Mysteries and Secrets

Neil Gaiman

.

Neil Gaiman is an incredible treasure of storytelling, whom I can appreciate largely due to the years-ago efforts of

Expatriate Dave

to make me experience as much of Mr. Gaiman's work as possible. Since that time (around age 17, this was) I have consumed every iota of his work that I could, and his work includes comics, other literature, movies, a

daily 'blog

and numerous odds and ends besides. If you don't know his work, you should, even if you don't consider yourself a fan of fantastical fiction. He has very good ideas, and he steals awfully well. By which I mean that one of the things I love about his work is the way he can tie together disparate old ideas and stories with new ones and make something appreciably unique. This could be considered a decent description of what any artist endeavors to do. Neil Gaiman is an artist.

I decided to write about him today because I have noticed many disparate ideas and stories coming together for me lately that point his way. In brief:

  • I'm reading a book about him I received for Christmas.
  • He was just on "The Colbert Report," which I stayed up to see (WAY past night-before-open-call bedtime).
  • He just made Wife Megan's esteemed list of Famous People With Whom She Would Like to Have a Conversation.
  • I've been enjoying the fiction-writing process of late, especially with Friend WHftTS.
  • Expatriate Younce actually confessed some writerly desires to me the other night -- a victory for the cause of Fiction, I assure you.
  • He recently experienced a personal loss that makes me wish I could do something for him, as he's done so much for me.

I had an opportunity to share a word or two with Neil Gaiman a few years back, when he was in town signing copies of his short-story collection,

Fragile Things

. He was interviewed by John Hodgman, which was hilarious and insightful, and then took a seat at the back of the room to sign hundreds upon hundreds of signatures. I waited my turn in line with my and Megan's books, and I thought about things. I had a signed copy of his novel

Stardust

that I had won in a costume contest back in my home town, and it seemed unbelievable that I was going to watch him sign a book from my very hand. I wondered what I would say, and suddenly the whole thing felt eerily familiar. Looking back, I realize the panic I felt was the exact same feeling I have waiting for an open call. Suffice it to say, I thought of a million things I could say. When I got to the table, I squeaked. Something. I don't know. I think I've since blocked it out. But I know it was squeaky, whatever it was.

The Zen Buddhists believe that the elimination of desire is a key to enlightenment. When I want something as much as to be cast off-Broadway, or to get into a discussion about mythology with Neil Gaiman, I can see their point. It can be crippling.

Mythology, as a concept, is a very interesting way of looking at our lives. Obviously I would say so -- see name o'blog -- but a few thousand years' worth of actual mythology may be said to back me up on this as well. I used to think of mythology on the whole (and prepare for more sweeping generalizations here) as a way of devising answers to difficult questions. I was taught that these stories came about because primitive peoples needed an answer to things like lightning storms, death and babies. I won't argue against that theory, but it is only one theory. The more I learn about them, the more I see the enduring mythologies as stories and beliefs that return people to essential questions, rather than direct answers. Moreover, I see mythology not as giving us guidelines or neat morals for our living, providing context, so much as it

changes our story

. Stories influence other stories, and one person's life can be said to be a (hopefully) long, largely sequential story. What I realized while standing in that line was that Gaiman's stories had profoundly affected my life, my story. In fact, just at that moment, it seemed entirely likely that his stories had had the most influence on mine, out of all of them. Thus: Squeak.

I don't know if myth and mystery have any relation, etymologically speaking, but I find them to be very closely related. Brothers, almost. In his famous

Sandman

graphic novels, Gaiman resurrected DC Comics' versions of Cain and Abel as the keepers of mysteries and secrets, respectively. According to that particular mythology, a mystery is a mystery because it was meant to be shared, a secret a secret because it ought to be forgotten . . . if it can be. Mythology, fiction, stories, they all confront unanswerable questions in one way or another, and it's by sharing them that we fulfill their functions. So I hope you'll share in some of Gaiman's, because it's no secret that they're uncommonly good.

Running Up the Bill

I've spoken with a few people about the curious case of the open call last week (see

3/12/09

) and continue to feel the way I felt about it at first blush. And believe you me: I did blush.

This morning I awoke later, though still ahead of my alarm, and unhurriedly got myself bundled to stand in line for a time slot in an open call again. This time the call was at The Public, for their summer production of

Twelfth Night

. There is very little reason to believe that I will be cast from an open call for such a thing and, besides that, I have committed to other adventures this summer that would interfere something fierce. The agency with which I freelance claims to be looking into the barest possibility of maybe potentially setting up a scheduled audition for the exact same show, perhaps. So why attend at all? Well, that's exactly the sort of question one asks oneself whilst waiting outside for one's fingers and/or toes to drop off. Add to that the fact that I was potentially losing precious paid hours at el day jobo, and it seems downright foolhardy to stand around for a couple of hours with March's lions raging about you. But

Running Girl

(where-so-ever she may now be) had an interesting effect on me. In addition to putting open calls into a more sensible perspective, she got me wondering how much I still have to learn.

Intellectual curiosity is a wonderful gift.

I've had every intention of continuing to audition, open call or no, beyond my experience with Shakespeare on the Sound. Somehow, though, embarrassing as it was, receiving a specific response to my experience of auditioning that day made the whole effort seem far more rational, more attainable to me. More human, to put a finer point on it. I had proof that auditions were not just about a monologue, however uneventful they may seem, but a dialogue. It was a weird experience to hear back from someone I mercilessly critiqued -- reminiscent of reading my own reviews for productions, especially when they're written by total strangers. I suppose casting directors don't often hear such direct critique one way or another, and it's probably owing at least in part to Running Girl's acting background that she could have such a grounded response to my ignorant assessment of her state of being. Of course I was embarrassed. I was also inspired. So, if you're reading this, I'm sorry, Running Girl -- and also: Thanks.

More after the audition . . .

* * *

Now was that so bad? (Answer: No, it wasn't.) I've figured out very specifically what my misconception about auditions is. While I know it not to be true from my intellectual side, my emotional side still insists on every instance of minute-and-a-half audition time being my chance to change things for myself. This is a common ailment amongst those who want something so bad they can just taste it. It is a little less common to have made as little progress as I in abandoning this fantasy by my age, but I'll not dwell on that. I've always been a bit of a slow learner when it comes to certain bits of common sense. I live day by day, but I thrive on my dreams, and it can be a simple matter to dwell in one's thriving.

I just made registration for the audition slot, speeding from work at the last possible minute and getting directly on the 6 for Astor Place. The Public was a'sprawl with young actors, and a few older ones, and the proctor was glad to see I made it in time. It wasn't too long before we lined up outside the rehearsal studio, and I was third in line. It was another popular call, and another in which they were fitting in as many people as they possibly could. They had so many alternates, though, that they were turning away non-Equity performers just as I headed inside. Within there was just one of the three casting associates from the billing, but with an assistant. I did the same monologue, and tried to enjoy it. I think I was lacking in my "living in the moment," but that may be my own comparison to dozens of other times doing the balcony monologue. Either way, I was thanked and I left with very little response from the pair one way or another, and I felt . . . like I accomplished something significant. Small, but significant.

Then again, you need a little dreaming, even if you just aim to live. When I auditioned for

Spider-Man

(see

7/28/08

) I had NO hope of getting the part, and I had a fairly terrible audition, but just acting on the dream was fuel for some good work thereafter. I can't say for certain where we find the right balance between the dream and the life, but I can say that I'm pretty happy with what progress I've made thus far toward finding the one in the other. And for that, I actually owe thanks to everyone who has participated in the dialogue.

Thanks, everyone. Luck 'o the Irish to you in your thriving.

Luminous Dispersion

Back at the start of December, before it was even properly winter, I wrote (see 12/4/08) about Friend Natalia's art installation in Brooklyn: Luminous Accumulation. It has been up all winter and, come Sunday, dismantlement shall begin. In other words -- last chance! Natalia sent out some lovely photographs of this exhibit in the snow as part of her notice of its approaching end . . .

The Run Down

It was dark out when I awoke this morning, suddenly, and for no particular reason. I woke up with Shakespeare on my lips, "...speak again, bright angel, for thou art...." After almost an hour, I gave up on getting back to sleep, and squinted at the clock hard enough to make out some numerals. 5:00. May as well get up. I take it easy, making my breakfast and lunch and showering and shaving, sparing a moment or two to check in at Google Reader, and then I'm out into the chilly air.

I should have dressed warmer. The predawn temperature is just below freezing, and it's been a few days since I've had to deal with that. I turn my back to the wind on the train platform, and when I get outside of the Actors' Equity building I nestle as well as I can manage against a deli's storefront window. Waiting in line takes on a peculiar atmosphere when it's that early in the morning. Everyone has chosen to be there, and there's nowhere to rush to, only the question of whether they'll consider the weather (or not), and let us into the building much before 8:30. Once my hands warm up a little more, I read my book, pausing here and there to run over my monologue in my mind; not just the words, but imagining it as though I were living it under ideal circumstances. I'm in Italy. I'm in Civita di Bagnoregio, under a balcony that's jutting out from a building on the outskirts of town, where the gardens are, isolated. On the balcony is the most beautiful girl I've seen in my entire life. It's

warm

.

They let us in (mercifully early) and as we initiated march by the building guard we hold out our membership cards. Once past him, I begin to return it to my wallet, then remember that I'll have to show it again once up the stairs and headed into the studios. I keep it in hand and end up walking past a great many actors who were there to sign up for free tax processing, the fifth past the monitor, the fifth in line to sign up for an audition spot, the fifth to sit, and wait some more.

It was my first audition since arriving back in town. My first, to be perfectly frank, in many months. "Shakespeare on the Sound" is doing

A Midsummer Night's Dream

and, it would seem, casting all roles. I figured it would be a popular call, and I figured right. Hence my early-morning line-waiting. I needed to get a slot of my choice, to make it work with . . . er . . . work. As the hour of nine steadily advances, they finally start signing people up, and I take 12:30. It's possibly the worst slot in terms of the receptivity of the casting director, just before the lunch break, but they don't start until 9:30 and I haven't run this one by my day job, so I can't come in late. More fool me. I take my slot and a brisk walk from 46th and Broadway to 30th and Park, arriving just in time to start the work day.

It's harried at work. It has been -- economy, lay-offs, etc. I'm making it worse. My temper is edged with a diamond crust of anxiety, but I try to be aware of it and not externalize irrationally. Instead, I channel it into things that need doing around the office that are also physical. Sitting at my desk and working is not at this point an option. I move boxes and clean areas and organize files, but I can only hold on to this for so long until something urgent and desk-related comes my way, so I hunker down. My attention is a bucking horse, as much in danger of slamming into a wall as of throwing its rider. I double- and triple-check assumptions as I work, but my work is not slowed, I'm running at such a pace. Most of my coworkers use this energy all the time. I do not know how they do it. I feel like I'm sprinting toward 12:00.

Then I'm out the door. It's my "lunch break," but that's not what has me rushing. It's a couple of avenue blocks to the N/R, and if the trains screw me I have the potential to arrive late for the call for my time slot. The trains cooperate, I walk in just as they're registering the 12:30 group. I hand over my registration card and headshot/resume, the second to do so, and so the second in line to go in. I've fifteen minutes to kill, and I do so by checking the audition notices posted on the giant bulletin wall and meandering through warm-up gestures. It's awkward to warm up at Equity. The place is a throng of people trying to look more casual than they feel, and you disrupt that when you sit on the floor and twist your spine. I try to loosen up in spite of it all, try to be warm and loose and receptive. As I do so, people from the "alternates" list are being lined up in amazing quantities. It seems this casting director is quite a firecracker; she's getting twice the people in each time slot as is expected. Before too long, the 12:30s are lined up outside the door. The first goes in, and I have 1-3 minutes to prepare.

The proctor has told us the casting director wants brief Shakespeare (check), our best piece (check), and no eye contact (this is irritating when it comes to direct-address dialogue, but standard procedure for auditions -- check). I abandon all pretense of being relaxed, and in that mystical, permissive space just outside the studio door I stretch, and twist, and breathe. It's too late to run over the lines again, but I do anyway, speedy, just for the words. I think of myself walking in and charming the pants off of a new person, easy, calm, likable. This is going to be fun, I tell myself. I get to revisit Romeo for a couple of minutes. This is going to be fun. The first auditionee opens the door and walks out, leaving it slightly ajar for me. I know not to engage her too directly. The switch from audition state back to real life is a halting one for most. I walk through and close the door behind me.

And almost immediately, I see that the hours of anticipation were not, in this case, worth it.

This poor casting director. She looked exhausted, disappointed, disengaged -- stick a fork in her, because she is done. I heave a little mental sigh whilst going straight for the first chair I lay eyes on (it has arms, I didn't anticipate that, what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is an audition studio doing with such a fancy chair) and smiling broadly, saying "Hi, I'm Jeff Wills." I get a deflated "Hi Jeff," Pause. "And what will you be doing today?" It sounds slightly accusatory. "A little Romeo," I reply. Getting no particular response, a hand her my own pause, and begin.

It's a tiny room, and I suddenly realize that though I'm speaking perfectly well for our proximity and the context, it won't do for showing her that I have a voice that can support Shakespeare. Plus, I've overcompensated in my not looking at her, so Juliet on her balcony is to the high upper right, and the "audience" is . . . on an adjacent balcony, I suppose? (Great seats; must have cost a fortune [maybe they know someone in the cast].) The casting director must feel positively underground, which is fine by me, because it's rather how she's made me feel so far. But I haven't given up hope. I'm playing with my choices in the monologue, adapting on the fly, making it far sweeter than ever it was in our raucous production. Too sweet? I up the lust ante on "...that I were a glove on that hand..." and check in with myself to make sure I'm taking my time, in spite of instinct informing me that I have

not

hooked my audience. I'm doing fine, but not making friends and influencing people, and, dang it, not living it, not getting carried away.

Forget it,

I think, though not in those exact words, and as I round third base I rock back on my heels and crane up to the heavens, getting louder and stronger as I proclaim, "...for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white, up-turned, wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him as he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and SAILS upon the bosom of the air!" I carry it through to the absolute end of the line (thanks, Simon Callow), that top it off with a little take to the balcony that says, I hope, "O . . . was that a little loud?"

"Thank you," I announce to my actual audience, who so far as I can tell hasn't looked up from the table the entire time. "Thank

you

," she replies. I can not tell if the emphasis is automatic, or if she genuinely appreciated my contribution to her day of endless verse, or if she was in fact thinking,

one down three more and some alternates to go thank you merciful God

. I move the chair back to where I found it, allowing for just the briefest second to gestate into conversation, or at least a question. Ultimately unhindered by such an obligation, I walk out, displacing the next sucker in. Just now it seems weird to me that I didn't add a "bye," but it didn't at the time. It just didn't seem welcome, somehow.

It's on with hoodie, with pea coat, and my various daily props back to my pants' pockets. I'm out the door and headed to the subway, no time now to walk back to work if I'm to get there before 1:00. I don't feel disappointed, of course. I feel only that familiar sense of relief I always have after surviving another open call. It wasn't a bad one to re-enter on.

The thing now, is to keep going.

"Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."

Or:

Wabi-sabi

.

From

the Wikipedia article on

Jujutsu

:

"The Japanese have characterised states of mind that a warrior should be able to adopt in combat to facilitate victory. These include: an all-encompassing awareness,

zanshin

(literally 'remaining spirit'), in which the practitioner is ready for anything, at any time; the spontaneity of

mushin

(literally 'no mind') which allows immediate action without conscious thought; and a state of equanimity or imperturbability known as

fudoshin

(literally 'immovable mind')."

With regards to

anshin

and

mushin

, I've done some significant work in my life. Being ready for anything at any time is applicable to improvisation, stage combat, temping, not to mention simply trying to get acting jobs. Spontaneity, the release of conscious thought, is harder for me but a life in the theatre naturally keeps me in reasonable form.

Fudoshin

, if I understand it correctly, is one in which I have to date been sadly lacking. I'll try not to judge myself here -- "sadly," it may not be; but "lacking," certainly. For most of my life I've regarded such a quality to be ultimately negative, relating it to stubbornness or narrow-mindedness. As I embrace my adult life, however, I begin to see that it is not only a desirable quality in many cases, but a necessary one, in some.

Of course, the Japanese express the idea more beautifully than I could ever hope to:

"A spirit of unshakable calm and determination,

courage without recklessness,

rooted stability in both mental and physical realms.

Like a willow tree,

powerful roots deep in the ground

and a soft, yielding resistance against

the winds that blow through it."

So how do we cultivate this quality, this ability, this eventual instinct in our lives? That's one of the things I'm aiming to find out.