to get to the bottom of what happened. He tries to comfort his brother, but also doesn't buy Jake's explanation of the events and criticizes his brother for always shifting blame for his own actions. At the height of this confrontation, Jake passes out suddenly. He comes to as Frankie is trying to understand what happened and help him, then explains that he feels as if he's going to die without his wife. Frankie offers to go to her family to find out if she's dead, or alive, or what, and Jake forbids it, then pleads with Frankie to stay with him, which Frankie agrees to.

Frankie's next scene occurs three days later, when his mother and sister arrive at the hotel at his behest. Jake's been deteriorating, talking to himself and shaking uncontrollably, for the entire time. Their mother comes in and tries to take over immediately, protesting that Jake is just "play-acting" over Frankie's objections. Jake wakes and imagines his sister is his wife, growing aggressive with her before passing out again. In the end, Frankie convinces his mother (it isn't hard) to take Jake whilst he goes off to find out what happened to Jake's wife, Beth. This drives their sister out of the house; she doesn't feel safe with Jake around. So it's off to Montana for Frankie.

When he reappears, it's about two days later at the home of Beth's family. We know from dialogue that he tried to convince Beth's brother to let him see her, and he refused. He doesn't appear on stage, however, until Beth's father, Baylor, comes dragging him in. Baylor's accidentally shot Frankie in the leg, having mistook him for a deer. Much follows in the rest of the scene, but for Frankie it's mostly about dealing with pain, shock, discovering Beth is indeed alive, trying to figure out what's wrong with her and beginning to perceive a resistance to his leaving, even if it's only to get him to a hospital.

It's unclear how much later we revisit Frankie on the family couch, but he and Beth are alone and she has taken off her shirt to wrap around his wound. He seems to be focused, past the shock, and claiming the bleeding has stopped. (How that's possible, what with nobody properly bandaging the wound, is a question for Mr. Shepard.) The scene that follows is an involved one, mostly between Frankie and Beth. He begins just trying to get her to put her shirt back on, and what follows is a kind of "getting to know you" scene, in which he's trying to get to understand the extent of her injuries and if his brother's story is true, and she's trying--well--to fall in love with him, basically. (This is also a scene in which something positively surreal happens; the characters have a discussion about acting, and playing a character.) Their interaction mounts until Beth is seducing Frankie by way of an assumed character, and he rejects her. By the end of their time alone, he is struggling to either make a phone call or leave of his own volition. The rest of her family...except her dad...huh...enters separately, none of them willing or able to help Frankie escape. Beth goes to bed (it's daytime), her brother goes out to hunt more deer (he's brought in one carcass already) and her mother comments on the snow and leaves Frankie alone on the couch.

In the second-to-last scene he has, Frankie is mostly asleep. He is finally woken by Baylor, who does so because he can't bend over to pick up his socks. Frankie is beginning to be feverish, and speaks at length about the craziness of everyone in the house and his frustration over not being allowed to leave. Beth comes downstairs and declares she's going to marry Frankie. He says no, her Mom says yes, her Dad says no. Beth's brother, Mike, enters and proclaims that he's got Jake tied up in submission outside, and that he's going to get him to apologize to them all. He leaves and Baylor goes upstairs as Frankie is left on the couch again, this time with Beth and her mother on either side of him, planning the wedding.

SPOILERS! SPOILERS OFF THE PORT BOW!

So in the last scene of the play, Frankie mostly lies on the couch and shakes with fever. He doesn't come around until Jake walks in the door, free now, at which point Frankie seems to believe Jake's there to bring him back home with him. But no. Jake is there to say goodbye to Beth, to tell her to be with Frankie instead, to which Frankie only responds once Jake is walking away, shouting after him that he was true to him. Beth goes to Frankie and the play ends with her holding him in her arms.

Okay. So. Discoveries?

Some of my more radical notions include:

  • Frankie is in love with Jake.
  • Frankie is actually gay, but hasn't admitted it to himself.
  • Frankie always wanted Beth.

And one from the director:

  • Frankie dies at the end, either after Jake leaves, or possibly before, and the scene between them and Beth is a kind of hallucination of what everyone wanted the chance to say, but never got to.

That's all well and fine. Great, even. 'Cept Shepard's plays don't exactly run on hydrogenated concepts; more on crude Texas gut emotion. When it all comes down to it, it works best when one puts all of their heart into it and takes it on faith. I suppose some understanding may help with that, but it's an issue more of identification-with than understanding-of. It doesn't matter that it doesn't make sense that Beth would love Jake intensely inspite of him almost beating her to death; what matters is that she just does, on stage and in front of us all. And whether or not Frankie would do more for himself in the course of the play, he doesn't. He's there for Jake, fighting for Jake, putting all his heart into Jake. And in the end, his heart gets broken.

Couldn't I just give you some french fries, instead?

Extra-Special Birthday Edition!!!

No, no, no. It's not my birthday. Not yet, anyway. It is, rather, that time of year around which all of my friends have selfishly decided to arrange their birth dates. Let's get organized here, people! Couldn't we spread them out just a little more, and maybe make them a little less immediately-after-Christmas? I swear, it's like the holidays begin for me a marathon of gift-giving every year. And I forget more birthdays than I remember! Totally; totally. I'm awful. You have to be known by me for, like, at least ten years before I start saying to you: "Wait. Wait. Isn't your birthday some time this month?"

Case in point: My adopted brother (adopted by me, that is), "Anonymous," just had his thirtieth last Friday, and I failed to plan for it. Granted, I didn't hear about the party until about a week beforehand, but I should have been better prepared all the same. I should have realized the significance of this year and--when

A Lie of the Mind

schedule conflicts were being arranged--included March 23rd as a no-go date for rehearsal. Alas, I did not, and so missed the digging of the shin.

I can be short-sighted like that, but it's also possible that I'm in denial. Anonymous' birthday kicks off the birthday schedule for my troika of oldest friends, affectionately dubbed by my mother as "

The Three Musketeers

." Anonymous is in March, I in June and Mark chimes in in August (It

is

August, right, buddy? [Man. Do I suck.]). This year, we are thirty. Ye Gods, the wonder of a round number.

It may not be wonderful, or even wondrous, yet the turning over of another decade of this life makes for some serious reflection. Even eschewing the coincidental little deadlines I set for myself at a very sage 21 years of age (see

2/5/07

), Year Thirty holds some significance for me. It holds significance in the universal subconscious as well. Jesus is widely believed to have begun his ministry in earnest 'round about that year of his life. Hamlet is often interpreted to be just thirty when he begins contemplating his readiness. And, of course, there was that

hit television extravaganza

that took the airwaves by storm for about a season and a half. My hope had been to celebrate my thirtieth year since kicking and screaming into this world in Italia, busking in

Piazza Navona

, Roma. As time inexorably jogs forward, however, the prospect of that trip grows slimmer and slimmer. Nigh anorexic. Leaving me with the question: What, then, can I do to celebrate whatever it is I am and do on that very special day?

I put it out to the universe. But it is not for this reason I 'blog at you today. Nor is it to point up the bizarre nature of an actor's schedule as it relates to his ever-patient friends (i.e., "Sure, I'll be in your wedding. That is, if I don't get a gig. Even if I get a gig, I'll try to get off, of course. Of course, if it's tech week or a performance there's nothing I can do. But count me in! Maybe..."). No, I am compelled to write today because of other people's birthdays, and the potential artistry in honoring them.

Consider all the people you've known in the course of your life. Consider not even everyone, but just those people you've held a conversation with more than once. There are probably a whole lot more than 365 at this point (not to presume too much upon the age of my [5] readers or anything). So there is the potential that every day of the year, someone you've known is celebrating his or her self; indeed, on some days, more than one is. How many people do you not speak to anymore, who are turning a year over at this moment? How many have you forgotten entirely who might be remembering you attending their sixth birthday, right now? And just what the hell is my point?

Well, I find it humbling to contemplate this. It reminds me that every day we make a choice to honor the people we've loved and who've loved us with our actions, or to not. UU's believe in the interconnectedness of all living things, and when it comes to other people, we're supposed to respect that particular interconnectedness even more. Similar to a bunch of actors on stage at a given moment, we all have to depend on each other for things to turn out right. It's frightening. It's awesome. We have to take it for granted somewhat just to get by, not panic or become mad with power. But every once in a while, it's good to be reminded how things really are.

You say it's your birthday? Well it's my birthday too; yeah. Happy birthday to you . . .

Reunity

Oh 'Blog, you knew I couldn't stay away from you, didn't you? You've known all along, and yet you allowed me to play out my delusions, my fickle little fantasies of not needing you with an intense, feral desire. Only you hear me, 'Blog. Only you . . .

understand

me.

My hair is quite long now, and it isn't getting cut any sooner than the end of April, when

A Lie of the Mind

closes. (The director wants that "

Remington Steele

" look.) As with most issues concerning my self appearance, I vacillate wildly in my feelings about it. I have good hair. Shit man, I have

great

hair. I'll say it. It's soft and fine, without being too thin--it has just that right amount of body, so I don't really have to do anything with it if I don't feel so compelled . . . and I rarely do. In fact, the only complaint I ever have about my hair is that it tends to make me difficult to recognize from situation to situation. It's a proven fact: My hair length and style changes my face significantly, so much so that people I've worked with more than once will sometimes not place me when I see them again--say a month later--if I got a haircut.

{

I'm really worried about Jeff...he just keeps talking about his hair...I think he might be self-obsessing a little bit...then again, it is a freaking blog...I mean: " 'blog "...}

One thing having long hair makes me think about is the past. The reason for this is two-fold. Fold one is that hair is a record of cells gone by, so when I wear it long, I occasionally think about what was going on in my life when the cells at the tips of my current hair were dying and being expelled from the pores atop ma' noggin. At this length, I'd have to guess it was when I was doing

Operation Opera

(actors measure their lives in shows [actors: holla if ya hear me]), maybe propagating a flock of follicle fronds whilst singing a Queen cover, or enjoying a fire in David Zarko's fireplace.

Fold two is a memory of the time in my life when my hair was longest. Said time was the end of my Freshman year of college; a strange time. It wasn't particularly memorable in the moment, but in retrospect, about a million things were going on beneath the surface that would later sprout up and change my life for good. (Like hair, dare I suggest? [Too much there? {That was too much, wasn't it?}{Shit.}]) I won't (can't) get into all of that here, at least now, but it shaped me as an actor, a person and--more specifically--as a newly minted adult.

{...he's claiming a lot of self understanding now...what's he selling here?...at least he isn't talking about his damn hair anymore...}

I was a little miffed about not having permission to cut my hair for an occasion I attended this past weekend. That occasion was a sort of reunion, at least on my part.

I detest reunions, sort of for the same reasons I resent New Year's and Valentine's Days; it's an occasion where everyone is

trying so damn hard

to have a good time. And not just a good time, but the

right kind

of good time. That judgment, hanging about like smog, affects me, perhaps more than it should. And at reunions it's freaking LA smog, because everyone is taking stock of their lives (read: judging themselves against others). I favor a quote which refers to that notion, today's finsky quote:

"I know everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."

This reunion was actually a wedding. The girl I moved to New York to be with got married on St. Patrick's Day, and I was there. Don't worry: I was invited.

Why was I invited?

I can't say I really know. The break-up was fairly amicable, at least inasmuch as it could be with two very hurt people with rather little life experience involved, and I've made a point of staying friendly with her and her family. I still consider it pretty unconventional to invite the big ex to one's wedding, but ultimately I decided that it was their decision, and I wanted to go. I wanted to bear witness to the marriage of two people who love each other, and I wanted the brief reunion with people who had been my loved ones.

I guess I have to admit I'm taking stock of my life a bit, too.

{...oh God...here he goes...this is where it gets ridiculous with embarrassing clothes-rending and gnashing of emotional teeth...where's my iPod...I need to block out the sounds of his self-pity...}

It was amazing. Really amazing. Someday I'll devote a 'blog entry just to the adventure of getting to the church on time, but for now the amazement is from how welcomed I was, and how full of love the experience was for me. I was busy trying so hard to be as unobtrusive as possible, particularly at the reception, yet people sought me out, and everyone I caught up with I also shared a memory or two with that I couldn't have remembered without seeing him or her again. Sure, there were some more or less awkward moments for me (like when the Maid of Honor mentioned in her speech that my ex hadn't been seeing anyone while they were on tour together...suppressing laughter at that point was one of the more Oscar-worthy moments of my life to date) but all that was trumped by getting a rare and beautiful moment in life to remember someone I used to be, and say goodbye to him with fondness.

I don't know if I'm the only one who feels this way,

{...oh God, here he goes again...}

but I often wonder

{..."he wonders while he wanders"...dear Lord, save us from these musings...}

if I haven't

{...oh, hasn't he?...and what horror will--

Hey. Hey, Super Ego.

--me?

Yeah, you. Knock it off. You're being kind of a d&%k.

I'm doing no such

You're being kind of a d&%k. And I don't appreciate it. Now knock it off, before I'm forced to start following the "

The Secret

" program just to spite you.

{}

Anyway. I often wonder if I haven't lived so much, changed so much, that I've lost track of more versions of myself than I could possibly keep track of. Not that I essentially change, necessarily, and maybe this is just a matter of perspective. Some probably see their lives as fully integrated journeys of evolution. I can see it that way, too, but most of the time I look back and feel a great distance from my past thoughts and actions. It's a little bit like most plays I memorize. I can do a full production of a play, spend months learning and then performing lines, yet when I read the play a year later it seems alien to me. Then again, I know some words by heart that I may never lose, for no special reason. I mean, do you ever wonder if you're still who you've been before? Is this some kind of demented syndrome hatched from the habits of an actor, always moving from role to role, or is it more common than that? What do you think of yourself as you've been; and, when you think of him or her, do you feel better about that person, or the one you are now?

I was sought out recently by a fellow journeyman on

The Third Life

(tm), and an alumna of

my college

, one

Jason Carden

.

Jason

has been on the west coast for years, and I hadn't seen nor heard hide nor hair of him since he graduated, a year before me. We did two shows together in college,

The Three Musketeers

and

Stand-Up Tragedy

, and in the latter we sort of co-starred. About a month ago (whilst I was still in California: see

2/19/07

), Jason emailed me to see if we could catch up now that he was in New York for a while. I finally coordinated that with him tonight (a real miracle, given our combined schedules) and we met for dinner.

Once again I had the experience of recalling memories I never could have without the other person present. I was grateful that we didn't have to worry about one of those horrible one-ups-man-ship conversations actors can so easily fall into when catching up with one another, and before long we were confessing how much we hate the idea of reunions. Yet there was nothing awkward, or judgmental there. What there was, was a kind of understanding about the people we had been when we both had Richmond zip codes, and a curiosity about who we were now. And that was welcome, because not having to be explicit about who you are or where you come from is a relief as long as, at the same moment, a mutual respect is implicit.

Two struggling actors re-met in a restaurant today, and by the end of their conversation they were on the subject of

Batman

. Icing on the cake.

Ice was all over the street today. After a little period of promising warmth, March has whipped the city with frigid weather again. As Jason and I started to chat on the way to the restaurant, he mentioned that he had his hair cut short just the other day, and now he was really regretting the loss of insulation. I had to smile, feeling warm and oddly young.