I am a compulsive resolution maker. I have stuck to a couple throughout the years -- one involving regular exercise and one involving regular journalling. So, yeah...go, me!
I am loath to make resolutions this year because I realize that the very nature of my existence is so cattywumpus that my plans would inevitably wind up looking dumb. "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley." That's by Robert Burns. Who also wrote "Auld Lang Syne." Guess he was bad at resolutions, too.
On January 1, 2012, if you had told me I would sing on top of the Cincinnati Reds' dugout, I wouldn't have believed you. If you told me I'd get to meet a penguin, I wouldn't have believed you. If you said I'd get a free trip to Alaska, I wouldn't have believed you. If you said I was going to work fairly consistently throughout the year, I might have believed you a little bit, but that's still something an actor isn't prepared to take on faith. So, if I make some plan NOW for what I should do THEN, I'll just feel bad when the carnival that is my life opens up a new side show for me and I don't get around to learning Portuguese.
I will, however, make one resolution that will be apocalyptically awesome if I can manage to pull it off, but will in no way hinder my happiness if I can't. I resolve to stand in front of Michael Caine and get him to say "The Prestige" to me. I will also record it and use it as my ringtone.
Happy New Year, you beautiful jerks. Happy New Year.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
2012
In 2012 I...
-Touched a penguin
-Did six or seven (or eight?) Equity shows
-Travelled the country for work
-Flew on the trapeze
-Hosted friends in Chicago
-Saw a college friend read dirty limericks in Cincinnati
-Rode a rollercoaster with two of my favorite newlyweds
-Got a job teaching
-Directed a show that I am INSANELY proud of
-Spent my eighth summer at Improv Acadia in Maine
-Got to visit some of my oldest and dearest friends in MA
-Helped produce a campaign video for one of my oldest friends
All of the best things that have happened to me this year are related to the people I am blessed to call friends. Honestly, there is nothing that I can ask for in 2013 that is greater than the incredible gift of the talented, kind, driven, hilarious, inspiring people that I can call my friends.
-Touched a penguin
-Did six or seven (or eight?) Equity shows
-Travelled the country for work
-Flew on the trapeze
-Hosted friends in Chicago
-Saw a college friend read dirty limericks in Cincinnati
-Rode a rollercoaster with two of my favorite newlyweds
-Got a job teaching
-Directed a show that I am INSANELY proud of
-Spent my eighth summer at Improv Acadia in Maine
-Got to visit some of my oldest and dearest friends in MA
-Helped produce a campaign video for one of my oldest friends
All of the best things that have happened to me this year are related to the people I am blessed to call friends. Honestly, there is nothing that I can ask for in 2013 that is greater than the incredible gift of the talented, kind, driven, hilarious, inspiring people that I can call my friends.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Incredible
Improv, as an art form, is ever-changing. There are people who set out to do the impossible, the never-attempted, the ambitious in their improvisational performances. I just saw one of the most wonderful improv performances of my life tonight: The Improvised Sondheim Project (http://www.improvisedsondheim.com/).
A FULLY IMPROVISED MUSICAL IN THE STYLE OF SONDHEIM! It should be impossible. But these guys? They f*cking NAILED it.
Monday, December 17, 2012
My favorite
This has come back to me a lot in the last few days. I love it. From "Hallelujah":
"...even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."
"...even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."
Love
I wrote the last post the evening before the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Clearly, there has been even more time for meditation on the nature and repercussions of loss. Fuck. More loss is the absolute last thing the world needed right now.
Completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the crime, stunned by some insensitive responses by some of my "friends," horrified by the facts of the crime, I could think of no response. After a few hours, it hit me... The only possible response for me was to say "I love you."
In 2009, I was living in a town that saw another horrible tragedy. A gunman went to a picnic celebrating a local theatre company and opened fire. He killed three people and, eventually, himself. The day of the shooting, friends who knew the victims gathered at our house. My husband pulled me aside and said "I don't know what to do... We didn't know the people who were killed, so I don't know what to say..." I said "Well, we know them," I pointed to the friends sitting in our living room, "and they are hurting, so just tell them you love them. Tell them you're sorry." The lingering effect of this long, horrible day is that none of us who experienced it together ever part from friends or loved ones without saying "I love you." Never.
So, that's the response I have today. I love you. That is the only response possible for me in the light of this tragedy...in the light of any tragedy. I love you. It's only when we recognize and live as if everyone on this planet is as important as we are that these kinds of tragedies will cease to be. I am you, you are me, we are in this together.
I'd say more, but my wonderful friend Brian already said it so well:
"More than forty-eight hours have passed since nigh on incomprehensible evil descended upon Newtown, Connecticut. Two days have come and gone since the lives of twenty loving, joyful, inquisitive children were cut far too short. Two days have come and gone since seven dedicated, compassionate, nurturing souls who pledged themselves to shaping the lives of young people were snatched from this world.
Two days have come and gone since a troubled young man, not long removed from his own childhood, succumbed to demons within himself and became an instrument of horror that threatens to overwhelm us with its magnitude.
More than forty-eight hours later and I - undoubtedly, like the rest of you - still struggle with a mind that reels, a heart that aches, and a soul that desperately wishes to know peace in the face of such profound and meaningless loss. When will we heal? How do we cope? What do we do?
We love.
We love family. We love friends. We love strangers.
We love the young and the old. We love the rich and the poor. We love the strong and the infirm.
We love those who seem ready, willing, and able to return our love. We love those who, perhaps, never will.
We love when we feel capable of taking the entire world within our embrace. We love when we feel so fatigued - mentally, physically, emotionally - that we're unsure whether we're capable of summoning the strength to love ourselves.
We love as much as we can in any given moment, on any given day, for the rest of our lives.
We love knowing that the simple act of doing so kindles a spark inside ourselves that illuminates us from within, and that our combined light is capable of dispelling the deepest shadows in a world that can be disconcertingly dark.
We love."
Completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the crime, stunned by some insensitive responses by some of my "friends," horrified by the facts of the crime, I could think of no response. After a few hours, it hit me... The only possible response for me was to say "I love you."
In 2009, I was living in a town that saw another horrible tragedy. A gunman went to a picnic celebrating a local theatre company and opened fire. He killed three people and, eventually, himself. The day of the shooting, friends who knew the victims gathered at our house. My husband pulled me aside and said "I don't know what to do... We didn't know the people who were killed, so I don't know what to say..." I said "Well, we know them," I pointed to the friends sitting in our living room, "and they are hurting, so just tell them you love them. Tell them you're sorry." The lingering effect of this long, horrible day is that none of us who experienced it together ever part from friends or loved ones without saying "I love you." Never.
So, that's the response I have today. I love you. That is the only response possible for me in the light of this tragedy...in the light of any tragedy. I love you. It's only when we recognize and live as if everyone on this planet is as important as we are that these kinds of tragedies will cease to be. I am you, you are me, we are in this together.
I'd say more, but my wonderful friend Brian already said it so well:
"More than forty-eight hours have passed since nigh on incomprehensible evil descended upon Newtown, Connecticut. Two days have come and gone since the lives of twenty loving, joyful, inquisitive children were cut far too short. Two days have come and gone since seven dedicated, compassionate, nurturing souls who pledged themselves to shaping the lives of young people were snatched from this world.
Two days have come and gone since a troubled young man, not long removed from his own childhood, succumbed to demons within himself and became an instrument of horror that threatens to overwhelm us with its magnitude.
More than forty-eight hours later and I - undoubtedly, like the rest of you - still struggle with a mind that reels, a heart that aches, and a soul that desperately wishes to know peace in the face of such profound and meaningless loss. When will we heal? How do we cope? What do we do?
We love.
We love family. We love friends. We love strangers.
We love the young and the old. We love the rich and the poor. We love the strong and the infirm.
We love those who seem ready, willing, and able to return our love. We love those who, perhaps, never will.
We love when we feel capable of taking the entire world within our embrace. We love when we feel so fatigued - mentally, physically, emotionally - that we're unsure whether we're capable of summoning the strength to love ourselves.
We love as much as we can in any given moment, on any given day, for the rest of our lives.
We love knowing that the simple act of doing so kindles a spark inside ourselves that illuminates us from within, and that our combined light is capable of dispelling the deepest shadows in a world that can be disconcertingly dark.
We love."
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Theatre
Theatre is a dangerous profession. The work is sporadic, unevenly compensated and the rejection inherent in it takes a dreadful toll on one's self-esteem. Beyond that, though, there are other risks.
The best actors are able to use their human vulnerability to connect with the material, their fellow actors and the audience. Day after day, that vulnerability is tested and worked until, perhaps after a particularly harrowing role, the actor walks around feeling like a human wound. There is a different kind of vulnerability in improvisors, but it is still present. They must make themselves walk out onstage without the benefit of a script and just blindly trust that their scene partner will take the leap into the unknown with them and that the audience won't revolt or, worse yet, yawn. It's scary, to spend your work life looking into the abyss and hoping that it won't swallow you. For that is the very purpose of theatre. As David Mamet said in Writing in Restaurants, theatre's purpose is "to represent culture's need to address the question, How can I live in a world in which I am doomed to die?"
Moreover, there's the fact that the very nature of our work is temporary. For a period of days, months or (in the rarest and best cases) years, we work with a company on a performance. The people that we work with become like family during that time. We celebrate, we laugh, we cry, we fight like ill-tempered weasels, we live together. And then the show closes. Sometimes we stay in touch, sometimes we don't. But every closing night is the dissolution of a family. We clear out our dressing rooms, have our glass of champagne and walk out of the theatre never knowing if we'll see those people or work on that stage again. I suppose it's part of what makes being in a show so special, but I somehow only tend to see the hurt.
And then there's the larger community of actors. We see each other at auditions and make small talk, maybe. Or we take a class and roll around on the floor in elastic waist pants pretending to be zoo animals together. Or we see a show starring a friend of a former castmate and feel personally invested because we know someone who knows that guy up there, acting his heart out. We are somehow all connected, even those folks that whose paths haven't yet crossed ours.
So, when a member of this community dies, it hurts. That person was connected to so many other people whose own connections inevitably wind their way back to us. A death in the theatre world is like an earthquake with innumerable, infinitely vast aftershocks. I saw this first in Georgia, where a tragedy took three beloved members of the local theatre community. I saw it again this week where two young performers died within the span of seven days. I didn't know them, but I am still shaken and sad. Those who did know these young people are devastated and I grieve for them. I grieve because, at the very heart of it all, they've lost a family member.
No one tells you how dangerous this career can be.
The best actors are able to use their human vulnerability to connect with the material, their fellow actors and the audience. Day after day, that vulnerability is tested and worked until, perhaps after a particularly harrowing role, the actor walks around feeling like a human wound. There is a different kind of vulnerability in improvisors, but it is still present. They must make themselves walk out onstage without the benefit of a script and just blindly trust that their scene partner will take the leap into the unknown with them and that the audience won't revolt or, worse yet, yawn. It's scary, to spend your work life looking into the abyss and hoping that it won't swallow you. For that is the very purpose of theatre. As David Mamet said in Writing in Restaurants, theatre's purpose is "to represent culture's need to address the question, How can I live in a world in which I am doomed to die?"
Moreover, there's the fact that the very nature of our work is temporary. For a period of days, months or (in the rarest and best cases) years, we work with a company on a performance. The people that we work with become like family during that time. We celebrate, we laugh, we cry, we fight like ill-tempered weasels, we live together. And then the show closes. Sometimes we stay in touch, sometimes we don't. But every closing night is the dissolution of a family. We clear out our dressing rooms, have our glass of champagne and walk out of the theatre never knowing if we'll see those people or work on that stage again. I suppose it's part of what makes being in a show so special, but I somehow only tend to see the hurt.
And then there's the larger community of actors. We see each other at auditions and make small talk, maybe. Or we take a class and roll around on the floor in elastic waist pants pretending to be zoo animals together. Or we see a show starring a friend of a former castmate and feel personally invested because we know someone who knows that guy up there, acting his heart out. We are somehow all connected, even those folks that whose paths haven't yet crossed ours.
So, when a member of this community dies, it hurts. That person was connected to so many other people whose own connections inevitably wind their way back to us. A death in the theatre world is like an earthquake with innumerable, infinitely vast aftershocks. I saw this first in Georgia, where a tragedy took three beloved members of the local theatre community. I saw it again this week where two young performers died within the span of seven days. I didn't know them, but I am still shaken and sad. Those who did know these young people are devastated and I grieve for them. I grieve because, at the very heart of it all, they've lost a family member.
No one tells you how dangerous this career can be.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Culture Clash
I am currently in a production of "A Christmas Carol," which was exciting to me if only for the fact that I was finally in a show that my niece and nephews could come see. They came to the show today and I took them on a backstage tour, telling them about the set, special effects, costumes, etc. They were particularly interested in the ghosts. They wanted to know how the Ghost of Christmas Past lit up (hidden lights in her cape and dress), were delighted to know that the actor who played the Ghost of Christmas Present keeps cookies at his dressing room station and that the Ghost of Christmas Future who was a seven foot tall spectre cloaked in black was actually played by a delightful, petite woman. Everything was a wonder to them. Awe was writ large on their faces.
As we were leaving the theatre, we passed a group of women in the lobby. Two of them were wearing hajib in jewel tones and the third was in a full, black burqa. My niece paused, tugged on my hand and pointed toward the woman in the burqa. "Auntie Amy, was she the Ghost of Christmas Future?" After I finished stifling my laughter, we had a nice discussion about different religions and cultural practices. I love my job. I love being an auntie.
As we were leaving the theatre, we passed a group of women in the lobby. Two of them were wearing hajib in jewel tones and the third was in a full, black burqa. My niece paused, tugged on my hand and pointed toward the woman in the burqa. "Auntie Amy, was she the Ghost of Christmas Future?" After I finished stifling my laughter, we had a nice discussion about different religions and cultural practices. I love my job. I love being an auntie.
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