Woke up today and found a note from the housemate. "There's hot coffee brewed" and a big arrow pointing to the coffee pot. Some days that's all you need.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Keep your hand moving
One of my "someday" projects is a performance based on the writings of Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones. Her mantra for writing practice is, "Keep your hand moving."
The tape in my car is 2 hours of Kirby Shelstad practicing tabla. "Hi, Rachel," he says, pinging. "Different day. Different drum." Tabla, like conga, is learnt by spoken syllables. So I'm driving around hearing Kirby chant, "DA teera-keeta DA gay-na teera-keeta dahta-gayna DA", and then playing it. Over the course of 40 minutes, he warms up and starts to fly.
Hearing someone practice unleashes my thinking. As they warm up, so do I.
First I saw the opening of a piece -- a ballet dancer on pointe, and a modern dancer in bare feet. She's dancing to the spoken word, he's dancing to the drum.
Today I had a new flash. Twelve ballerinas at the barre, lining the back of the stage, as Richard III enters. Or better, sprinkle them around the space in 2's and 3's, doing the barre. Different tempos & rhythms. Morph between ballet and daily movement. No -- give them each a chunk of tabla, and have them create a specific movement phrase to it, then montage those. Yes. AND, have them create their movement phrases by doing a specific murder from the play. And, wait -- it's not ballerinas, it's the court doing the barre, in their court clothes. Yeah, closer. This play IS a ballet -- a Rube-Goldberg contraption of murder, set in motion by the opening curtain. DA teera-keeta DA.
Well, that's what I drive around thinking about.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
-- Richard III, i:i, Shakespeare
The tape in my car is 2 hours of Kirby Shelstad practicing tabla. "Hi, Rachel," he says, pinging. "Different day. Different drum." Tabla, like conga, is learnt by spoken syllables. So I'm driving around hearing Kirby chant, "DA teera-keeta DA gay-na teera-keeta dahta-gayna DA", and then playing it. Over the course of 40 minutes, he warms up and starts to fly.
Hearing someone practice unleashes my thinking. As they warm up, so do I.
First I saw the opening of a piece -- a ballet dancer on pointe, and a modern dancer in bare feet. She's dancing to the spoken word, he's dancing to the drum.
Today I had a new flash. Twelve ballerinas at the barre, lining the back of the stage, as Richard III enters. Or better, sprinkle them around the space in 2's and 3's, doing the barre. Different tempos & rhythms. Morph between ballet and daily movement. No -- give them each a chunk of tabla, and have them create a specific movement phrase to it, then montage those. Yes. AND, have them create their movement phrases by doing a specific murder from the play. And, wait -- it's not ballerinas, it's the court doing the barre, in their court clothes. Yeah, closer. This play IS a ballet -- a Rube-Goldberg contraption of murder, set in motion by the opening curtain. DA teera-keeta DA.
Well, that's what I drive around thinking about.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
-- Richard III, i:i, Shakespeare
Friday, July 30, 2004
A job to be named later
And, just to fill in the spectrum -- there are are a couple of lovely jobs potentially in the offing, for which I quietly have my fingers crossed. I'm not talking about them here, so as not to get my hopes up too high. But I wanted to let you know... they're simmering. More news when there is news.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Delays in the ether
Sorry guys -- there's often a three- or four-hour delay between when I post these and when you can see them. I don't know why; maybe blogger gets backed up. If there's nothing new, wait a few hours and check again.
Stanford biz school, samurai lovers
Well, the more I read, the more I like Stanford. Their first year is core classes, the second year is ALL electives. My type of program.
But get this. If you get a Certificate in Public Management -- non-profits -- when you graduate, you may be eligible for the Loan Forgiveness program. Basically, if your next job is for a non-profit at a sufficiently low salary, you can perhaps have some or all of your loan forgiven.
To my leaping perch-like mind, this means you could get $80K of education -- studying non-profits, strategy, leadership, & entrepreneuring -- turn around and start a theatre company -- FOR FREE. Or almost.
I'd like learning about for-profit and not-for-profit. Not to mention building a network of people who might consider this their theatre as well... and become board members, supporters, managing directors, or who knows what.
I envision being a director... with a company... that pays all our salaries... and does amazing work... in beautiful surroundings... in nature... until eventually we're world-famous, in our quiet integrity way. Because otherwise, you self-produce until the cows come home, OR keep going back to work in software, and either way that's a ragged tired life.
I like that this would move me forward on many tracks at once.
- In theatre, it prepares me for setting up a company
- In business, Stanford MBAs get terrific starting salaries
- At a university, I have a degree to teach with
- Moving to Europe, the degree helps get work, visas, teaching jobs
- Becoming a CEO (a variant of the first two), I have the biz knowledge to underpin my vision and team skills.
Wow.
Only theatre could drag me into Managerial Economics and Modeling for Quantitative Analysis.
But you know... after you've done your third show in amateur costumes because you can't afford to hire a designer, let alone a cutter, draper, dyer, or people to sew; and after you've seen the Seattle Opera costume shop and realize what you're missing... well, then you get interested in Managerial Economics.
This might, of course, just be a flash along the path. During periods like this, I can never tell what's going on. Only later, looking back, can I see what was emerging.
my teachers whisper
contradictory words of hope --
samurai lovers
dowsing for beauty
on cobblestone roads of plum
blossoms, sweetgrass, wind
inside my heart, a
yearning for folded truths, for
salt-fished Mystery
great texts comfort and
unbind me; like the Blackbird,
I drip oil and wait
there is a truth un-
der all truths whose Name cannot
be spoken. Wail! Dance!
But get this. If you get a Certificate in Public Management -- non-profits -- when you graduate, you may be eligible for the Loan Forgiveness program. Basically, if your next job is for a non-profit at a sufficiently low salary, you can perhaps have some or all of your loan forgiven.
To my leaping perch-like mind, this means you could get $80K of education -- studying non-profits, strategy, leadership, & entrepreneuring -- turn around and start a theatre company -- FOR FREE. Or almost.
I'd like learning about for-profit and not-for-profit. Not to mention building a network of people who might consider this their theatre as well... and become board members, supporters, managing directors, or who knows what.
I envision being a director... with a company... that pays all our salaries... and does amazing work... in beautiful surroundings... in nature... until eventually we're world-famous, in our quiet integrity way. Because otherwise, you self-produce until the cows come home, OR keep going back to work in software, and either way that's a ragged tired life.
I like that this would move me forward on many tracks at once.
- In theatre, it prepares me for setting up a company
- In business, Stanford MBAs get terrific starting salaries
- At a university, I have a degree to teach with
- Moving to Europe, the degree helps get work, visas, teaching jobs
- Becoming a CEO (a variant of the first two), I have the biz knowledge to underpin my vision and team skills.
Wow.
Only theatre could drag me into Managerial Economics and Modeling for Quantitative Analysis.
But you know... after you've done your third show in amateur costumes because you can't afford to hire a designer, let alone a cutter, draper, dyer, or people to sew; and after you've seen the Seattle Opera costume shop and realize what you're missing... well, then you get interested in Managerial Economics.
This might, of course, just be a flash along the path. During periods like this, I can never tell what's going on. Only later, looking back, can I see what was emerging.
my teachers whisper
contradictory words of hope --
samurai lovers
dowsing for beauty
on cobblestone roads of plum
blossoms, sweetgrass, wind
inside my heart, a
yearning for folded truths, for
salt-fished Mystery
great texts comfort and
unbind me; like the Blackbird,
I drip oil and wait
there is a truth un-
der all truths whose Name cannot
be spoken. Wail! Dance!
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
A performance for one spectator
I have had Chekhov performed in my living room (a big wood-floored space), 8 equity actors performing for 8 spectators, directed by Leonid Anisimov, an Honored Artist of Russia.
Chekhov always said, he thought the finest
performances of his work would be done for
the fewest spectators.
The most intimate performance I ever experienced was at the Odin, but it wasn't by the Odin actors; it was by the apprentices. They had gone a few weeks earlier to Paris. Eugenio has set up Professional Work Exchanges, where he and Ariane Mnouchkine, head of Theatre du Soleil, trade work practices. Every so often, they get together, or send their actors to each other's theatres, to learn. This time Eugenio sent the babies, since they had never been to Paris and Ariane was opening her new show, Le Dernier Caravanserail. (And, by the way, if you want to see someone who has MASTERED theatricality, see anything Mnouchkine does at her home theatre, Le Cartoucherie. It's an old ammo factory, south of Paris. I could write a whole post on her.)
I gave the apprentices each a small amount of money to spend in Paris. They were living at the theatre here, would be living at Ariane's theatre there, and were dirt poor. It was a matter of great consternation, it turned out. They could not accept it as a gift, it was too large. We eventually agreed that it was a commission; they would, in turn create a performance for me before I left.
In Paris, they went to an antique market/flea market, seeking items for the performance. An enormous old leather fencer's mask, as big as a Jules Verne diving helmet. Old boxing gloves. A falling-apart gameboard, complete with engraved markers.
The day before I left, they said, "Come to the White Room at 5:30. We will have your performance." "It is a moment," cautioned the director, "Not a piece, but a moment." The four work/performance spaces at the Odin -- the Blue Room, the White Room, the Red Room, the Black Room -- have plain wood square signs hanging on a string outside the door. One side is red, meaning, in Roberta Carreri's words, "You are not welcome here." The other side is green, "Please come in."
At 5:30, the board on the White Room was still red. I waited. After about ten minutes, Anna, the apprentice director, came out to get me.
"We are ready for you," she said. The room, larger than most black-box theatres and spotlessly clean, was completely dark. No exit signs, no windows, no light. She took me by the hand, led me in, and shut the door.
Through absolute blackness, this warm small hand led me, pushed gently into my seat, where she sat beside me. There we are. In the dark, a Danish girl's hand still holding mine, in silence.
In the far left corner, someone lit a match, and then an old kerosene lantern. Another relic of Paris. It glowed dimly, not enough to light their faces. As the singing started, I could discern only the pattern of the skirt, the lantern, a sense of mass moving, a creaking. It was like watching an underwater performance, so deep there is no light. Even when the three performers came very close, I could not make out the details.
Singing, they rolled toward me. The director let go my hand. One girl was sitting in a wagon, one was standing in it, the boy was pushing it. Just glimpses -- a face, a bit of yellow dress, a mask on a body so bendily indeterminate that I never could tell if the actor was facing backward or forward (backward, I later learned). Rounding the corner, the man was bent double, his leather-balled head pushing the wagon from behind like Jack Pumpkinhead in the Oz books, singing like a bull, as open as the earth.
This strange procession came toward me, passed, receded. Always singing, always murkily lit. Many strangenesses. An umbrella. Transforming costumes. Silence. Blackness.
This is one of my favorite pieces of theatre I have ever seen. A piece made for one spectator, performed once. Being led by the hand through pitch blackness, to sit in the front center row. A strange hand holding mine in utter black silence, waiting for the performance to begin.
Afterwards, I had two thoughts. With my Odin-trained eyes, after watching Eugenio's rehearsals for weeks, I could see all the places the piece didn't work, how to make it better. At the same time, I also realized it was better than anything I have ever made.
A beautiful cold water/hot water feeling. The feeling of truth.
Chekhov always said, he thought the finest
performances of his work would be done for
the fewest spectators.
The most intimate performance I ever experienced was at the Odin, but it wasn't by the Odin actors; it was by the apprentices. They had gone a few weeks earlier to Paris. Eugenio has set up Professional Work Exchanges, where he and Ariane Mnouchkine, head of Theatre du Soleil, trade work practices. Every so often, they get together, or send their actors to each other's theatres, to learn. This time Eugenio sent the babies, since they had never been to Paris and Ariane was opening her new show, Le Dernier Caravanserail. (And, by the way, if you want to see someone who has MASTERED theatricality, see anything Mnouchkine does at her home theatre, Le Cartoucherie. It's an old ammo factory, south of Paris. I could write a whole post on her.)
I gave the apprentices each a small amount of money to spend in Paris. They were living at the theatre here, would be living at Ariane's theatre there, and were dirt poor. It was a matter of great consternation, it turned out. They could not accept it as a gift, it was too large. We eventually agreed that it was a commission; they would, in turn create a performance for me before I left.
In Paris, they went to an antique market/flea market, seeking items for the performance. An enormous old leather fencer's mask, as big as a Jules Verne diving helmet. Old boxing gloves. A falling-apart gameboard, complete with engraved markers.
The day before I left, they said, "Come to the White Room at 5:30. We will have your performance." "It is a moment," cautioned the director, "Not a piece, but a moment." The four work/performance spaces at the Odin -- the Blue Room, the White Room, the Red Room, the Black Room -- have plain wood square signs hanging on a string outside the door. One side is red, meaning, in Roberta Carreri's words, "You are not welcome here." The other side is green, "Please come in."
At 5:30, the board on the White Room was still red. I waited. After about ten minutes, Anna, the apprentice director, came out to get me.
"We are ready for you," she said. The room, larger than most black-box theatres and spotlessly clean, was completely dark. No exit signs, no windows, no light. She took me by the hand, led me in, and shut the door.
Through absolute blackness, this warm small hand led me, pushed gently into my seat, where she sat beside me. There we are. In the dark, a Danish girl's hand still holding mine, in silence.
In the far left corner, someone lit a match, and then an old kerosene lantern. Another relic of Paris. It glowed dimly, not enough to light their faces. As the singing started, I could discern only the pattern of the skirt, the lantern, a sense of mass moving, a creaking. It was like watching an underwater performance, so deep there is no light. Even when the three performers came very close, I could not make out the details.
Singing, they rolled toward me. The director let go my hand. One girl was sitting in a wagon, one was standing in it, the boy was pushing it. Just glimpses -- a face, a bit of yellow dress, a mask on a body so bendily indeterminate that I never could tell if the actor was facing backward or forward (backward, I later learned). Rounding the corner, the man was bent double, his leather-balled head pushing the wagon from behind like Jack Pumpkinhead in the Oz books, singing like a bull, as open as the earth.
This strange procession came toward me, passed, receded. Always singing, always murkily lit. Many strangenesses. An umbrella. Transforming costumes. Silence. Blackness.
This is one of my favorite pieces of theatre I have ever seen. A piece made for one spectator, performed once. Being led by the hand through pitch blackness, to sit in the front center row. A strange hand holding mine in utter black silence, waiting for the performance to begin.
Afterwards, I had two thoughts. With my Odin-trained eyes, after watching Eugenio's rehearsals for weeks, I could see all the places the piece didn't work, how to make it better. At the same time, I also realized it was better than anything I have ever made.
A beautiful cold water/hot water feeling. The feeling of truth.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Lifelines
After Theatre Puget Sound auditions, I usually get a few follow-up cards from actors. Two, maybe five. They usually have the actor's photo, plus some words of thanks for seeing their audition. This trend started about four years ago. These cards don't do much for me. I don't know the actor, and I still don't know them, other than that I now know they are willing to sit down and write 50 thank-you cards, so I give them higher marks for determination and action.
This year, I got a different one. It didn't talk about them, it talked about me. The actor discussed the project I was casting for, said they had read my blog -- and had some specific comments on it -- and said they would like to work with me. Now, my blog isn't listed anywhere. The only way you find it is by googling me.
I called back, and set up a coffee date.
Lifelines work both ways. It is as oxygenating and life-saving for a director to hear, "I want to work with you. I like the way you work," as it is for an actor to hear, "I want to work with you. I like the way you work." This is how conversations begin. This topic is always a long conversation, sometimes a lifetime long.
I am off to said coffee.
This year, I got a different one. It didn't talk about them, it talked about me. The actor discussed the project I was casting for, said they had read my blog -- and had some specific comments on it -- and said they would like to work with me. Now, my blog isn't listed anywhere. The only way you find it is by googling me.
I called back, and set up a coffee date.
Lifelines work both ways. It is as oxygenating and life-saving for a director to hear, "I want to work with you. I like the way you work," as it is for an actor to hear, "I want to work with you. I like the way you work." This is how conversations begin. This topic is always a long conversation, sometimes a lifetime long.
I am off to said coffee.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Divination
Need a tarot reading? Maybe a random quote from the Bible? A floaty-pen you can ask Yes and No questions? Facade has it all -- stichomancy, rune stones, yarrow sticks.
Check it out. I usually go for the Tarot readings. If I need a quick hit, I'll go for the One-Card Reading with the Palladini or Scola Busca decks. If I want the whole fateful enchilada, I let them Choose For Me, both deck and spread.
I use this all the time when I'm program-managing or directing. "Will the audio code for ambient crowd noise be done on time?" I'll ask. Or, "What does no one know about Marc Antony?"
Check it out. I usually go for the Tarot readings. If I need a quick hit, I'll go for the One-Card Reading with the Palladini or Scola Busca decks. If I want the whole fateful enchilada, I let them Choose For Me, both deck and spread.
I use this all the time when I'm program-managing or directing. "Will the audio code for ambient crowd noise be done on time?" I'll ask. Or, "What does no one know about Marc Antony?"
Saturday, July 24, 2004
The audience is a genius
The audience is a genius all the time. When we have nothing to do but watch, we see everything.
Write up. Write beyond. Go as interior and secret as you can. Know everything, be as big as you can. We need it all.
"Write me a part so big I can't play it," an actress told me once.
To do that, you have to write beyond what you know. You have to write to the top of your skill and off into the void. Or, paradoxically, write ONLY what you know -- "This is exactly how people behave". Either way will get you there.
Write up. Write beyond. Go as interior and secret as you can. Know everything, be as big as you can. We need it all.
"Write me a part so big I can't play it," an actress told me once.
To do that, you have to write beyond what you know. You have to write to the top of your skill and off into the void. Or, paradoxically, write ONLY what you know -- "This is exactly how people behave". Either way will get you there.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Triplets
Margie, my best friend from high school, is visiting with her triplets. Two boys and a girl, eight years old. Margie had joined the air force, become a colonel, met her colonel husband, and left after 13 years when there stopped being a guarantee that you could be a lifer. Then came babies.
Triplets are wild. It's like having all the kids in the neighborhood over, except they never go home. And, they're used to laying on each other a lot more than neighbor kids. Like, the boys were playing guns. One boy was fiercely concentrating on choosing a target, aiming, firing. The other boy WAS the gun, his arm stuck out with a fist at the end, while his brother's head laid on his shoulder to aim it. When he fired, the gun boy took off, ran over to the target and hit it with his fist. The first boy never told the second what he was aiming at, but the second always knew.
When they were very little, these three used to sing spontaneously, making up a long song together.
Driving home:
Their mom: "Look kids, it's Puget Sound."
Boy, shouting: "WE're MILLIONAIRES and we live on a LAKE!"
Mom: "No, honey, we're not millionaires any more."
Short silence.
Boy: "Mom, are we thousandaires?"
Mom: "Yes, we're thousandaires."
Boy: "WE're THOUSANDAIRES and we live on a LAKE!"
Triplets are wild. It's like having all the kids in the neighborhood over, except they never go home. And, they're used to laying on each other a lot more than neighbor kids. Like, the boys were playing guns. One boy was fiercely concentrating on choosing a target, aiming, firing. The other boy WAS the gun, his arm stuck out with a fist at the end, while his brother's head laid on his shoulder to aim it. When he fired, the gun boy took off, ran over to the target and hit it with his fist. The first boy never told the second what he was aiming at, but the second always knew.
When they were very little, these three used to sing spontaneously, making up a long song together.
Driving home:
Their mom: "Look kids, it's Puget Sound."
Boy, shouting: "WE're MILLIONAIRES and we live on a LAKE!"
Mom: "No, honey, we're not millionaires any more."
Short silence.
Boy: "Mom, are we thousandaires?"
Mom: "Yes, we're thousandaires."
Boy: "WE're THOUSANDAIRES and we live on a LAKE!"
Processing the Odin
After writing that last post I took a hot shower -- and cried and cried and cried.
- Sad at not getting to step into the fairytale
- Grieving the unborn things I sense would come of a merging of Rachel and the Odin
- Relief at the near miss. At my core, some part of me knew that, although this path would bear many fruits and miracles, it was not most truly my path.
- And then, a LOT of grief at that. Cuz... if the Odin is not my path, no theatre on earth is. Except my own of course. But boy would it have been nice to shelter in another for a while.
- Crying at being grown up. (A little joy at this too, a clean rain.)
- And finally, mourning a flood of specifics about the Odin itself. The young actors, the cold air, the bibliotek, Eugenio, the mat floors and orange Bali batik-cloth ceiling, the whole medieval, shared-vision, holy-as-a-farm community.
- Then I branched into nearby griefs, and cried about my mom a while.
- With all the stuff cleaned up, I drifted into light unthinking crying. Sunlight coming in a window while a baby goes to sleep.
- I slept.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
How do you have a good life? Have a good day today. Whole, alive, true.
My course still holds my books, a theatre company, plays, wealth, marriage, tribe, languages, Europe/Russia, joy, surprise. For that matter, it still holds the Odin, though in a slightly different relationship.
Last night I cleaned the kitchen, lit incense, put on spiritual music, lit candles, and made a quiet dinner. Salad topped with sharp cheese and cold nectarine slices, two hot artichokes, white tortilla chips and salsa. Waiting for Jeff to get home from work, I thought of the Dalai Lama asking the old rabbis, "How did you keep your religion alive when you lost your country?" "We brought it to the supper table," they said. "Out of the temples and into the homes."
- Sad at not getting to step into the fairytale
- Grieving the unborn things I sense would come of a merging of Rachel and the Odin
- Relief at the near miss. At my core, some part of me knew that, although this path would bear many fruits and miracles, it was not most truly my path.
- And then, a LOT of grief at that. Cuz... if the Odin is not my path, no theatre on earth is. Except my own of course. But boy would it have been nice to shelter in another for a while.
- Crying at being grown up. (A little joy at this too, a clean rain.)
- And finally, mourning a flood of specifics about the Odin itself. The young actors, the cold air, the bibliotek, Eugenio, the mat floors and orange Bali batik-cloth ceiling, the whole medieval, shared-vision, holy-as-a-farm community.
- Then I branched into nearby griefs, and cried about my mom a while.
- With all the stuff cleaned up, I drifted into light unthinking crying. Sunlight coming in a window while a baby goes to sleep.
- I slept.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
How do you have a good life? Have a good day today. Whole, alive, true.
My course still holds my books, a theatre company, plays, wealth, marriage, tribe, languages, Europe/Russia, joy, surprise. For that matter, it still holds the Odin, though in a slightly different relationship.
Last night I cleaned the kitchen, lit incense, put on spiritual music, lit candles, and made a quiet dinner. Salad topped with sharp cheese and cold nectarine slices, two hot artichokes, white tortilla chips and salsa. Waiting for Jeff to get home from work, I thought of the Dalai Lama asking the old rabbis, "How did you keep your religion alive when you lost your country?" "We brought it to the supper table," they said. "Out of the temples and into the homes."
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Impossibility to join the Odin
I heard back from Eugenio. He says it may be possible to come for short stays, as I did before, but not to join. I am disappointed... and relieved to have it finally decided.
More over the next few days, I'm sure, as this gets processed.
when you know where you
are going, any path will
lead you there
But still...
when illusions with
the mass of Jupiter pass
by, you tremble, cry
More over the next few days, I'm sure, as this gets processed.
when you know where you
are going, any path will
lead you there
But still...
when illusions with
the mass of Jupiter pass
by, you tremble, cry
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Arthur: Plantagenet King of England
The quick catch-up for today.
1. Ladies -- well, and men -- if you or someone you know ever gets breast cancer, move heaven and earth to get accepted to the (very selective) Breast Cancer Team Research Center at the Cancer Care Alliance in Seattle. Did I say that loud enough -- it's a TEAM! Okay, that's not quite their real name, but I'll get it for you. You know how much I believe in teams. Well, when you get 3 docs -- a medical oncologist, an oncological radiologist and an oncological surgeon, it's just home. It was just like Yale Drama School, except for medicine. The docs teach at UW, so they're up on all the research. It's fantastic. 45 liesurely minutes with this doc... an hour with that one... silences while they wait for you to digest, and then ask, "Do you have any questions?" It's the first time medicine has felt like computer science or physics to me -- a big knowledge base, that you all sit around and discuss together.
2. My mom is a health-care stud. Seriously. The goddess of managing your health care. I came away inspired.
3. The outlook is basically -- do a test, do surgery, then we'll know. Either surgery will fix it or it won't.
4. Under all that -- this is just stuff. The important thing is that, after a lifetime of warfare, my mother and I had grown up, made up, and become friends before this happened. She spent the break between doctors giving me a very precise detailed medical lecture called Breast Cancer: An Overview Of The Two Relevant Types. I took notes the whole way. I loved it. It's exactly like what she'd do when I was little ("Arthur: Plantagenet King of England." "The Dogwood: Mutant Deciduous Tree"). Her lectures always have a lot of Latin in them.
5. I took a break a couple days ago and spent 10 hours researching business schools. Specifically, biz schools a) in Europe, b) with 10-month MBA programs, c) taught in English but which required you learn another language, d) highly ranked in the US, 3) with as tailorable a curriculum as possible. The good news -- there's one in Paris and one in Lausanne, Switzerland. The bad news -- average age is 30 at both. Anyway, a pleasant way to spend a day.
6. Had a great art sesh -- or should I say life sesh? -- with MomBrain a couple days ago. That's what kick-started the biz school search.
7. Off to see Andrew, one of my oldest theatre friends, to catch up on life.
Cheers, duckies.
1. Ladies -- well, and men -- if you or someone you know ever gets breast cancer, move heaven and earth to get accepted to the (very selective) Breast Cancer Team Research Center at the Cancer Care Alliance in Seattle. Did I say that loud enough -- it's a TEAM! Okay, that's not quite their real name, but I'll get it for you. You know how much I believe in teams. Well, when you get 3 docs -- a medical oncologist, an oncological radiologist and an oncological surgeon, it's just home. It was just like Yale Drama School, except for medicine. The docs teach at UW, so they're up on all the research. It's fantastic. 45 liesurely minutes with this doc... an hour with that one... silences while they wait for you to digest, and then ask, "Do you have any questions?" It's the first time medicine has felt like computer science or physics to me -- a big knowledge base, that you all sit around and discuss together.
2. My mom is a health-care stud. Seriously. The goddess of managing your health care. I came away inspired.
3. The outlook is basically -- do a test, do surgery, then we'll know. Either surgery will fix it or it won't.
4. Under all that -- this is just stuff. The important thing is that, after a lifetime of warfare, my mother and I had grown up, made up, and become friends before this happened. She spent the break between doctors giving me a very precise detailed medical lecture called Breast Cancer: An Overview Of The Two Relevant Types. I took notes the whole way. I loved it. It's exactly like what she'd do when I was little ("Arthur: Plantagenet King of England." "The Dogwood: Mutant Deciduous Tree"). Her lectures always have a lot of Latin in them.
5. I took a break a couple days ago and spent 10 hours researching business schools. Specifically, biz schools a) in Europe, b) with 10-month MBA programs, c) taught in English but which required you learn another language, d) highly ranked in the US, 3) with as tailorable a curriculum as possible. The good news -- there's one in Paris and one in Lausanne, Switzerland. The bad news -- average age is 30 at both. Anyway, a pleasant way to spend a day.
6. Had a great art sesh -- or should I say life sesh? -- with MomBrain a couple days ago. That's what kick-started the biz school search.
7. Off to see Andrew, one of my oldest theatre friends, to catch up on life.
Cheers, duckies.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Well, not DONE... just done with THAT
I wrote recently that I'm done with theatre -- "in this form," I should add. Working at the Odin, in rooms the size of the Seattle Centerhouse theatre -- if that whole theatre , seats and all, was just one shining expanse --with actors who did vocal and physical training for 4 hours every morning, completely... changed... me.
What I'm done with is having my primary laboratory be the classroom at Bellevue Community College. That was fantastic for phase one. For years, all I needed was a space and wild humans. I need a different crucible now for my primary work.
I got a short email from the Odin today, and my whole self leapt like a dolphin. So it's clearly not theatre I'm done with.
More later. Mom's all-day appointment with the cancer team is today, gotta go.
What I'm done with is having my primary laboratory be the classroom at Bellevue Community College. That was fantastic for phase one. For years, all I needed was a space and wild humans. I need a different crucible now for my primary work.
I got a short email from the Odin today, and my whole self leapt like a dolphin. So it's clearly not theatre I'm done with.
More later. Mom's all-day appointment with the cancer team is today, gotta go.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Book of Ideas (from Zettiology)
Check this hand-made book. Just one of the many cool book, journal, rubber, and workshop products from the fertile artist brains of Tracy and Teesha Moore at Zettiology. The large grid of journal pages on the home page are actually roll-over buttons. The bottom left is the link to more hand-made books. Somewhere in Teesha's links, you can also see a bunch of photos of their studio as they were building it.
I'm done
I like achieving. I find the process of mastering something hard, absorbing.
I was a piano stud in high school. My senior year I transferred to the big music school across town, where I played for classes and rehearsals 8 hours a day. I went to State in the piano competitions. I rented a theatre and gave a 2-hour senior recital. I had my own jazz band I composed for. To cap it off -- well, after a year off-- I got into Oberlin College & Conservatory of Music.
Then one day I felt this little voice go, "I'm done." And I was. I was done with piano.
It's happened again. After 7 years of theatre, the little voice has said, "I'm done."
I don't know if I'm done with theatre. But I'm done with theatre THIS way. And I'm done with ONLY theatre. Wherever my path leads next, it's time to set up the whole life.
I just read Agatha Christie's autobiography. She lived from 1890 - 1976. It was like reading three women's lives, the world changed so much. She wrote her first 9 or 10 books for money. For pocket money, almost. She didn't consider herself a writer, so much as she had this handy talent that paid a bit when you needed it. It took a long time before she considered herself a writer. And even then, she still mostly considered herself a person living her life. Her life just happened to contain making a book or two each year.
I have callouses on my knees from directing. I kneel to watch the actors. It occurred to me yesterday that, as long as the callouses are there, I have a core of practice in my life.
What happens when that little voice says, "I'm done" is the whole world falls away. Everything is new, and possible again.
I was a piano stud in high school. My senior year I transferred to the big music school across town, where I played for classes and rehearsals 8 hours a day. I went to State in the piano competitions. I rented a theatre and gave a 2-hour senior recital. I had my own jazz band I composed for. To cap it off -- well, after a year off-- I got into Oberlin College & Conservatory of Music.
Then one day I felt this little voice go, "I'm done." And I was. I was done with piano.
It's happened again. After 7 years of theatre, the little voice has said, "I'm done."
I don't know if I'm done with theatre. But I'm done with theatre THIS way. And I'm done with ONLY theatre. Wherever my path leads next, it's time to set up the whole life.
I just read Agatha Christie's autobiography. She lived from 1890 - 1976. It was like reading three women's lives, the world changed so much. She wrote her first 9 or 10 books for money. For pocket money, almost. She didn't consider herself a writer, so much as she had this handy talent that paid a bit when you needed it. It took a long time before she considered herself a writer. And even then, she still mostly considered herself a person living her life. Her life just happened to contain making a book or two each year.
I have callouses on my knees from directing. I kneel to watch the actors. It occurred to me yesterday that, as long as the callouses are there, I have a core of practice in my life.
What happens when that little voice says, "I'm done" is the whole world falls away. Everything is new, and possible again.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
PIX - Tashi & Tsering greet buddha
Here are some pictures of our recent play, Nanda Devi.
TSERING (Sandra Heinke) & TASHI (Salvador Celis)
TSERING (Sandra Heinke) & TASHI (Salvador Celis)
Friday, July 16, 2004
Fat trout days
We have rounded the hump of summer, the air is cooling, and I'm ready to work. I found a job I'd like. I gave my resume to the guy who told me about it, and am meeting with him Monday to get the scoop.
I haven't heard from the Odin yet, but likely won't until August. This October is the Odin's 40th Birthday Celebration, which is a huge culmination for them. Grotowski and Sanjukta Panagrahi were at their 30th; both now have gone to the winds.
My mom is going in for an all-day exam and meeting with a breast cancer team at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center on Tuesday. This is cool, as only a few people are selected by this team approach. It should be a robust diagnosis. I'm going with her.
Summer has always seemed a sleepy season to me. Green and drowsy, fat trout days.
Under that -- I am restless. Under that, I am more-than-usually content to drift in the yellow-green waters. This is the summer before you leave home.
I haven't heard from the Odin yet, but likely won't until August. This October is the Odin's 40th Birthday Celebration, which is a huge culmination for them. Grotowski and Sanjukta Panagrahi were at their 30th; both now have gone to the winds.
My mom is going in for an all-day exam and meeting with a breast cancer team at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center on Tuesday. This is cool, as only a few people are selected by this team approach. It should be a robust diagnosis. I'm going with her.
Summer has always seemed a sleepy season to me. Green and drowsy, fat trout days.
Under that -- I am restless. Under that, I am more-than-usually content to drift in the yellow-green waters. This is the summer before you leave home.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Come on Molly, what a good dog
I saw this television show about prison inmates who were given abused animals to rehabilitate. They would love the animal back into health, so it could get adopted to a good home. Only the top inmates got to participate.
One guy had a black Labrador named Molly. Molly hadn't been abused, except that she'd never been let out to exercise. Other than that, she was a cheerful dog. A fat cheerful dog. "Come on, Molly," he'd say, patting her sides, "That's a good girl." He'd throw the frisbee. She'd barrel after it, and come back laughing and winded. She'd have to stand and pant before she could go get the next one. "I just plan to run her," said her keeper. "She's a good dog. She's just got to run a while."
Two days ago it occurred to me, I'm Molly. Or rather, my body is Molly and I'm the big black guy training her. It makes me kinder. Like yesterday -- it's hot, I've got 8 hours of rehearsal, and I've sweated through my clothes twice. Normally that would make me cranky. Yesterday, though, I just grinned, and went, "COME on Molly, THAT's a good girl -- let's go rehearse. COME on! COME on! LET'S go talk to the actors."
I sit on the floor when I direct, with lots of standing up and sitting down. I love going over to work with the actors, then coming back to kneel and watch. They are in their bodies, I am in mine.
One guy had a black Labrador named Molly. Molly hadn't been abused, except that she'd never been let out to exercise. Other than that, she was a cheerful dog. A fat cheerful dog. "Come on, Molly," he'd say, patting her sides, "That's a good girl." He'd throw the frisbee. She'd barrel after it, and come back laughing and winded. She'd have to stand and pant before she could go get the next one. "I just plan to run her," said her keeper. "She's a good dog. She's just got to run a while."
Two days ago it occurred to me, I'm Molly. Or rather, my body is Molly and I'm the big black guy training her. It makes me kinder. Like yesterday -- it's hot, I've got 8 hours of rehearsal, and I've sweated through my clothes twice. Normally that would make me cranky. Yesterday, though, I just grinned, and went, "COME on Molly, THAT's a good girl -- let's go rehearse. COME on! COME on! LET'S go talk to the actors."
I sit on the floor when I direct, with lots of standing up and sitting down. I love going over to work with the actors, then coming back to kneel and watch. They are in their bodies, I am in mine.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
A pillar of light and the most perfect breakfast
Found this at Half-Price Books in About Books: Five Talks from the Jerusalem International Book Fair.
A book is not a manuscript that has been set in type and bound. A book is a physical object that is surrounded by an aura. It is surrounded by a halo, a visible halo. Many books, and you with them, move through the desert in your publishing house, but only a few attain a golden cloud that hovers above the book and that moves with it through the editorial and production and marketing process, a pillar of light that is visible to all from a great distance.Here is another I love from The Once And Future King, book one: The Sword In The Stone. This is the breakfast Merlin has steaming in his cottage when Wart (the young King Arthur), lost in the woods, arrives. They had never met before but Merlin, living backwards, knew Wart would be coming.
-- Erwin A. Glikes
The Wart saw that the most perfect breakfast was laid out neatly for two, on a table before the window. There were peaches. There were also melons, strawberries and cream, rusks, brown trout piping hot, grilled perch which were much nicer, chicken devilled enough to burn one's mouth out, kidneys and mushrooms on toast, fricassee, curry, and a choice of boiling coffee or best chocolate made with cream in large cups.
-- T. H. White
Monday, July 12, 2004
VC fellowships
As you know, my current hobby is learning about venture capital. Well, poking around yesterday, I found a 2-year Fellowship program that basically sets you up working for a VC, while getting together 4 or 5 times a year for intensive education weeks.
It costs 50K tuition for the two years... paid by your VC employer, not you. PLUS, you get paid a minimum 80K by the employer salary. 500 applicants/year (many from Harvard Biz School, which is how I found this site), and they take 12.
Now let's compare. Yale School of Drama, say, costs 100K for three years of education. This VC fellowship PAYS 160K for two years, and throws in tuition and education for free.
On the other hand, Yale cups you in their many human hands like a rare bird for those three years, and you get profoundly educated. Here... well, here you work. I've always liked getting paid to learn. Although, in theatre, I've gotten a profound education by being willing to work for free.
I feel like I'm playing Warmer, Cooler, feeling towards my next step.
The thing is, I don't think I'd like the actual job of VC any more than I currently like the job of making games. I don't really want to coach other companies; I want to grow my own. But I do want to know the first-derivative curve of company growth -- what are the energy currents, what signs do you read, how do you surf that sea? A VC's study is the study of growing things, made by people. It's not that different from a theatre.
I think money, greatness, and grace converge.
It costs 50K tuition for the two years... paid by your VC employer, not you. PLUS, you get paid a minimum 80K by the employer salary. 500 applicants/year (many from Harvard Biz School, which is how I found this site), and they take 12.
Now let's compare. Yale School of Drama, say, costs 100K for three years of education. This VC fellowship PAYS 160K for two years, and throws in tuition and education for free.
On the other hand, Yale cups you in their many human hands like a rare bird for those three years, and you get profoundly educated. Here... well, here you work. I've always liked getting paid to learn. Although, in theatre, I've gotten a profound education by being willing to work for free.
I feel like I'm playing Warmer, Cooler, feeling towards my next step.
The thing is, I don't think I'd like the actual job of VC any more than I currently like the job of making games. I don't really want to coach other companies; I want to grow my own. But I do want to know the first-derivative curve of company growth -- what are the energy currents, what signs do you read, how do you surf that sea? A VC's study is the study of growing things, made by people. It's not that different from a theatre.
I think money, greatness, and grace converge.
The art of the deal
I'm reading Donald Trump's The Art of the Deal. It's a succinct autobiography, peppered with his beliefs. Turns out, real estate is a lot like theatre. Or rather, a lot like self-produced theatre. You've got a vision -- a really big vision -- and then there's a million factors to juggle and a lot of work to get there. And it usually comes down to a person-to-person agreement.
The two biggest commonalities are, 1) aim high, and 2) persist.
Donald's dad was in real estate. My parents did theatre. There's a comfort when you played in your path before you helped, before it became important.
The first pictures are of Donald and his family. The remaining pictures are only of his buildings. I like that.
The two biggest commonalities are, 1) aim high, and 2) persist.
Donald's dad was in real estate. My parents did theatre. There's a comfort when you played in your path before you helped, before it became important.
The first pictures are of Donald and his family. The remaining pictures are only of his buildings. I like that.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Comment away
Now you can comment on my blog without having to create an account. Way easier. Just click "Comment" and then pick "Anonymous."
Visiting CEO
I notice an odd thing about my interviews. Soon after sitting down, I feel like the person works for me. I feel like a visiting CEO. I can tell what I think. Sometimes I say it, sometimes I don't.
What's under that is, the patient sense that I have my own work to do and this is not it.
What's under that is, the patient sense that I have my own work to do and this is not it.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
My mom
My mom's got breast cancer. She found out last week. She meets with her doc tomorrow, who may say to operate immediately. Which is her preference. Her mom died of cancer at 38, so she believes in "Cut early, cut deep."
All prayers and propitiations welcome.
My mother lives at the base of a thousand-foot cliff, in a tiny cabin on stilts with high tide splashing the floorboards. After retiring, she went to live alone on a desert island in the south Pacific for five years. It was tiny; 150 feet across, with two palm trees. No electricity, no water except rain, no shelter. She slept outside for two years then Marshallese friends from an island thirty miles away wove her a hut out of pandanus leaves. "You make 50 look good," I said. "Don't wait till you're 50," she said. That was twenty years ago. I want her around a long time, chainsawing logs, pruning nasturtiums, and feeding the octopus under her deck.
I don't think either of us are exactly facing her cancer, although we're both in reflexive info-gathering/fast-action mode. It is a shadowy visitor who has materialized in the doorway, for whom we are dutifully finding an extra chair and silverware -- but we haven't stopped our conversation.
All prayers and propitiations welcome.
My mother lives at the base of a thousand-foot cliff, in a tiny cabin on stilts with high tide splashing the floorboards. After retiring, she went to live alone on a desert island in the south Pacific for five years. It was tiny; 150 feet across, with two palm trees. No electricity, no water except rain, no shelter. She slept outside for two years then Marshallese friends from an island thirty miles away wove her a hut out of pandanus leaves. "You make 50 look good," I said. "Don't wait till you're 50," she said. That was twenty years ago. I want her around a long time, chainsawing logs, pruning nasturtiums, and feeding the octopus under her deck.
I don't think either of us are exactly facing her cancer, although we're both in reflexive info-gathering/fast-action mode. It is a shadowy visitor who has materialized in the doorway, for whom we are dutifully finding an extra chair and silverware -- but we haven't stopped our conversation.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Technicians of ecstasy
I'm reading What Is Enlightenment?, a magazine whose current issue focusses on collective consciousness. Great stuff. Here are some quotes from Ross Robertson's article, A Kind of Innocence We'd Never Seen Before: Thoughts on the Grateful Dead, the Beatles, and Collective Consciousness.
This correlates with what I know about teams, and about making theatre.
This correlates with what I know about teams, and about making theatre.
TECHNICIANS OF ECSTASY
Religious historian Mircea Eliade referred to shamans as "technicians of ecstasy," and that's exactly what San Francisco's Grateful Dead were, on a grand scale.
I'D NEVER SEEN SO MUCH JOY IN MY LIFE
You'd thought you were in it by yourself, blessed with a private experience, but the Dead proved you wrong. If heaven were a dance party, this would be it -- I'd never seen so much joy in my life, surging up though people. It just made you want to move toward others. Joy out in the middle, between everything, that no one could own, but that was there for everyone -- there to catch and twist and chase breathless.
YOU CAN FEEL THE ENERGY ROARING OFF THEM
"What posesses our audience, I can never know," drummer Mickey Hart writes in Drumming On The Edge Of Magic. "But I feel its effects. From the stage you can feel it happening -- group mind, entrainment, find your own word for it -- when they lock up you can feel it; you can feel the energy roaring off them."
JUMP INTO THE CENTER, EXTENDED AND VULNERABLE
What was the secret of that magic identity we all took part in, that thrilling, almost unbearable loss of control? Usually, the thought of losing control is terrifying. But the Dead made it easy to jump into the center, extended and vulnerable. They played and our attention leapt away from ourselves; there was a whole world there to meet, to encounter.
IMPROVISING ALL TOGETHER, ALL AT THE SAME TIME
Instead of sticking to individual solos over background accompaniment, like most rock bands of the day, they took the lessons of John Coltrane and free jazz to heart, improvising all together, all at the same time. To do that successfully, they had to listen intently to each other; each individual responding spontaneously to the movement of the whole.
NO IDEA WHERE THEY WERE GOING BUT INTENDING TO GO THERE TOGETHER
And it was while jamming this way -- having no idea where they were going but intending to go there together -- that they stumbled upon the fantastic sense of a creative intelligence far greater than themselves as individuals, an intelligence that enveloped the group.
A FLOW OF ITS OWN
When it was really happening, lead guitarist Jerry Garcia remembered the music "had the effect of surprising me with a flow of its own." When it was really happening, they flew as one. "Those hookups are like living things," bassist Phil Lesh said. "Like cells in the body of this organism. That seems to be the transformation taking place in human beings. To learn to be cells as well as individuals. Not just cells in society, but cells in a living organism."
WE EXIST BY THEIR GRACE
"The audience is as much the band as the band is the audience," drummer Bill Kreutzmann said. "There is no difference. The audience should be paid -- they contribute as much." Even more surprising is the fact that the musicians themselves couldn't enter that space without others there to listen. Jerry confessed that he'd "never experienced the click of great music without an audience...We exist by their grace."
BE A CONSCIOUS TOOL OF THE UNIVERSE
Jerry described it this way, in a 1972 article with Rolling Stone: "To get really high is to forget yourself. And to forget yourself is to see everything else. And to see everything else is to become an understanding molecule in evolution, a conscious tool of the universe. And I think every human being should be a conscious tool of the universe... When you break down old orders and the old forms and leave them broken and shattered, you suddenly find yourself in a new space with new form and new order which are more like the way it is. More like the flow. And we just found ourselves in that place. We never decided on it, we never thought it out. None of it. This is a thing that we've observed in the scientific method. We've watched what happens."
Monday, July 05, 2004
A soft 4th
A great 4th yesterday. Babies everywhere, and a party every third house, it seemed. A soft 4th in Seattle.
Sat on a hill listening to a familiar quiet voice speak about Art.
Saw four of the Akropolis actors in their mortal guises.
Learned of a PhD program for folks who love theatre and teaching.
Went to double-header parties, thanks to Ed's cheerful squiring.
Danced with my painter friend, brought home 8 of our paintings.
Watched a Russian actor photograph his Russian model girlfriend.
Saw six of my Caesar actors in their mortal guises.
Played shakers with the Brazilian boys.
Danced like a big woman.
Watched Gasworks fireworks; loved the slow-falling Green Drifters.
Ate homemade cherry pie.
Waited for the traffic to thin, babies asleep on the couches.
A peaceful drive home.
Slept like the dead.
Sat on a hill listening to a familiar quiet voice speak about Art.
Saw four of the Akropolis actors in their mortal guises.
Learned of a PhD program for folks who love theatre and teaching.
Went to double-header parties, thanks to Ed's cheerful squiring.
Danced with my painter friend, brought home 8 of our paintings.
Watched a Russian actor photograph his Russian model girlfriend.
Saw six of my Caesar actors in their mortal guises.
Played shakers with the Brazilian boys.
Danced like a big woman.
Watched Gasworks fireworks; loved the slow-falling Green Drifters.
Ate homemade cherry pie.
Waited for the traffic to thin, babies asleep on the couches.
A peaceful drive home.
Slept like the dead.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Sleep, the wonder drug
I love sleep. I wake up smarter, happier, softer. It's right up there with hot showers.
Just read my friend Scott's post on homemade soup. I've had his soup. Fine stuff. I saw him once serve soup and bread to his scene partner, onstage. The fact that he'd made the soup and bread himself, made the work more Russian, more true.
Feels like a good day. Bird by bird, baby.
Have a fantastic holiday. Thank you god, for all our blessings. And for long weekends with room for extra sleep.
Just read my friend Scott's post on homemade soup. I've had his soup. Fine stuff. I saw him once serve soup and bread to his scene partner, onstage. The fact that he'd made the soup and bread himself, made the work more Russian, more true.
Feels like a good day. Bird by bird, baby.
Have a fantastic holiday. Thank you god, for all our blessings. And for long weekends with room for extra sleep.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Theatre of the wind, Thor's theatre
Eugenio belongs to Odin. I belong to Thor. I named my theatre -- which does not exist yet, except in its consecration -- Theatre Of The Wind.
A year later I was on the Danish seacoast. A cold day with cold winds. The tiny fishing town was called Thorsminde, "minding Thor," or "keeping Thor's memory." Walking the stone pier, a crashing wave drenched my hair. I went in the restroom to dry it. I put my head under the blowdry machine and -- BAM! My head was slammed up against it. A huge hunk of hair wes yanked out of my head, and lay on the floor.
That was Thor, taking a sacrifice.
Three weeks ago I wrote the Odin, saying I wanted to join and would call Eugenio at 9:00 am, midnight here. At quarter till midnight, as I'm waiting to call, the granddaddy of all storms was raging. BAM! BAM! BOOOOOOM! We never get storms like this in Washington -- hours of rolling thunder, lightning cracking and sizzling. It kept getting nearer, until it was slamming right in back of our house, the power going off and on, as I dialed Eugenio.
That was Thor, again. Telling Odin I am here/his? Marking the day I join the Odin?
Whatever, those are portents, hard and unmistakeable. Thor is god of thunder, weather, and the sky, son of Odin.
=============
This is like that time at the Intiman. I was standing in the ghostlight after rehearsal, thinking about the gods in Cymbeline. I placed each of my dead in the seats -- plus my living mom next to my dead dad -- then visualized the chthonic gods in the stone below the seats and in the air (they are elemental), and asked them to bless Bart's theatre. The next morning we got an earthquake that slammed us out of the building. "I called the chthonic gods," I told Bart. "Why'd do you do THAT?" he said, shocked. "They CAME."
He was shocked I'd called them. I was shocked they came.
A year later I was on the Danish seacoast. A cold day with cold winds. The tiny fishing town was called Thorsminde, "minding Thor," or "keeping Thor's memory." Walking the stone pier, a crashing wave drenched my hair. I went in the restroom to dry it. I put my head under the blowdry machine and -- BAM! My head was slammed up against it. A huge hunk of hair wes yanked out of my head, and lay on the floor.
That was Thor, taking a sacrifice.
Three weeks ago I wrote the Odin, saying I wanted to join and would call Eugenio at 9:00 am, midnight here. At quarter till midnight, as I'm waiting to call, the granddaddy of all storms was raging. BAM! BAM! BOOOOOOM! We never get storms like this in Washington -- hours of rolling thunder, lightning cracking and sizzling. It kept getting nearer, until it was slamming right in back of our house, the power going off and on, as I dialed Eugenio.
That was Thor, again. Telling Odin I am here/his? Marking the day I join the Odin?
Whatever, those are portents, hard and unmistakeable. Thor is god of thunder, weather, and the sky, son of Odin.
=============
This is like that time at the Intiman. I was standing in the ghostlight after rehearsal, thinking about the gods in Cymbeline. I placed each of my dead in the seats -- plus my living mom next to my dead dad -- then visualized the chthonic gods in the stone below the seats and in the air (they are elemental), and asked them to bless Bart's theatre. The next morning we got an earthquake that slammed us out of the building. "I called the chthonic gods," I told Bart. "Why'd do you do THAT?" he said, shocked. "They CAME."
He was shocked I'd called them. I was shocked they came.
DREAM: Cleaning Odin's kitchen
The last two weeks, I have taken to doing a prayer as I fall asleep. Not exactly a prayer, but a receptivity. I say the first three steps of the 12 Step program, which basically say, "I realized I couldn't do it alone, came to believe a higher power could help, and decided to turn my life and will over to their care."
That's it. Reciting the litany puts me in a heavy trancey open state as I fall asleep.
DREAM
=======
I was supposed to go on an offsite with the rest of the Odin. I decided to clean the kitchen first. The offsite started at 5:30, in a town three hours away. I started cleaning at 1:30, and was still going at 5:30. It was a huge kitchen which 14 people used daily. (In real life, the Odin has a small kitchen which 30 people use daily.) It hadn't been cleaned in months or years. It had two dishwashers, built way back in, which I discovered only after clearing away the crap in front of them. It could have used four. I steadily worked through the stacks of dishes, props, papers, debris. Washing, piling, throwing away. As soon as I cleaned a counter, people would pile more stuff on it. But near the end, I could see I was rising above the tide. Lisa came in and wedged her suitcases and bags in among the beautiful items on the shelves. She bossed me around a while, then left.
There was a kitchen and a dining room. The kitchen was the messiest, but I cleaned the dining room too while I was at it. This seemed to be where people worked. A guy set up his laptop and spread out his papers, as soon as I had cleared the big table by the window. Kind of a peaceful vibe.
Cleaning the dining room led me to discover a door which led to an amazing huge room, maybe 100 ft x 150 ft. Empty, wood, some windows. I was amazed I hadn't seen this before. Walking through it, I found it led to the Odin's outdoor gift shop on the far end (which in real life they don't have), several stalls of people selling pottery, handkerchiefs, spoons, rocks, shawls.
INTERPRETATION
===============
My 4 goals this Milestone are: Purge (belongings), Body (get in shape), Income (generate some), and Play (write & direct one). I did the play. I'm working on income. Purging (cleaning the kitchen) has begun, and I think Body will lead me to that huge space of potential.
That's it. Reciting the litany puts me in a heavy trancey open state as I fall asleep.
DREAM
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I was supposed to go on an offsite with the rest of the Odin. I decided to clean the kitchen first. The offsite started at 5:30, in a town three hours away. I started cleaning at 1:30, and was still going at 5:30. It was a huge kitchen which 14 people used daily. (In real life, the Odin has a small kitchen which 30 people use daily.) It hadn't been cleaned in months or years. It had two dishwashers, built way back in, which I discovered only after clearing away the crap in front of them. It could have used four. I steadily worked through the stacks of dishes, props, papers, debris. Washing, piling, throwing away. As soon as I cleaned a counter, people would pile more stuff on it. But near the end, I could see I was rising above the tide. Lisa came in and wedged her suitcases and bags in among the beautiful items on the shelves. She bossed me around a while, then left.
There was a kitchen and a dining room. The kitchen was the messiest, but I cleaned the dining room too while I was at it. This seemed to be where people worked. A guy set up his laptop and spread out his papers, as soon as I had cleared the big table by the window. Kind of a peaceful vibe.
Cleaning the dining room led me to discover a door which led to an amazing huge room, maybe 100 ft x 150 ft. Empty, wood, some windows. I was amazed I hadn't seen this before. Walking through it, I found it led to the Odin's outdoor gift shop on the far end (which in real life they don't have), several stalls of people selling pottery, handkerchiefs, spoons, rocks, shawls.
INTERPRETATION
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My 4 goals this Milestone are: Purge (belongings), Body (get in shape), Income (generate some), and Play (write & direct one). I did the play. I'm working on income. Purging (cleaning the kitchen) has begun, and I think Body will lead me to that huge space of potential.
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