Poetry & Blindfolds

In 2009, I’ve had only two dalliances with the theater, both as part of the “24 Hour Plays”, a show that is created and performed in roughly 24 (not consecutive) hours.  The schedule was: actors, writers and directors all came together on a Saturday, then the directors and actors left, leaving the writers to construct ten-minute shows based on their few seconds meeting the various actors (and reviewing the show-and-tell of props that were volunteered).  On Sunday, the directors arrived at 2pm, read all the plays (pre-cast) and picked their favorites.  At 3pm, the actors arrived and were herded by their directors into various obscure locations (parking lots, coffee houses, basements, etc.) to rehearse until 8pm, when everyone re-assembled for tech rehearsal.  The next night, Monday, saw the full show open and close. 

The show, originally a product of New Yorkers, was fronted by producer Brian Cohen, a guy I watched intently.  He ruled with an iron fist, but one with velvet lining.  Very firm, but very nice about it.  I learned a lot off him. 

For my first show with “24”, I was a director, which I freely admitted was a way to dip my toe in the water as it seemed the easiest of the jobs (the other two being writer and actor).  Of the five pieces written for that week’s performance, I picked the oddest: two demons fighting over a just-deceased soul while eventually being trumped by a seemingly well-intentioned Angel of God.  The actors were an interesting hodgepodge of talents and abilities, so I thought it best to encourage them all not to act at all while they were doing their lines.  That approach worked pretty well, as they all shone well as a result, especially an actor named Liz Chase, who was brilliantly comic – despite having no lines and spending the performance tied up and behind a hockey mask.   How did she do it?  I don’t know.   My only theory: she’s got a bit of the Gilda to her. Scriptwise, I don’t think we had the strongest, but we got the most honest laughs for the night’s performance.

For the second show, I was recruited by Brian to be an actor.  I wasn’t able to attend the Saturday “meet and greet” and offered to do a video that Brian could show to the writers, but he said it was fine, that he would describe me.  And he did a good job, as I found myself in a three-person scene, playing a grumpy, been-there-done-that 40something with a bad attitude.  I was directed by Erik Wagner.  It is difficult for me to describe having a real director (and indeed, it’s hard to describe being an actor in a show I had no hand in directing, writing or producing, as that’s all I’ve done in the last 15 years), but suffice to say, if I only worked with Erik as a director going forward, I would be dead pleased.  Whereas as a director, I tend to guide and push, Erik pulls and suggests.  Our biggest difference is that Erik showed compassion and encouragement for all three of us equally; I tend to give more to the actors who want more.  Erik pulled from me some really sorrowful and dire characteristics, which were, by coincidence, honest feelings.

And I was funny.

I don’t often claim I am funny, as I always feel a struggle onstage.  However, for “Training”, written by Hope Rehak, I was funny.  Erik and I hugged after the performance and he and I both met Hope, and hugged her as well.  This was gross animals apart from my experience in the prior week as a director, when the cast dispersed instantly and I neither did meet nor had inclination to meet the writer.  I don’t think either way is better or worse than the other, but if there is a defining difference to my directing style and Erik’s, hugs afterwards may be it.

I got involved with the “24 Hour Plays” because 2009 has been many things, but it has not been my most creative.  After “The Tearful Assassin”, I wrote three (or three and a half) plays back-to-back and, while all are good, none are brilliant.  “24” gave me a chance to see a small cross-section of what was out there.  I did walk away from the experience grateful and enlightened, but also a bit more charged up on the writing side.  On the acting side, I was charged up for a while, but I’m just not sure I have much of a range.  However, the experience did make me think about doing stand-up.

No idea how that came up.  I can equate the idea of stand-up with the idea of herpes; it’s not there for months, even years, at a time; and then, poof, I’m red and splotchy.

To be continued, as always.

I’ve been loathe to write yet another blog about stopping smoking, but am going to anyway.  Over the last three weeks of being on Chantix, I have routinely searched for blogs involving other peoples’ experiences on the drug, as the official website is too rah-rah with asterisks leading to legal disclaimers and lists of side effects.  The blogs I have found are pretty horrific, not because of their content but because they rip open mental wounds I am doing my best to suppress or ignore.  Vivid dreams, depression, anxiety, loss of mental focus… all great to hear about, mind you, but really horrible when those are the exact same things I am struggling with.  I am not unsympathetic; I’m just having trouble being empathetic.

Still, I’ll write about my experiences a bit just in case it helps someone, somewhere.

The upside:

At present, my last full cigarette was on Tuesday and I have gradually stopped counting the hours – and more importantly, I have giving people updates (“24 hours!”).  I am feeling a lot more like a non-smoker who used to smoke and less like a smoker who is just not smoking at the moment.  It has taken three weeks to get here, and on that score alone, I am pleasantly surprised and happy.

I’m also taking three or four flights of stairs every morning and not feeling at all winded.  I like that, too.

The downside:

Depression, irritability, restlessness.  On their own, these three words seem harmless enough, especially compared with the two “upside” paragraphs.  But lemme tell ya, they are not harmless.  As can be determined by the distance between blog posts, my inclination towards writing – or indeed, any kind of creativity – has dropped off almost completely.  My sexual energy has evaporated.  My desire to do theater and all the things that go along with it – giving actors a good experience, giving audiences a great experience – ehhh, don’t care really.  My attempts to re-work ‘Touching Base’ and ‘Lilac’ are like noticing a pretty car driving down the street: momentary interest and then resignation that it’ll be gone in a few seconds.

I am sad at random.  My worst moment, and one that seems to crystallize my whole present, is after work when I am on the train platform going home.  And I see people with spirit in their stride, spark in their eyes and friends nearby.  I have none of these.  So I sit and gradually feel myself get smaller.  To counter this, I leave work early or late.  But that’s only marginally successful.

Home is no better.  I feel bad for Jennifer, my girlfriend, and completely understand why she doesn’t engage me.  I wouldn’t engage me.  This week, with two or three exceptions, everything that one person has said to the other to get a response has been me asking her something.  She doesn’t really talk to me at all.  Which sucks, as I talk to about four people for a week (my boss, a secretary, Jen and our therapist), so not talking to Jennifer knocks my sphere down by 25% out of the gate.  And it’s not like I talk to my boss or the secretary that much anyway (one person says ‘can you do this’ and the other says ‘yes’).  The therapist is good for spirited discussion, for 50 minutes, and as long as I’m paid up.

Mind you, it’s quite possible she does talk to me - I may be just distracted by the chatter in my brain - but I just don’t remember.

And when I’m not feeling isolated or sad or depressed?  I’m borderline high.  You know that first level of high?  When you are planning to get high (either by drugs or drink) and you reach that pre-buzz level when you’re out of sync with everything?  That’s me, straight.

Now I *know* my life isn’t bad.  I am generally a fringe-y guy anyway; I prefer to watch the world and put it into my plays, etc. than be in it (like a journalist, in a way).  However, these three weeks can only be depicted with the rather dead-to-the-world description I make above.  Again, my life isn’t bad; it just feels really bad.

I don’t know why I didn’t stop smoking sooner.

That’s a joke.

I’m trying…

As I enter Week Three of taking Chantix to quit smoking, I haven’t written much of anything.  I have told various people that I have been merely giving myself a bit of a break - after all, I’ve produced upwards to three shows a year for almost the whole of the decade.  In truth, I’ve just been in those murky depressed waters and my inspiration has been so dismal that I daren’t put it on paper.

This last week hasn’t been as bad as the week before - I haven’t found myself sitting at the train station after work, watching people go on with their lives and gradually feeling smaller and smaller to the point where I’m sure I will disappear, forgotten utterly.  So that’s good.  I do have a heaviness that is following me around, though.  I’m not sure if that has to do with stopping smoking or just getting my sense of smell back and discovering that Chicago stinks a great deal of the time.

I remain irritable.  Purposefully, I am avoiding Facebook.  Unfortunately, I have too many actor friends who use Facebook as their own free public relations firm, and I am inundated with how happy people are - CONSTANTLY - and how they have the best friends OF ALL TIME or have had the best weekend EVER.  Being on Facebook is like being in Stepford, though it must be said that even Stepford had trees and even the trees had shadows occasionally.

It got me to thinking that maybe I should whittle my Facebook time and friends down to something more manageable.  After all, I have reasoned, really successful people - the kind I would like to be - aren’t on Facebook.  They just haven’t the time.  I should be like that, I figure.

The irritation has levelled off and is sharing my mental stage with a sense of humor again.  Last week, I was unfunny.  Completely.   I would catch my reflection here and there and not instantly recognize myself.  This week is better, and I’ve taken to editing my play “Touching Base”, as well as looking at various databases to scope out some potential cast and crew, including director.  Everyone wants to be a director, but I seem to be losing that goal.  It’s such a shitty, shitty, shitty job.  So if I can write (and take a small role in the process) and have some other person direct…. cool.

I’ve also taken a good look at my piece entitled “Lilac”, in which a memory comes to terms with who he/she/it is while roaming the mind of a female character.  It’s the kind of play I would have avoided in earlier days.  Too Charlie Kaufman.  But, as it is coming together, and different memories interact with each other - as memories do in real life, merging and editing each other - the more appealing the project has become.  The standard arcs are in place (the memory character has a definite goal, and is transformed by the realization of what/who he/she/it is) so I’ve taken to exploring the shading of the piece, which for me is the most interesting bits of a play.  The plot points are all well and good, and well needed, but it is the casual observations or furtive glances that go unspoken — that’s the good stuff.