If we offend, it is with our good will.

Today a month ago, I believe I was traveling somewhere thru Tennessee on my way to Staunton with Judd. An eternity ago.

Group shot of the troup in our festive black attire. Really makes Jake's Mandolin pop. I am Uncle Fester playing the bass.

The Ren Run blinked by and we all survived. Rough and tumble, new and brilliant, inspired in all of the right and wrong kind of ways. I tried things I knew I would never be able to get away with once we start touring to churches and high schools. Including Puck lighting joints for Oberon, a behind doors fairy sex scene during one of Oberon's more lenghty monolgoues, and a game show guessing game bit for "My mistress with a ____ is in love." The Puck that swaggerd about there has been shape-shifting ever since. Bits and different choices must be in conjunction with telling the story, not independent of that.

Just as expected, this first week of MidSummer rehearsal has proven to be the most challenging thus far. Primarily because of the physical toll that I have embraced. I have been having flashbacks of Austin Shakespeare's The Tempest. (On a side note to those of you who know the Tempest, ASC's production has the masque as a delicious drag show.) Each morning, I resurrect myself from death. I discover new muscles and try to unwind the others. Cricks and cracks resonating from my lumbar, shoulder socket and knee caps awake the street. I've been living in a squat, shifting into back rolls, leaps and multiple Indian dance numbers. To aid Stephanie's quick change out of Fairy Queen Titania into Xena Amazonian Warrior Princess Hippolyta, I have been granted a 30 second dance solo featuring a mash-up of traditial Indian dance, pop and locking and my old stand-by, the worm.

My ass looks slightly better every day. ;)

As Kate said, Puck is 7 years old sometimes and 3987394 years old other times. He is Oberon's homie, partner in mischeif, servant and pet all at the same time. Puck can be an innocent clown that just enjoys a good show, a dark scorserer, the audiences' host and comedian,  a dancing sex god, and a compassionate human. The possibility in his range is endless and I look forward to finding the nuances all year long. Justifying all of his sides to make a believable character is extremely challenging. I have found myself wanting isolation more often this week than any time before just because I need to release the day's load and let the pressure I exert on myself unwind. I took refuge in the disbanded HBO series, Carnivale and plowed thru both of its seasons in one week. It got to the point where I just had to finish it is soon as possible so I could be released from its clutches and move on with my life. (I heart Sophie and I hate them all for not letting me see what happened to demon Sophie.) 

I must say, there is less debauchery present than I would have ever guessed for a theatre troupe. As Glenn said last night, here in Staunton, they love their Jesus and they love their Shakespeare. (Not that everybody is a Jesus freak, but just to put the vibe in persepctive.) Thems fine folks that are involved with the company and the Mary Baldwin Literature department. More so than being wholesome, we are tired, and adding drinking to that equation just doesn't sound nearly as fun as it used to.

There is however ... the OTHER side of Staunton. There is a large population of this town waving confederate flags and hunter caps that don't like the fact that a bunch of Shakespeare heads, artsy panzies and high-end touristy shops have overtaken their town. Some muscley lug of a moron in a blue wifebeater and a grey pony-tail came up to Rick, Kevin and I on our front porch the other day and informed us that he has a dog named "KKK" and he is a good straight white dog. He told us where he heard some 'queers' lived.  He asked us if we were n***** lovers. I was so shocked I could only stare at him wondering if he was real or some sort of Huckleberry nightmare. I guess he saw three white men, two of which had shaved heads and thought he was in proper fellowship. I had to supress the urge to feed him a fist full of rotting trash. He showed us the scar on his head and said he only had half a head. I was not surprised.

The night before our Ren Run, Eugene and I were running some of our scenes outside when this really nervous sweaty drunk dude walked by holding a 40oz. Eugene, being the extremely friendly spirit he is, greeted him. The dude then proceeded to ask us for money or a ride because if he we didn't, he was going to jail. Eugene, being a New Yorker, doesn't own a car, and being an actor, doesn't have any money, apologizes politely that he couldn't help. I didn't offer a thing. The guy told Gene that if he couldn't help him, then don't even bother talking. We found out a few days later that that night, two convicts had escaped and were running from the police in Staunton.

For every nationally renowned Literature scholar that lives in this town, there is an ignorant toothless HillBilly or a sweating angry crackhead. I believe this is known as Ying-Yang. I ain't either one, so I must be pretty well balanced.

In that regard, I have heard, and seen to be true, that it doesn't matter what part of the world you go to, there are simple folk and geniuses and warm-hearted people and asshole douche bags, and warm-hearted geniuses, and asshole simple folk and warm hearted regular jos and asshole genius douche bags. They just all come in a variety of shapes and hues and accents. And all of this is in Shakespeare, too.

I am getting flashbacks to college classes, I am revisiting all of Michael, Laura and Chuck's classes. Michael's isolation work is coming more in handy now than ever, Laura inspired me to make interesting, creative and bold character and scene choices, and Chuck (and Dr. Charlton) taught me everything I knew about acting Shakespeare. If you are in any of their classes now, eat it up and hold on to those notes, because everything I can remember, I am using, and everything I can't remember I wish I had taken better notes on. However, acting is an art such that, you grow often thru the subconscious. I cannot explain how I have improved because my body learned things that my mind cannot articulate and it grows kinetetically and energetically thru practice and instinctual adjustment without book-readin'.

Now here is some random jibber jabber.

Baja Bean is not mexican food. It is barely food. Poor souls don't know good salsa here.

Rick Blunt has introduced me to the Avett Brothers, and I dig.

I don't feel like I have much to talk about to people. And it continues to be a struggle to hold a conversation with strangers when I don't know nothin but to report my day to day and comment on the weather. Often fabricating something for the sake of conversation doesn't prove as successful as smiling and just offering to listen. I internalize lots of happenings and am grateful to be exposed to soak up things, but all I can do in terms of expressing that vocally is jibber jabber. 'Make sense, Michael.' 'I can't. Not yet.' I do love nonsense.

It is hot and rainy. I yearn for the up close smell of a woman. No prospects. Lots of reflecting. Missing and reminescing. We are here for work, and the up close smell of a woman is one of three things that can truly distract from that. Crazy with them, crazy without them. I am certainly without it at the moment. The play is the thing. The play is the thing. Fairy lords, give me the mojo to make this Puck pop and cast a spell with this MidSummer Night's Dream. One day at a time, one day at a time, one day at a time. The play is the thing.

I miss and love all of you and give infinite hugs.

Love,
Dola.

Every wink of an eye, some new grace will be born.

Yesterday I walked by a veteran resident actor and casually offered a "Hey, how you doin?" He responded kindly and then heard him make an aside to nobody in particular, "Just another day at work at the ASC." That is when I remembered that I was wearing a wife-beater and a fluffy blue skirt.

Myself in said blue skirt, Eugene Douglass, Ronald Peet and Rick Blunt. Ren Run Preppin.

After two and a half weeks of falling in love with Winter's Tale, Antigon-izing, sheep-shearing, dirty dancing and some serious magical redemption, we are already moving on to a new play, new director and new characters. A MidSummer Night's Dream, ever heard of it?

Yesterday was our MidSummer Renaissance Run prep day. A Renaissance Run is when we perform the play on the first day of rehearsal for an audience without a director and only a day's amount of ensemble preperation. We seek out our own props and costume pieces, create our own music, and organically try to make some sort of logical blocking happen. This is more relative to how actors in Shakespeare's day would have worked.

It is a very valuable tool because you start the rehearsal process having already lived the play once together, you are already off-book and already have a feeling for the arc of the story. It also is your chance to show the director some ideas, strengths and gives you the freedom for some laughs and creativity that may not necessarily fit into the final vision of the production, but allows you to explore with live feedback.

It is exciting and a little bit nerve wracking, I will say that there is not much better motivation to be off book on the first day of rehearsal than knowing you are going to be performing that play for a live audience, some of whom may be the determining factor whether you may have a job next year.
It is very interesting comparing this Ren Run prep day to our first. 7 of us were completely new to the company, Kevin had performed with the troupe about six years ago, Jake and Denice (one of our super-powered married couples) and the Notorious RKB, Rick Blunt were returning veterans. We listened to what they said, we did the scene, we moved on.

This time around, we are all getting a lot more comfortable with each other and are starting to find and feel our value in the company. So there was a lot more discussion of how we felt about everything. There were also many more interesting ideas contributed. It was like we had so much creativity jumping out of everybody, but not enough time and not a single filter to channel it all thru. Within the first couple of hours we were way ahead of schedule, and with a couple hours left, we felt behind schedule.

But as our wise colleague, Bridget, said: This is the point in the relationship where this happens. We enjoy the honeymoon and then start to learn how to actually communicate and put up boundaries. (I may or may not have changed what she actually said... something like that, anyhoo.)

 We got thru everyting, sometimes twice or three times actually, but when 7pm hit, my brain felt like mush, and my thighs remembered what it was like in the Caliban days. We chased the rehearsal with some homeade ice cream ('Split Banana', heh heh.) and then a rendezvous at the Beer Garden to meet our new director, Kate Powers. (Who seems awesome.)

This art is so bizarre because as much as you work on something, there is always something more you feel like you could or should have done, some major or minor detail that you may just not have been thinking about or didn't touch on as often as you could have. And you just have to learn to be content with that, accept that the process is the art, and the product is what it is each time you do it. That's part of what makes it beautiful, but is a hard lesson to learn in zen. If you don't allow yourself to feel good about your work because you are always harping on that one detail, you are depriving yourself of much. Simultaneously, if you don't continue to seek out that one detail, how do you continue to grow? Just know when to let it rest.

And rather than continue with what will probably become my next post, I am going to let it rest. For it is my day off, and I yearn for a mocha.

I miss and love all of you that I cannot see everday.

A Professional Kid.

It's hard to remember to lay the m & m's down when you are sprinting thru the jungle.

My intention was to record and track my steps along this journey so that I may not only share my experiences with others, but so that I, myself, in my wrinkly flapdom, may remember what it was like to step out into the world and embrace a dream.

I have already missed many breathtaking leaps, but there are some pictures remaining. I am forever in debt to Judd Farris for making that sacred pilgremage from Austin to San Marcos to Nashville to Louisville to Blowing Rock to Staunton with me. Four of the most deleriously amazing days of my life.

So for a quick catchup. We did Love's Labour's Lost in Zilker Park in Austin with the greatest cast ever. Poker games, basketball, many a kirby lane outting and washers tournaments. I said goodbye to many friends that left Austin before me: Travis, Kathleen, Catlin and Emily. Had two wisdom teeth removed and hernia surgery. Beautiful going away flippity-flop jaunts where I had to bid adieu to many of the people who have shaped who I am.

Got rid of most of the shit I have ever owned, thwacked ourselves thru a 4 day road trip, and now I live in Staunton, VA in an old house with three other dude actors and some centipedes.

I rehearse nine hours a day, six days a week. I'm playing three roles, and learning two dance numbers. I'm playing bass, guitar, melodica and beat-box respectively in 9 of our 11 Winter's Tale set songs, and I go to dat fricking YMCA. Beer, coffee, water, Rick Blunt's musings, Daniel Steven's world news reports, stretching and Chapelle Show have been my warm hugs at the end of the day.

I feel the need to write things interesting, funny or entertaining. But I think from here on out, just the truth should be enough. Where this blog was my creative outlet from the drudge of the service industry, it is now my chance to just be boring. An outlet from the entertainment industry. But 'entertainment industry' sounds more like an LA kind of idea. This does not feel simply like a job. It feels like I have truly found my calling, and I am like a kid again. But a professional kid.

How cool is it that I get paid for this?

We have plunged into Winter's Tale. We have three other plays, countless songs and dances and thousands of miles to travel. I only walk a few blocks to and from work, and haven't finished work on one play yet. It is already exhausting. We. Are. In. Conditioning.
 Long days, millions of things to learn and remember constantly. You may hear one comment or instruction in passing while you are on the way to do something else followed by four other challenges to solve, and it is absolutely expected that you make that little thing happen. Communication is essential.

It is important to focus, but it is is also important not to get obsessed. Heaviness and lightness must be a switch that you can flick at a second's notice. You must know when to crack a joke and when to shut up and listen. You must learn how people work, what they need, you must learn how they play, what they like.

The people here are warm, focused and ridiculously talented (if not flippin' BRILLIANT). This is really everything I hoped it would be and more. The anticipation of something big is scary, but once you throw yourself into it... sans anything stupid like amateur bear wrestling... it turns out to be magical.

I miss my friends, breakfast tacos, and places that are open past 10pm. But in conclusion:

I really hope that I get to do something like this the rest of my life.

...but this is what I say after three weeks, over ten months left to go.

(Please excuse all syntax and grammatical errors, I be a movin' man and English will have to catch up later.)

Facebook and the Search for the Holy Vagina. A letter in excercise of Complaint.

I just drank out of yesterday’s beer instead of todays’. Does this mean I need help?

No matter.

I have constantly been told that as ‘an artist’ I should have a strong opinion and value about life so that, through art, I may change the world. I find it extremely difficult to find causes that I feel passionate about to the point that I might invite someone to piggyback on my soapy box.

I listen adamantly and politely to argument and persuasion, hold back mockery unless the opportunity is so boldly presented, listen to the next human that pleads opposite, and then go home to my stasis as an ignorant mass of carbon. In order to work on my evolution as either a passionate opinionated individual/ close-minded preachy asshole, I have a letter of exercise in complaint:

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Dear Facebook,

Thank you for constantly reminding me that I am alone.

On my profile I am plagued with giant billboards of intrigued Jewish girls, Christian girls and Taoist chicks. They have a false display of interest in me and it only gets my hopes up.  I truly doubt that they can see me, and if they did, they would only see my zombie-face hypnotized by the glow of the computer. I am also questioning how Christian this bitch might be if I can see ¾ of her areola popping out of her blouse. (that really isn’t a complaint) Although I appreciate the wide array of holy vaginal options, what makes you think that I would ever want to go out with somebody that actually knows what to think or believe in? ‘Opposites attract’. If that is true, than shouldn’t I be pining after a flounder or some other kind of flattened sea species?  They wouldn’t understand my jokes, although that would make it unanimous. Show me the sushi of my fantasies, effbee.

Who Would Jesus Do?

Haven’t you read any of my other interests, Facebook? Where are “girls that love crispy red grapes” or “girls that share a distaste for reality television and the people that watch it”? Or even getting to the point: “Brunettes with ghetto booties that like the arts and MIGHT let you sleep with them.” Do other people share this problem, or is it only me?

You have not successfully placed me into an appropriate advertising bracket. Thanks for constantly annoying me.

I understand that you need ads to receive money to keep your site up and running, and we share a symbiotic relationship because your work helps me advertise my petty drivel and musings to unsuspecting bored humans. So, I will not shut you down. YET. BUT! Effective Immediately, I would like relevant ads. I thought you knew me! We’ve been together for like six years now. I think we can work some of this out. I would like pictures of ducks, brunettes with ghetto booties and passion for the arts, and plentiful bowls of macaroni and cheese. Easy Mac has never broken my heart. If you can find a girl that smells like Mac N Cheese, all the better.

ALSO.

There is a little mark on my computer screen that I constantly try to erase because it disguises itself as an unintentional apostrophe.  Fix that asshole non-apostrophe, too.

Without Love,
Dola.

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Now that I have further proven to myself that I am indeed a million years old: My twenty-fourth birthday is this Saturday. And I know not what to do with myself. Note to self: write a to-do list, on that to-do list, write down to figure out what to do. Perhaps find something else to complain about publicly. I can write an anticipated entry about the horrors of growing old or the anguish of feeling obligated to have a good time.. well, where’s the surprise NOW?

I am having more and more trouble making this blog relevant to living life as an actor except proving that we are ego-centered. This is probably not an important lesson to learn.

“Now, four years after hearing all of the stereotypes claimed about actors, I can say with certainty, that they are all true.” –Ken HillWith Love,
Dola

Dang, just drank the wrong beer again. Why don’t I throw these things away?

Creekside Mexico City. Or, How to Determine if your House is trying to Kill You.

I recently saw a play, Crumble, in which the house a family lives in could speak directly to the audience. The father was murdered by the House who was not okay with being adorned with Christmas lights. I became paranoid. After further review, I have determined that my house Is trying to kill me.

If my quadraplex could speak, what would it say? It would be in Spanish. There would be barriers. Determining each other’s needs would be a challenge. Like most of my intimate relationships, long-term commitment is doomed.

The name of our pile is Creekside Mexico City.

My dear roommate, Travis has a real gift for christening inanimate objects such as houses and sandwiches. But are they really inanimate?

We share a quadraplex with three Mexican families that have 34098 inhabitants. (and that’s not including the animals and babies) . Often, I am not sure who actually lives there. We had some neighbors move out recently and in their truck was seven mattresses and they were still pulling more out while I walked inside. I’ll say this, they know how to consolidate space, and they probably never even played Tetris.

We regularly get gawked at because even though we live about 100 feet from Congress, we are seriously the only white people on the block.

A Neighbohood Soundtrack
4-7:30pm Tejano blasts like a war siren
9-9:27pm Drum Kit made of found objects coming from the little boy’s room next door
10-11pm Live scenes from mexican soap operas that could be useful for either a Domestic Violence PSA or a piñata advertisement
2 – 2:01am Car backfiring/Fireworks/Gunshots one or all of the above

We were regularly visited by a crack dealer that goes by the name of Nathan that lived across the street. He would ask for money and cigarettes. He slowly came to realize that we were just as poor and useless as he was, but that did not stop him from pestering us. I assume he is either dead or in prison at this point, because he disappeared. He did not ever bring us the fruit basket and hand soaps promised.

When we first moved in, we were like giddy newly-weds discussing color palettes and appetizers for dinner parties. I’m not gay, Mom. We took turns marinating our downstairs in retro avocado and dressing the ‘window’ with burgundy curtains. Still not gay, Mom.  (window is in quotes because it is actually a thin sheet of plastic. Don’t tell the scary neighbors). We strung lights in front, invested in some folding chairs and shop was set.  

Then Creekside Mexico City made its move.

The Squeal. The Puddles. The Stench. The Monsoon. The Rain of terror. The Theft.  

For a couple weeks I worked out in my room. Good Idea, said my biceps. The room disagreed. The floor is disguised with a happy veneer of carpeting, but for every step I take there is a squeal of mercy, then a simmering sound like that of a deranged cat whispering “fuuuuckkk you, Michael ssssssss….”. Under my flippers lays an embittered old man plotting my demise.

Then came The Puddles. We would run the washing machine or dishwasher and water would seep up through the tile all across the living room. Then came The Stench. The evasive, ghastly Satan Stench. You would catch a whiff somewhere in the kitchen. It was like poison. As if a demon pooped in your lungs and ran away. The landlords came, the ghost of Satan Stench hid.

Do you smell it?

No. They thought I was crazy. The stench flew past me, mocking.

There! There! I think it’s coming from the vent.

They smelled the vent. Nothing. Asshole.

Again it came. The fridge! It was coming from the fridge!

They, of course, would assume that it would be our own fault, some recently college graduates buying vegetables with health in mind, neglecting them for months in exchange for frozen pizzas. But low and behold, we are poor actors and cannot afford to stock our fridge with anything except condiments.

Finally the demon showed itself in the drip pan. It was a dirty job. I was happy not to do it. Apparently the previous tenant was an elderly woman who didn’t own a washing machine and had a sweet tooth. The freezer was always full of ice cream and the ice cream seeped into the drip pan where it died and rotted without a proper ceremony.

The house lost. For awhile …

One morning, I awoke with a sudden jerk. My face was wet. It smelled like pennies and road-kill. I hurried my glasses on to reveal what looked like an archaic treasure map on my ceiling. But it wasn’t an archaic treasure map. It was a soggy brown blot, quickly expanding and protruding into my private tomb. More copper bulbs sprouted until my ceiling was raining. I threw everything in my room out of its path and replaced it with garbage bags.

The landlord returned. She explained to me that in an effort to prevent the roof from caving in, she was strategically poke one hole in the now pregnant brown monstrosity to drain the carnage. Sort of like how they used to drill holes into skulls to cure headaches. The tiny little hole turned out to be the size of a bowling ball. I slept on the couch downstairs for two weeks. My neck still hurts.

A friend of mine, Catlin, came by a few months back to do a load of laundry. She plopped in her pile and she joined me at the table while I was googling random shit. She was telling me about our mutual friend, Kathleen’s trip to India. The village right below hers (it was on a mountain) got swept away by a monsoon and she spent most of the trip trying to help out the village. She eventually got violently ill from the water after using it to clean her toothbrush. Kathleen was not a happy camper. What exactly is a Monsoon? I Googled it and found a Youtube video of some skinny African women dancing in the rain. Some crazy rain trance music was blasting.

Um. Mike. MIKE. MIKE!!!

WHAT?!?

I looked at Catlin who was staring in horror at our kitchen. A monsoon of water was gushing out of the laundry closet.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuck.
We moved all of our belongings out of the way and started sweeping all the water out the door. (Luckily, our kitchen was raked) It took two hours. Her laundry wasn’t happy either.

Life was ‘normal’ again for awhile. Until I returned from my audition for the American Shakespeare Center in Virginia. I drove to San Antonio, flew to Minneapolis, flew to Baltimore, took a train to Charlottesville, car pooled to Staunton, did my Audition, car pooled back to Charlottesville, was driven to Baltimore, flew to Houston, flew to San Antonio, drove back home to Austin. Fell asleep. The next morning I walked out into the parking lot to discover my hood open, and my car battery a-wall. Creekside Mexico City’s Welcome Home Present. Touche Asshole.
Things have been somewhat quiet for a little while sans our loud neighbors. The house pities me because the rent payments are not coming easily. It is in hiding, working out a genius plan for when I am in a more staple economic situation. Or maybe my birthday. I can feel it steeping…

One may tell us that we should move. 

But hey, rent is cheap. And I like a house of several stories. ;)

The Flaming Ghost of FronteraFest Future

“What are you doing putting your manhood on the sink?”



Helen Allen, Laura Lane, Quinn Walton, Michael Amendola. Photo by  Jack DiBlasi


I am currently in rehearsal for a comedy written and directed by my friend John Boulanger. It is called A Writer’s Vision(s).

The play is a conglomeration of short plays John wrote in college. The story chronicles an aspiring playwright, Jerome, who in three wacky acts, with the help of a muse, an inner child, a mad-house of psychiatrists and a drag-queen, learns how to write, play, live and love. It is equal parts witty, campy, absurd and full of heart. It is certainly a ‘wild romp’. I don’t think I have ever said the word romp out-loud seriously, and could never take anyone seriously that did say it. But somehow I feel it is okay to write it down.  I am Michael am John Boulanger am Jerome am a museinnerchildragqueen. And somehow all of those … ‘people’ need to show up and live harmoniously within my body for the performance. Well … probably not harmoniously.

Most people that know of John will immediately associate him with ‘playwright’ because of his critical acclaim with House of Several Stories (HOSS) but he is truly an amazing director, producer and actor as well. John doesn’t even consider himself a writer anymore, which is absurd to anybody that has read his scripts or seen his productions. It’s as if Christopher Durang, Edward Albee, David Sedaris and Mel Brooks procreated a brilliant Mexican love-child, handed him a laptop, and spawned the future of Austin theatre. 

His writing is quick, his direction is quick, the rehearsals are quick. It’s intense. I feel like a fat three-year old trying to catch up with Michael Johnson. In addition, I am working alongside some of Austin’s most notable and experienced talents, Laura Lane, Martin Burke, Babs George, Jill Blackwood, Justin Scalise, Scott Swanson, Scott Shroeder, Breanna Stogner… and then its Travis, Quinn, Nick, Helen and myself trying to keep up. I am the lead and am on every page of the script. I am the luckiest pinball.



Photo by Jack DiBlasi

Like most productions in Austin, one of the biggest challenges is simply finding a place to rehearse.

We are nomads. So far we have done John’s Living Room, Travis High School and the Austin Playhouse. John’s Living Room was a lovely place to read and drink cheap booze, but did not offer enough room to block without murdering a lamp (especially because of the cheap booze). Travis High School only allowed for a couple rehearsals because of stupid Christmas Break, and we couldn’t smoke on campus, anyway.

The Austin Playhouse is actually a well-reputed Theater in Austin, has a good deal of money (for Austin) and thus a pretty decent playing space (for Austin). So we were all very excited. We gathered down-stage center for our pre-rehearsal banter discussing movies we’ve seen and the odd occurrences of our day when the cast of The Importance of Being Earnest, in their comedy of manners, politely told us to get the fuck out. Communication via e-mail often gets flubbed.

Luckily, there was a medium-sized closet next door that some people confuse for a theater. We gathered our martini plastics and cell phones from 1998 and moved next door where we discovered the set of A Christmas Carol rudely overstaying its welcome. (reference pictures now) It is ironic that we are rehearsing a play featuring three visions, and it is charming to look out a frosted window when it is 80 degrees outside, but it’s like sitting in coach sharing your seat with the left love handle of a super-fatty.

I would like to be in that big spacious playing space with the Earnest cast, discussing cucumber sandwiches in  proper British dialect, when all of a sudden:

“You’re not gay as in happy. You’re gay as in let’s suck some DICK!” reverberates from the wall.

.

The flaming ghost of FronteraFest Future has a home next door, and its name is A Writer’s Vision(s). If you ever wanted to see Babs George describe a pubic hair… 

                        PERFORMANCE DATES:
                        January 21 – 7pm
                        January 22 – 1pm
                        January 28-  10pm
                        January 30 – 5pm

                        @ Salvage VanGuard Theatre.
                        2803 Manor Road
                        Austin, TX 78722
                        Tickets $10 (512) 474-7886

A Writer's Vision(s) (facebook)

Peace, Love and Black-eyed peas,
Dola

P.S. Happy 2011.

Remember your morning poop. Or. Why I think about Jay Jennings at 8am.

What you do before 9am shows your level of commitment to success. Some people will swim 100 laps, run five miles, write a hundred pages, or build a doghouse before you even wake up. By the time you have drug your ass downstairs to start the coffeepot, somebody else has annexed a coffee-cultivating country. By the time you light up your first cigarette, somebody else has made a major step to curing lung cancer. I myself woke up at 10am today, but I have the day off, so shadddup.

My very first class in college was an 8am Movement class with a whimsical dancing old gay man winter named Jay Jennings. The man was always drinking a thermos of tea that we assumed had shrooms in it. There was also a serious consideration that the crane we noticed around the moat during smoke breaks was in fact, Jay Jennings. Whenever we saw the crane… we couldn’t find Jay… He spoke in a very soft, muzzled, throaty voice that shook along with his jaw and his eyes. Hmm… kind of like how a crane would speak… When he spoke to you, his eyes would dart back and forth between you and the grizzly bear that was sneaking up behind you. It made me very uneasy.

Annnnd …GO! AHHH!! You would perform the piece of crap that you assembled at 5 am because you were up trying to understand the genus specie family clusterfuck of a sunflower until 4! Then came his catch phrase! “This is DOGSHIT!” Which, depending on how high YOU were, would either make you laugh hysterically, or scare the poop out your butt. Note to self: Create a To-Do list. On To-Do list, write down to find a catch phrase.

                                                                              

The great white bird directed me in two beautiful shows, Rocky Horror Show and House of Blue Leaves. (More on those shows later…) He had an amazing sense for stage aesthetic and spectacle. (Shrooms) But his classes for the most part weren’t taken very seriously. I’m sorry to say. If he remembered your name, it was a good sign. I think this is a man who has been teaching for so long that he forgets what year it is and he doesn’t necessarily care either. Kind of like me waiting tables. Somehow, his presence would just ring as inspiration, anyway. Here I am thinking about him four years later and I haven’t even had my coffee, yet.

The thing I remember most about his class, (besides snorting a foot of powdered sugar in a dress for my Eddie Izzard piece) was when he introduced us to the book, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

Julia suggested that in order to smash creative blocks, I had to wake up and shit out three pages of writing in long hand every morning. There is no wrong way to do the morning pages, Julia wrote. Whenever I DID do the morning pages, they were most often self-pitying bites and snippets of blob. Why did I eat that NutRageous before bed? I have to lose some weight. Must start doing 150 pelvis throttle lifts every morning.. BACKWARDS. Nobody likes me. I’m going to be a pharmacist. People will like me once I am giving them drugs.  But it wasn’t important how self deprecating, angry, stupid or lousy these pages were. The important thing was that they get DONE.

THIS is the big distinction of the artist vs. non-artist for me, I think. An Actor, acts. A writer, writes.  An Artist makes art. A non-artist does not. As for the distinction of what is art, writing, acting, and what isn’t… that’s an argument I can’t even begin to find a foot in, yet. The value of that person is subjective, but the POINT is, if you are not doing ANYTHING, than you aren’t going to get BETTER at anything, and you won’t BECOME anything. We occupy a magnificent fear of embarrassment and failure, but if you aren’t willing to be caught pooping out some drivel in public, then how do you expect to conquer yourself. As Michael Costello would say, you have to live in the shit.

So. Remember your morning poop. 

Jay Jennings endorsed this idea. And I have recently discovered that Jay is 156 years old. And still teaches movement.

Or take some shrooms?

*photo from http://www.theatreanddance.txstate.edu/department/faculty/jennings.html