Action wins

Another day of aborted posts. I began three times:

- Is it a blessing or a curse to know exactly what's wrong with your car
- It's not the second time you do a play that it cracks, it's the third
- Why I like grainy-real-quiet movies like Garden State & American Splendor

But you know, today I can't sit here and write. I need to get up and move. See you tomorrow, duckies.

Saint Genesius & Saint Vitus, patron saints of actors

Here's a great site on all things saint-worthy: disappointing children, against procrastination, apple orchards, fireworks manufacturers, for enlightenment, herpes, tinsmiths, test-takers.

I'll start with Saint Genesius of Rome.


Saint Genesius medal


Saint Genesius

Also known as: Gelasinus; Gelasius
Memorial feast day: 25 August
Profile: An Actor hired to work in a play that made fun of Christian Baptism. In the middle of the performance he suddenly received a word from God, suddenly realized the truth of Christianity, and converted on stage. He refused to renounce his new faith, even at the emperor's orders, and was martyred by order of emperor Diocletian.
Died: beheaded c.303 at Rome
Patronage: actors, attorneys, barristers, clowns, comedians, comediennes, comics, converts, dancers, epilepsy, epileptics, lawyers, musicians, printers, stenographers, torture victims
Prayer to Saint Genesius:

Dear Genesius, according to a very ancient story, when you were still a pagan, you once ridiculed Christ while acting on the stage. But, like Saul on the road to Damascus, you were floored by Christ's powerful grace. You rose bearing witness to Jesus and died a great martyr's death. Intercede for your fellow actors before God that they may faithfully and honestly perform their roles and so help others to understand their role in life and thus enabling them to attain their end in heaven. Amen.

Now on to Saint Vitus, the other patron saint of actors, particularly the kinds of acting that involve jumping around, like comedians. He sounds cooler than Genesius. I mean, just check out his nicknames.


Saint Vitus

Also known as: Guy; Vito
Memorial feast day: 15 June
Profile: Legend says Vitus was the son of a pagan Sicilian senator named Hylas. Converted to Christianity at age twelve by his tutor Saint Modestus and his nurse Saint Crescentia. His father showed his objection by having the three arrested and scourged.
Freed from prison by angels, they fled to Lucania, then Rome. There he freed Emperor Diocletian's son of an evil spirit. When Vitus would not sacrifice to the pagan gods in celebration, his cure was attributed to sorcery, and he and his household were arrested again. Tortured, and condemned to death, they were thrown to the lions; the lions would not touch them, so they were thrown into boiling oil At the moment of their deaths, a immense storm destroyed several pagan temples in the region, hence the protection against stormy weather. One of the Fourteen Holy Helpers.
For obscure reasons, some 16th century Germans believed they could obtain a year's good health by dancing before the statue of Saint Vitus on his feast day. This dancing developed almost into a mania, and was confused with chorea, the nervous condition later known as Saint Vitus' Dance, the saint being invoked against it. His connection with such "dancing" led to his patronage of dancers, and later to entertainers in general and in particular.
A rooster was thrown into the oil with him, sacrificed as part of the ritual against sorcery. A rooster became a symbol for Vitus, and its connection with early rising led to Vitus's patronage and protection against oversleeping.
Died: boiled in oil c.303 in Lucania, Italy
Patronage : actors, against animal attacks, against dog bites, against lightning, against oversleeping, against storms, against wild beasts, comedians, comediennes, Czechoslovakia, dancers, dog bites, dogs, epilepsy, epileptics, Forio, Italy, lightning, oversleeping, Prague, Czech Republic, rheumatic chorea, Saint Vitus Dance, snake bites, storms
Representation: rooster
Prayer to Saint Vitus:

Dear Vitus, the one thing we are certain about is that you died a martyr's death. In early times, churches were dedicated to you in important places. In the Middle Ages, your intercession obtained cures from epilepsy so that this disease came to be called "Saint Vitus' Dance". Inspire comedians to make people dance with laughter and so bear goodwill toward one another. Amen.

As long as you keep loving it, it'll keep running

My clutch went out on my car.

This time when I got money I took my brother's advice, and put some in a "Never touch" account. Then, I took Suze Orman's advice -- "People always spend whatever they have. Set it up so you don't think you have any," -- and put some in a savings account.

Normally if my clutch went out, it would be an emergency. I would not have money to pay for it, because I would have splurged it on books. This time, though, I had the money in savings. And the Never-touch stayed never-touched.

Chocolate doesn't taste like it used to. Lots of foods don't. I mean, they taste -- but they're mostly fuel. The charge is going off of them. And it's going onto new behaviors, like investing in my car.

"These '88 Legends will run forever," said the Acura guy. "As long as you keep loving it, it'll keep running."

Chagall and Ophelia's ashes

Today I brought to Starbucks over 100 rubber stamps, hand-carved erasers, and inks. Old alphabets from Australia, new ones from San Francisco, fish, bicycles, houses, octopus kites, bridal dresses, Haagen Dasz cartons, top-hatted skeletons, Mayan figures, angels.

Some of these pages now have over 25 hours in them. It's like rehearsal -- you go until it cracks.

"When you think you are close,
you are very far away.
When you think you are far away,
you are very very close."

- Eugenio Barba

Last week I had put two panels cut from another painting. It looked like pearl nacre, over flashes of red, yellow, green, and blue.

Today I outlined images in those paintings with a sharpie. They leapt out -- a giant flower, two small hooded figures, a bell. Facing it were a man, and a wide-sleeved, sash-legged mandarin woman. Absolutely loose, beautiful compositions. These paintings are the first CRACK in the book, the first thing so real it stops your breath.

They look like Chagall.

There is no difference between painting, making a book, and rehearsing. It is the same leap into the Void, the same seduction of the unconscious, the same fight for control, the same surrender and loss. You cannot, will not, are not. The cherubim will sing or wink, and only your fingers are moving. This is not your dance. Something else must dance through you or the work is a lie.

"Pater noster," sings Akropolis in their high empty voices, "Qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum."

That's why I need theatre. Because nothing else, finally, can release this pressure like light, song, bodies, gravel, ash.

I once saw a Hamlet climb into Ophelia's grave, grab her urn -- she'd been cremated -- and shake it at the heavens, shrieking. The lid flew open and her ashes fell over his face like unbleached flour.

Leaving the ghostlight on

It's 3:00am, I'm going to bed. I thought I'd leave the ghostlight on, as theatres do.

One night after rehearsal, I did Suzuki slow-tens (ultra-slow-mo walking) all the way down the Seattle Opera house aisle to the ghostlight, then receded slowly to the back wall.

Emailing links to friends

See the little envelope-with-arrow after this post? If you click it, you can mail a link to this post to a friend. It just mails the link, though. If you want to send them the actual text, you have to copy and paste it yourself. I'm not sure I've written anything recently worth mailing, but the day may come.

Sleep that knits the ravel'd sleeve of care

I function well on 10 hours a night. After a big push, I can sleep for days. I had been going for five intense years, teaching myself how to direct theatre, living in an endless internal chant of, "No, no, no, no, that's not good enough, that's not right, that's not it." When Bart said, "You are now ready to direct Chekhov on the regional stage," I went home and slept for three days.

Same thing at the Odin -- there was so much to digest, so much transformation, that one of my main sensations was of living 5 feet away from Eugenio... and being too tired to talk to him. That's Chekhov. Lopakhin, oversleeping in his proud yellow boots, instead of meeting Ranevskaya's train.

Half-Price books

My housemate works at Half-Price Books, a used bookstore we both love. Half-Price has the philosophy of "We buy everything" -- so they pay very little -- and "We move it all." I once sold them 24 bags of books but got only $12, a pittance that rankled until I realized, "Yeah, but they bought it ALL. Most bookstores only buy the plums, and you're still left with a ton of books." If you want to get rid of your books, take them to Half-Price.



There is a healthy ecosystem inside the store of how books move from the shelves to the sale, to other branches, to the clearance, to bags of 12-for-a-dollar, to Goodwill or the dumpster. Their goal is to have fresh books on the shelf, next time you can come in.

The vibe is laid-back. You can browse for four hours and never speak to a soul. Our television at home gets turned on maybe once every two months -- NBA games for him, tapes my mom makes me of Inside the Actors Studio for me. Now that he's got a book job, it's even less.

"One of my sections is Science Fiction," he said last night. "I had two feet of David Brin three days ago, now it's all gone. Terry Pratchett we can't keep on the shelves. Certain authors we never clearance, because they just sell and sell and sell."

I loved the thought of great writers being like strong tides, pouring over the shelves. The authors don't know this, and aren't getting paid for it. But still -- if Connie Willis is flying off Half-Price shelves, she is probably vanishing from Amazon, Borders, and Barnes & Nobles as well.

Writing a book

Every birthday since I was 5, I have told myself, "You're FIVE and you haven't written your book yet." "You're EIGHT and you haven't written your book yet." "You're THIRTY-TWO and you haven't written your book yet."

Yesterday I was looking at the 100 spreads of the Starbucks journal, thumbnailed across my screen. "Why is this so compelling to me?" I wondered. "Why do I return to this with such joy and comfort?" Then it hit me -- I've made a book! Plus, I'm averaging seven blog posts a week, which is pure book-writing muscle.

Woohoo! We're off! Bring on my whole big life!

Since my ultimate plan for supporting myself, for compounding wealth, and for bankrolling my theatre is royalties from my books and plays, this is good news.

"It's time to start writing our books now," I told my unconscious in June. "Like this?" it asks. "Like this?" I picture it making play-doh books like a kindergartener, tongue out with the effort, kneading a book into mortal existence.

This is another fruit of living at the Odin, where Eugenio's writings fill two walls of the lunchroom.

Oh man -- HERE's a huge hit. I'm making an altered book on -- thanks to the Tarot site's giving me "Ten of Pentacles" -- Wealth. The wealth IS the book. The book IS the wealth.

I've had the stubborn feeling ever since the Odin that

it's time to do my real work.

I just couldn't figure out what it was. Or why I was so reluctant to start my theatre. Now I see -- I need the building for the theatre. I need the books to get the money for the building AND the theatre. Well, more likely, I need it all, and this is just the game I am constructing to enjoy getting it.

Make positive effort for the good.
Practice every day.

-- Katagiri Roshi

A bummer week

Well, I've been bummed all week and I finally figured out why. This is the week I would have been moving to New Haven, had I decided to go to Yale. It was right not to go -- but the part of me that loves school, and likes to start big adventures in the fall, is going, "Where's my adventure?"

I'm teaching 2 classes in October

I'm teaching 2 BCC classes this fall -- Acting for NonActors on Tues eves in Factoria, with rehearsals; and Acting: Improvisation Sat mornings at Northup, with no rehearsals. If you're interested, here are the course descriptions and registration info.

I'm teaching 2 classes in October - the long one

Here's a sneak peek at what I'm offering at Bellevue Community College. Neither of these is the scene study I've taught for seven years. In fact, Improv actually has NO out-of-class rehearsal. I'm posting the info here, because many actors read my blog.

For out-of-town readers, fyi -- BCC is a good community college, 4th in the nation. Their Continuing Ed (non-credit) classes make their bread and butter teaching computer skills to the Microsoft/Boeing/ biotech/nanotech folks. For me, BCC is a godsend. No curriculum, no requirements, just space, actors, and freedom. And, a highly international population. It's a lab. I have a repeat-core of actors who take it 2, 3, 4 or more times. We get more rehearsal time than most conservatories. It's basically where I do my work, so I love it.

Acting for the NonActor

Item 9471
Tues eves 6:30-9:30
10/5 - 11/23/2004
down at Factoria, 12400 SE 38TH, that upstairs glass room T205
instructor is listed as Vera Wong, I'm covering it
$169
has rehearsal outside of class
attendance required weeks 1, 2, 3, 8
register here (click "enroll" on the class)or 425-564-2263
full catalog description here

THE SCOOP:

We'll focus on acting, not scenes -- how to prepare, how to enter the work, how to connect, how to play. We'll work with scripts and without. We will have a final show, but what's in it will evolve during the quarter.

I guess I would call this the ur-craft. What is the thing an actor can always do, is always doing, no matter what the genre? How does an actor walk and move and speak and listen and connect and work? What lies at the heart of YOUR Actor's Gift? Before you are Cassius, or Juliet, or Medea, who are you? Before you are you, who are you? And how does THAT enter a space?

I'm not saying this very well, because there's some aspect of this is new to me. I can feel where it's going, but I can't tell what it looks like till we go there. And, be forewarned -- my work is getting more and more like this; you'll know even less, as time goes on, where we're going. But the going and the destination will keep getting better.

Acting: Improvisation

Item F9460
Saturday mornings 10-2
10/2 - 11/20/2004
up at the Northup location, 10700 Northup Way, in a new room W174
$189
no out-of-class rehearsal
attendance required weeks 1 & 2
register here (click "enroll" on the class)or 425-564-2263
full catalog description here

THE SCOOP:

Yep, you heard that right -- no out-of-class rehearsal. First time in seven years I haven't required rehearsal. This class will focus partly on classical improv -- status, relationship, environment, character, connection, scenes, games -- and partly on other uses of improvisation in acting. So, it'll be some of what you see on "Who's Line Is It Anyway" or Jet City Improv -- and some new. Deeper. I expect this class will be potent, because of the scarcity of time. That's part of the lesson of improv -- THIS present moment is all you have.

I got this idea from a band I was in, Shiver. We had two women singers, a fantastic guitarist and drummer -- a hot, near-techno, vocal band. In the middle of our 3-hour set, we'd do "electric jam." Our guitar player was white-hot. He was 20, hadn't worked in two years, just sat home and practiced. Well, electric jam meant he just flew, doing whatever he wanted, while the rest of us tried to keep up; and then with no warning, he'd stop -- bam. And we all had to stop with him. It kept us completely on our toes. Audiences LOVED this. They liked electric jam more than anything we wrote and practiced for hours.

I want to figure out how to make ensemble-improv-acting like electric jam. That's what we're exploring this quarter.

Shout out to JJ

Hey, check out JJ's Piccadilly blog. She's an editor in Amsterdam, new to blogging, with a quiet discerning eye. I love that she changes the name of her blog with her mood, and that she shares interesting blogs she finds. Most of all, I love being able to glimpse life in Amsterdam.

I like blogs from halfway around the world. By the time I get up, they've had all day to post. Like leaving notes in the hole in the tree.

My theatre

"It looks like a church... that's a home... that's a theatre," said a friend. And it's a barn.

I've probably drawn this a hundred times. I draw it over and over.

A couple years ago, it only had the church windows. After the Odin, it acquired a backdoor, bicycle, many tiny windows, and sometimes wet clothes hung out to dry.

It's not "my theatre." It's "our theatre," I just don't know who the other people are yet.

Technical note

The next post has 11 hi-res jpeg pictures. This is my first foray into multiple pix, and I'm not sure how it will work. If it is slow or doesn't show up, or let me know. Email comments or problems to realrachel@aol.com, cc'd to theatredirector@hotmail.com.

PIX: Starbucks journal

PIX: more Starbucks journal pix

My inner theatre

Some people have an inner voice. I have an inner theatre. I trust bodies, and think in groups. It's a 200-seat house, dark and cool, with a raised stage. There are 250 actors who live and work at the theatre. I found it six years ago.

The way it works is, I ask a question. The actors spontaneously materialize in their response to that question. Then I glance in the theatre and see where they are. Blocking tells the story.

This is a way for me
to communicate
with my unconscious
in terms we both understand --
the dream.

Sometimes they surprise me. Once I glanced in and they had taken the roof off the theatre, built a huge swimming pool on the stage, and were high-diving and splashing and eating green grapes. Another time it was suddenly a cold starry night and most of them had left on a camping trip. A few guys hang around the open door and smoke.

Putting my shoes on just now, I asked:

W h e r e . a r e . y o u . n o w ?

The theatre was empty except for four actors in the top tier of seats, 25 feet in the air. They sat side by side on a curved dark wood pew, which was a gleaming lacquered red where they sat. They looked like kings, Suzuki judges. The rest of the theatre was clean, dark, empty. The air smelled fresh, like the doors were open.

Let's see, what's something I want to know.

W h o . w a n t s . t o . g o . g e t . a . j o b ?

65 of them, mostly men, stand motionless in a close-clumped phalanx formation in center stage. They're wearing rough dark grey wool and look like a greek chorus, a ninja military. Everyone else is gone.

That's a pretty clear answer. A considerable mass, and these guys look serious. 65 people out of 250 can make something happen if they're committed. Okay, I'll start looking. I don't know what job I want, but they will.

Starbucks journal -- pix to come

We took digital pictures of every page in the Starbucks journal today. I'll post some soon. It had changed already by the time I left. It is spawning other journals; I saw three more that people had brought to work in.

I think James Hillman and Merlyn had it right -- we don't only live forward. In some ways, we also live backward, and in all times at once. Who can say which of those journals spawned the others? Perhaps a white rock just dropped with a splash in the timestream, and every droplet became a book.

My printmaking teacher used to say, "You try to control all aspects of your print. Then you place the paper in the press, and the hand of god touches it. This changes everything." Digital photos are also printmaking, that altering Hand. Ordinary layouts leap to life. Strong pages inexplicably weaken. Everything just... shifts... a little.

=======================
UPDATE: PICTURES REMOVED - 9/2/2004: I took them off the site. They were communally-created, and communally-owned, and I realized I do not have communal permission to publish them. So, I'm getting back in integrity by removing them. However, you can check out the journal yourself -- live! in person! -- by going to visit the Carnation Starbucks at 31722 Eugene Street, Carnation WA, 98014. Have a latte. Write in the book.

I'm hungry, you eat

A few years ago I came up with this metaphor. The healthy version is:

I'm hungry, I eat.

Some dysfunctional versions are:

I'm hungry, you eat.
I'm hungry, I'll feed you
I'm hungry, I won't eat
I'm hungry, nobody eats
I'm hungry, I'll eat you
I'm hungry, I'll eat mysel.

Let's try it out in Shakespeare:

GHOST (to Hamlet): I'm hungry, you eat Claudius
HAMLET: I'm not sure I'm hungry, I don't know if I should eat Claudius
Followed by:
...Oh god, I ate Polonius
...Mother, don't eat
...Woops, I ate Ophelia
...I put an "EAT ME" sign on Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, and someone did
...Woah, someone ate Yorick
...Dang, I didn't want to eat Laertes
...I'll eat Claudius
...Claudius ate me.
CLAUDIUS: I'm hungry, I'll eat you
GERTRUDE: I'm hungry, I'll eat you, then you eat me
POLONIUS: I'm hungry, I'll send Reynaldo to eat Laertes, and Ophelia to eat Hamlet.
OPHELIA: I'm hungry, I'll eat myself
FORTINBRAS: I'm not hungry, why did they all eat each other?

RICHARD III: I'm hungry, I'll eat everybody
LADY ANNE: I'm hungry, you eat me
BUCKINGHAM: I'm hungry, you eat, I'll eat your leavings.
QUEEN MARGARET: I'm hungry, none of you will ever eat
CLARENCE: I'm not hungry, don't eat me

ROMEO: I'm hungry, you eat me.
JULIET: I'm hungry, I'll eat you.

JULIUS CAESAR: I'm hungry, I'll eat.
CASSIUS: I'm hungry, I'll get Brutus to eat Caesar.
BRUTUS: I'm not hungry, I'll eat Caesar. (Which explains why he is such a curiously blank character -- why the hell is he eating if he's not hungry?)
MARC ANTONY: I'm hungry, I'll eat Brutus.

LADY MACBETH: I'm hungry, you eat
MACBETH: I'm hungry, I'll eat
KING: I'm not hungry, don't eat me
BANQUO: You ate me, I'll make sure you're hungry forever
WITCHES: We're hungry, we'll make you eat yourself

Okay, enough.

A quiet lake

John's new house is the most peaceful place I've been in long time. A sleepy lake, shrouded by trees. Green waters, walnut tree, grass. No ripples. White sky. Once, a fish.

Whoever built this house built it in tune with the lake. It runs along the water, and every room is wide and windowed. Nothing but time. Anywhere you go, light and silence.

I could sleep forever.

Things under John's care, grow. In five years, the garage will be neat and organized, shelves will appear, wood will stack neatly, and tools will hang on their racks. Flowers will sprout and flourish, and the deck will richly stain. "What are you good at?" I once asked John. "Really good at, like maybe one of the best in the world at?" "Fixing things," he said.

Houses come to life when people love them. John has the patient attention to awaken a house. Houses, in turn, awaken their inhabitants.

When I first moved into my house, I felt like I was squatting in a rich person's home. It was too beautiful, too spiritual, too gorgeously treed for what I deserved. Slowly, the house grew me. After three years, I felt its equal. Now we're both big.

That sacred fire: Art Talks

One May evening in 1998, my acting teacher, Mark Williams, opened a battered blue hardback by Nemirovich-Danchenko, co-founder of the Moscow Art Theatre. "The task of the actor," he read, "Is to ennoble the spirit of the audience." He continued till the end, then gazed at our round, high-ceilinged, ex-nurses-station room, looked at us, and said, "You are now holy. You have the power to make any space holy."

It never happened again. He never brought in a book, never read us a quote. And we were never quite as quiveringly alive, deeply awaiting. But on that high fine night, the winds were blowing.

At the start of most rehearsals, I give an Art Talk. Sometimes they have a quote. Sometimes they're just about our play, or this holy moment, or Nature, or acting. Once when we had a piano, I played the first few of Brahms' Variations on a Theme by Handel, and talked about how those related to Medea.

"Beauty is what we call a certain quality of truth," says Ed Okolovitch.

When it's time for the Art Talk, everyone stills. I look up, l i s t e n, and feel for how this aspect goes together. It's like mining blind, tracing a vein of ore with your fingers. When I'm done, I can't remember what I said. It takes so much of me to hold that whole world while following the threads, that nothing's left to monitor. When I come out of it, the actors are completely still and a thick hush surrounds us.

I love Art Talks whether I'm giving them or getting them. I just want to be in the room when that sacred fire is flowing. Art can come from anywhere. Giancarlo, a physicist, is actually fantastic at Art Talks once he ignites. He's talking about string theory and molecular relationships, but it's the same fire.

You are in love with me
I shall make you perplexed
Do not build much
for I intend to have you in ruins
If you build two hundred houses like the bees
I shall make you as homeless as a fly
If you are the Mount Qaf of stability
I shall make you whirl as a millstone

-- Rumi

Libby Skala & Lilia

Libby and her grandmother, Lilia

Libby created a one-woman show, Lilia, about her grandmother -- the first woman architect in Austria, and a leading actor in Max Reinhardt's fabled company. I saw Libby do an excerpt for her TPS audition, and it was fantastic.

Here is an interview with Libby on how she created the show. Here is her website.


Libby today

She began creating the material by just sitting each evening with a piece of paper, on which she would write, "God directed..." And then she'd wait. Whatever came, she'd write down. What came was about her grandmother. Pages of it.

It grew slowly, over the years. One day someone said, "Why don't you mount your show in our theatre?" She said, "What show?" "The one about your grandmother." "That's not a show, that's just some pieces." "Well, mount the pieces then." She did, people loved it.

Later, she decided to make the material into a proper story. But she noticed she now no longer enjoyed performing it: the grandmother had become a scold, lost her charm. So she dropped the story, went back to her original gentle montage, and bam -- there was her play.


Lilia in 1930

I'm blown away that Lilia was in Reinhardt's company.

Reinhardt was one of the best directors in the world, in the early 1900's. I've most closely followed his crowd work; he was exceptional at getting crowds to act realistically. The key was, he'd break them into little groups with captains, and then give them autonomy. He was also in eternal search of the perfect theatre space, so he directed everywhere -- big houses, little houses, non-theatre spaces -- and did well in all of them.

Anyway, enjoy the interview. And the show.

Global readership

This is where my readers are, according to sitemeter.com. Pretty cool, eh? One of my secret desires is to eventually have readers in every timezone. Some really big ones, in places where I don't know a soul. I get all excited whenever a new bar appears.

Mulligatawny, it's all theatre

The responses I've gotten in email and here, agree -- keep one blog, mixing theatre with the rest of life. Mulligatawny stew.

Opera director Nicolette Molnar has a great saying -- "It's all theatre." She is often asked by people to comment on the differences between musical theatre, light opera, and grand opera. "It's all theatre," she says, cheerfully.

I'm starting to feel what she means. Theatre, film, television, opera -- it's all starting to blur kindly together. This is another ripple of Eugenio's "We" attitude. It's too hard keeping little forts. It's better to just help everyone at once.

What do you think?

I am thinking of starting a second blog purely for theatre thoughts. I'd still pepper theatre throughout this one, but I'd use that for the full-on theatre stuff.

For example, the current thing I'm wrestling with is -- what really IS my model of theatre? Can I draw it? And, what are my principles? Grotowski had his 11 principles he gave his actors, Andrew has his Code of Conduct he gives his Jet City Improv guys -- what are mine?

So... feedback, please. If both blogs were going, would you:

a) I'd likely read mostly this one
b) I'd likely read mostly the theatre one
c) I'd likely read both
d) I can't tell till I see it
e) Actually, if you're going to start another blog, I'd rather see one on _________ (fill in the blank)
f) I don't care if you start another blog or not, but what I like most and/or want more of in this one is ______________ (fill in the blank)
g) Other (explain)
COMMENTS: ____________I may start the second one even if no one reads it, just because I need a place to think. But I'm curious to hear your thoughts.

Good news and polar bears

Good news on many fronts:

1. My mom doesn't have cancer anywhere else. They called, she's clean. They take her tube out tomorrow.

2. My brother called.

3. Bart gave me a lifetime pass to his rehearsal rooms -- any play, any time, no prior arrangement needed.

4. Got a little catch-up sesh in with the housemate.

5. Learned my old studio at MS is shutting down, which made me feel instantly better about having left.

6. Got invited to see John's new house Sunday. Should be inspiring.

Fall is coming. Like Atlas, who was invincible when his feet touched the earth, I am invincible when the weather turns cold and windy.

I graphed my theatre work over the last seven years. It follows a cycle -- growing, snowballing, climaxing, then falling off. Giancarlo said, "They are all at the same time of year. You never work in summer." It's because summer is too hot. My activity and achievements begin in fall, build in winter, peak in spring.

I have friends for whom the opposite is true. I call us "lizards" and "polar bears." The lizards get happy, frisky, horny, and smart in hot weather, while the polar bears lie around in a stupor. When it gets cold , the lizards shut down and the bears come out to play.

I am definitely a polar bear. I went to Russia in December, Denmark/Hungary/Poland/Wales in November. I like icy months in northern countries. The coastal winds off Wales and Denmark are a spiritual experience.

Now that the heat is fading, I grow smarter and stronger by the day.

Day off

My day off today felt like being let out of bootcamp -- that same weird, blinking-in-the-light strangeness. After nine 24-hour days of invalid care, a soft day off. On the one hand, I got to do all my stuff. On the other, I missed the physical workout of being at Salmon Beach. I didn't do my 1700 stairs today, and my legs are twitchy. Like missing ice hockey practice. I can tell I've lost weight -- I move different and my shirts are looser.

My free day began with a great coffee sesh with Giancarlo, with whom I'm hoping to work again. Then a sesh with Bevin, where we agreed to trade writing for design work. Got myself on Bart's calendar for tomorrow. Got rent from my housemate, which will go to our garbage bill. Caught up on phone calls and bills. And thanks to the two who commented on yesterday's post -- just what I needed.

Freedom

I'm going home tonight, my first break from my mom in two weeks. I wish my brother were here; we can get each other out of the black mood.

First stop -- Half-Price Books. Then a Red Robin's milkshake while I read Madeline L'Engle's memoirs, then home.

Three of my friends are moving away next week -- one to India, one to Los Angeles, one to Virginia. I am testy, irritable, sad.

Sexy at 71

I'm getting all kinds of side-benefits from taking care of my mom while she's healing up. One is, it's changing how I think of old age.

She's 71. Her face is a little wrinkly. She's about 5'5", has always been slim and outdoorsy -- loves to hike, camp, beach-comb, scuba-dive. Now -- well, she looks European to me: a finer-boned, slightly smaller build than most Americans. She has never been overweight. Most of her life she weighed around 120; now I'd say she weighs maybe 165... but it looks like firm padding, not like fat.

I change her bandages and help her bathe, so I see her body a lot.

I always imagined old people looked, well, old. Saggy and crepey and icky-smelling. But she doesn't -- she looks firm and white and about the same as ever.

Amazing.

I can stop dreading aging. Assuming, of course, that I get active now, and stay that way.

In the hospital, the doctors reacted the same way. They thought she looked healthy and strong when she came in, and healthy and strong when she left.

Watching other directors work

I love watching other directors work. I have assistant-directed eight times, am scheduled for a ninth, and know who I'd like for my tenth.

Allison Narver, a Yale School of Drama grad and head of the Empty Space Theatre here in town, has some excellent perceptions on directing. One is, "You assist until suddenly you're done assisting. It's time for you to be in the other chair, and everyone knows it."

That happened for me after my last opera. I knew because I was spending most of my time observing the artistic director, not the director.

Nonetheless, I still love watching other directors work. I feel like god has brought it all together -- the room, the designers, director, gifted actors, a great text, the whole theatre, sometimes an entire country and language -- just for me. (Along with all the other perfectly meshing divine purposes, of course.) "Pssst, Rach," hisses god, "Check THIS." I feel like he's gone back in time; had Chekhov be born, and Mozart write his operas; grown all the actors and designers their whole rich lives; sent them to great theatre schools; seasoned them through many rehearsal processes -- until they're ripe and ready. For me.

I open my eyes, gaze softly around the rehearsal room, and think -- "Thank you."

Even beginning directors are fascinating. They think and work differently than I do, and the problem is infinitely rich. It's the same with painters -- I like watching beginners as much as the pros. Seeing a new creation emerge never loses its awe.

Great directors I can watch again and again. What they're good at, they're very good at. Joseph Lavy's rehearsal rooms are great pools of silence and time. Bart Sher's are alive, energetic, zinged with sharp psychological insight. Eugenio Barba's are like a confluence of deep rivers; a weather system. Robyn Hunt's are shimmeringly clean. Vanessa de Wolf's are warm and yet quite focussed; she works with gaze in her dancers a lot, and often begins from costume improvisation.

I love rehearsal -- its complex unfolding, organic fertility, sacredness. Although it is hard to sit still all that time, the spiritual nourishment is fantastic.

Observing another director's rehearsal process transforms me as profoundly as directing a play of my own.

You know what I'd really like? To be Artist In Residence during rehearsal. While they are making a play, I'd be sitting at my table in the corner, making a painting -- or book, or poems; whatever creation is flowing out of me, based on the actors, the text, the rehearsal room. Yeahhhhh. Mmm.

Looking for authors & books

I am craving books. I need to branch out. Who are your favorite authors? What are some of your favorite books? Any genre, fiction or nonfiction, I just need some new reads.

Evening thoughts

Today I stood halfway up the cliff and watched a single bird wheeling against the silvering sky. "That's me," I thought.

I am not so happy with my second post to Kipley, as my first. I am on surer ground with the spiritual.

It is good to have this time on the water. Leonid would call this cabin a dacha, a retreat house.

I told Eugenio once he was a dreamlord, and I am one also.

Once at the Odin, we had a morning rehearsal which was completely ordinary. And an afternoon which was suddenly, magically cracked open and deep. One moment cannot predict the next.

I love people who surprise me.

I feel pregnant, as if some shining thing is flowing toward and through me. I feel like a mortal, bearing Poseidon's child.

Kingfisher rests his
jackhammer head, cocked and
bright. Fish! Hoarse trill, splash.

Mother moves more slow,
bandaged, cut, draining; prunes her
garden, drinks sweet tea

Rachel dreams a green
theatre, by water that
touches Thorsminde

Tide laps the clay cliff
washing it petal-smooth; alder
trees bend, reach, drink

Can't get it going

Well, I've started three posts today. One on how the greatest products come from love; one on how Chekhov's characters are so well written that they can hold any authentic human; and one on if god gave you one wish, what would you wish for.

Didn't finish a one.

The truth is, it's a glorious day down here on Salmon Beach, and even though I cheerfully want to kill my mom half the time, I can't deny I woke up feeling great. (Ah. THAT's why I'm thinking of Chekhov.) Carnations, poppies, roses, sweet peas, hannah's eyes, and tobacco plants are all blooming on my deck, fresh salt air is pouring through the open door, and I'm about to hit the To-Do List Of The Day.

I cooked a lot of yesterday, so we've got steamed vegies, fresh salad, hard-boiled eggs, sliced cantaloupe, sliced watermelon, and chicken-and-rice in the fridge.

It's one of those, "Make gingerbreat just because I feel like it" days. A day of wild, reasonless, confident hope.

Have at it, duckies. Whatever you're doing today -- do it lightly, with one wild eye on the gum machine in case there's a free ball in the tray.

BOOK: Seven Steps on a Writer's Path

This came out maybe a year ago. It's co-written by a Nancy Pickard, a mystery writer who came up with the steps, and therapist Lynn Lott who took her writing workshop.

The basic premise is that a writer's -- or any creative person's -- life goes through this cycle, repeatedly:

1. Unhappiness
2. Wanting
3. Commitment
4. Wavering
5. Letting go
6. Immersion
7. Fulfillment

Nancy would set 7 chairs in front of the room, label each one, and invite participants to come sit in the chair they were in, and speak for it.

Many things feel right to me about this model. The fact that there's a whole bunch of work to do BEFORE creation. That Unhappiness itself is a whole stage. That Wanting cannot co-exist with the fogged misery of Unhappiness, but is a fruition of the unconscious's processing. "Eventually you get sick and tired of being sick and tired," she says, "Which is a signal that Wanting is near." That Commitment is followed by Wavering. And most of all, that the way out of Wavering is Letting Go. You don't will your way out, you surrender.

I see the first five steps as the dragons at the gate -- rightful guardians whom you must pass to do your work.

At the time I read it, I was in step 6 -- immersed in work. Now, after a satisfying Fulfillment... I have come full-circle to Unhappiness. I am starting to recognize this stage. She says some writers even learn to enjoy this fallowness, seeing it like the buildup of sexual tension that will carry you into a pleasurable state.

That's a nicer model than just feeling like an inexplicable loser.

I am rounding the corner from Unhappiness to Wanting. Figuring out that the book and the building were my next two goals, is the early tendrils of Wanting.

So, anyway -- does this model work for you? What stage are you in?

214 stairs

There are 214 stairs down the cliff to my mom's house. They're made of rough lumber and braces, rebuilt every 15 years or so by the men on the beach. Each time they get better. This time they're all the same height.

Some soul numbered the steps in black marker, starting at the bottom: 10, 20, 30. Yesterday I did the stairs four times. That's 1,712 stairs.

My brother, a longliner-fisherman/ship's-pilot-turned-haz-mat-cleanup-guy who works outdoors, gazed at me while I typed. "You need to jog, not blog," he said. For incentive, he brought out two photos of us in bathing suits in Arizona, when I was 23 and he was 20. Back then, he was training for javelin (won the nationals twice), and I was playing ice hockey 4 nights a week in a men's league. "We look exactly alike here, Rachel."

"Wow, look at your six-pack," I said. "Wow, look at MINE."

Then he brought out a National Geographic, opened to a full-color anatomy diagram showing a healthy woman -- red sinewy meat -- and a fat one, who looked like the bacon you don't buy because it's too much white.

My brother is a man of few words.

I decided to do 4 roundtrip stair-sets a day while I'm down here. I just did my four for today.

The goal of the actor

I'll go in this order:

- the goal of life
- the goal of theatre
- the goal of the actor

1. LIFE
The goal of life is to live well and die well. Take the whole journey -- seed to plant to tree to flower to fruit to withering to death. The flowering is your Gift. The fruit is what you become when you fully surrender to and follow your Gift.

2. THEATRE
- The purpose of theatre is to heal the world, by creating a living source of integrity-in-action.
- The work of theatre is to grow the people in it toward maximum human, artistic, and spiritual potential.
- The measure of theatre is the quality of performances we create.
- The price of theatre is lifeforce; deep work requires your whole self.
- The lesson of theatre is ethics -- correct relationship to all beings and Nature.

Theatre is metaphor. You can't work at the metalevel without becoming more aware. Theatre is thus a crucible for increasing and heightening human awareness. It's fractal: you're working on all your levels at once.

3. ACTOR
The goal of the actor is to become clear god-putty. To become infinitely supple human material, so the Spirit and Story can move through you as perfectly as any impulse of Nature.

I am an ensemble-theatre director. I have been lucky to be around two master ensembles - Leonid Anisimov's Vladivostok Chamber Drama Theatre in Russia (before they broke up); and Eugenio Barba's Odin Teatret, in Denmark. They were both led by visionaries, had a longterm group of master actors, and were what I would call brilliant groups.

Have you heard that saying, "Brilliant individuals, dumb group"? Well, these were "Regular individuals, brilliant group". Or rather, regular individuals who had gradually dissolved their masks & fears to become clear and supple and Talented and thus were no longer regular at all. "Infinite individuals, infinite group" is what those ensembles had become.

"Each Odin actor is a universe." -- Eugenio Barba.

These actors all had the same quality. It is a softness, a human responsiveness. They walk partly in the mortal world, partly in the spirit world, and always in the ethics. They instantly sense any tear or violation in the energy or ethics in the room. They are like one big heart, a telepathic mind-heart. They laugh. They are silent. They can move at a full run without disturbing the air. Even when doing the hardest, angriest things, they stay soft. They are completely translucent and as unknowable as the moon. They are always working, themselves, and working as an organism of the group. They are connected to everything, all the time. They are luminous. They are ordinary. They have impeccable ethics. They are fantastically skillful. They cast off lying long ago. They are always seeking greater truth. They are clear god-putty. The older they get, the better they get. The 50- and 60-year-olds are amazing, and the 20- and 30-year-olds revere them.

I would also say, there are as many routes to that space as there are actors. I am a catalyst director. Like Leonid and Eugenio, I'm good at creating the space and conditions in which people tend to drop away masks and become more and more themselves. So that's my route, and I tend to attract actors who want to work that way.

"There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground." -- Rumi

The task of the actor is divine play. The actor must be a master of the craft, so they are free to be a child in the art. They must play well with others. Your scene partner is your gateway to the divine. Never be alone on stage. Be in relation to the table, the floor; to the Eye of God, which Tadashi Suzuki says is just above and beyond the audience, and is who we are really playing for.

To be an actor is to experience the infinite. Every human is infinite in their Mystery. The actor gets to enter that Mystery, and go forever. An actor always knows the character better than anyone. Better than the playwright, better than god. To be an actor is to take the big ride. Each character you play IS the ride... and will open parts of you you never knew existed. The more, and more ethically, you work, the more infinite you become.

Plus, it's fun. Acting is the funnest, most absorbing thing there is, if that's your Gift. It uses every particle of you -- mind, body, wit, and soul.

I have seen great actors in many realms -- in improv theatre, dance-theatre, opera, ballet, television, film, ensemble theatre, traditional theatre, commedia dell' arte, even children acting.

Go for whatever form you love the most. It will take you all the way. Every one of those paths needs genius actors.

When Leonid first brought his company of 30 to Seattle, he said, "I have brought 25 good actors, 4 great ones, and 1 genius." The company nodded. It was not news to them, it was fact.

Zeami, the director from the 1100s who founded Noh Theatre in Japan, wrote a famous passage describing the whole life cycle of the actor. He tells what the actor's Gift and Task are at age 5, 20, 30, 40, 60, 80. He could describe seed to leaf to flower to fruit.

I wrote recently that the actor's task is "To transubstantiate, ignite, burn to ash." That's just a fiery way to say, "Wake up, grow up, serve well, die well."

How will you know if you're there? It will be turning you inside out, it will seem miraculous and ordinary at the same time, you'll be doing it with perfect frequency for you (likely every day), and you will feel as if you are in the most perfect spot in the universe.

Think bigger

Ahhhh... a terminal on the 3rd floor of the surgery wing. Excellent. Well, my mom's surgery went well, but severe. They're having her hang out here a couple days to make sure recovery commences with no problems. Couple problems so far, they're working them out.

So, bottom line -- way better than it could have been. More news in a couple weeks. Thank you so much for your prayers and support.

It's a new perspective, being in the hospital. I have to believe it's an act of grace, in the usual efficient fashion of the universe.

"Thinking about your future, Rachel? Wondering what sort of lifestyle to set up? Well, here's some stuff you might want to include. Think bigger."

Okay... I'm thinking...

Send white light & prayers at noon

My mom's surgery is today. Please send white light and prayers from noon till 2:30, pacific time (3-5:30, eastern time) for Joan Nalini Rutherford, in Seattle (UW hospital).

I'll be down at her house in Tacoma for the next 10-14 days. If I can get my computer set up, I'll be blogging as usual. If I disappear from the ether, you'll know why. Her phone number is 253-752-0573 if you need to reach me. Or email, realrachel@aol.com ( theatredirector@hotmail.com if that bounces).

Seafair madness

Western Washington has a lot of lakes. Our high schools are divided by which lake you live on. When I was little, Seafair -- a celebration on Lake Washington, which is as close as we get to an inland sea -- was basically a hydroplane race. We grew up in boats, and this was boats on steroids: flat, faster-than-god, flippable little boats. What could be better?

Seafair has grown. Now it's an event, and we've trumped the hydroplanes by adding the Blue Angels, who roar by in formation, delighting us all with near-death potential.

We close I-90, one of the two main bridges, for their flight practice and show. Traffic today will crawl.

I am about to head out into all this gloriousness. Bring on the avatars.

If they ask if you're a Jew, say no

As early as I can remember, my mother would tell us:

If they ask if you're a Jew, say no.
If they ask if your mother's a Jew, say no.
Say you have papers.
Say you can prove it.
We had you baptized.
They'll think you're a Christian.
When the holocaust comes, you'll be spared.

When the holocaust came, we'd have a bomb shelter. When the holocaust came, we'd have guns. My father had built the bomb shelter into the bank behind our house, hidden guns in the walls.

When I heard the OyBaby singing, I felt a familiar quivering. "They sound like Akropolis," I thought. And then, "Akropolis sounds Jewish." And with that, a HUGE wave of realization -- that most of my theatre heritage comes out of Poland and Russia, out of Jewish directors. Me and my mentors -- we ALL think the holocaust's coming. Or perhaps they've transcended this, but it's all over our work.

So when I watched the babies in yarmulkes on the OyBaby video, part of me was horrified. "What will they do when the holocaust comes?" I thought.

Rob had words of peace and comfort.

Today, an old German man asked, "Are you of the Jewish persuasion?" For the first time in my life, I nodded. "You know, the Holocaust never happened," he said matter-of-factly. "That is just a story." He began to tell me of the Jews he had known after he left Germany, when he lived in LA. Surreal. I felt as invisible as always. But more accountable.

More raw, dark, loose

When I began in the Starbucks journal, Carnation was not real to me. It was my covenant with the past -- slow-paced, moving at the rate my heart beats, the place where my dad loved to hunt. Although he's been dead for years, in Carnation he might walk through the door.

Today, however, something shifted. For the first time I was wholly HERE.

Joel once said, "I wish more people would write in the book." I agree. I've started handing the book to people who look interested. Many of them join. Laura isn't just a name to me now, she's a fine artist who likes colored pencils. Beth has a daughter and I met her.

The book's getting way better too. We're warming up and the pages are getting softer; more raw, dark, loose.

More acting, more OyBaby

Ever wonder what it would be like to go for it as an actor in New York? Here's your chance. Kipley Wentz is an actor with improv chops, who also produces and writes films. He's made four. At 35, he decided this year to commit to "making it" as an actor in New York... and blog it all. It's a rare peek at the major leagues. Just hearing how headshots are treated is an education. He covers auditions, roles, thoughts, struggles. I like him because he's a regular guy -- smart, funny, warm, great wife, no trust fund.

Check out his site, Actor's Life, and click the fish.

OyBaby is a product of love. My friend Rob Wolf is a great marketer. If he gets excited about a product, the numbers sing and dance. He and Lisi have this beautiful baby. Last year they decided to make him a video. With him in it, naturally. A baby video, about Jewish baby things -- the Hebrew alphabet, challah bread and candles, puppets, waterfalls, and all his baby friends. A Sesame-Street kind of deal. They saved up, rented a studio for a day, and started filming. "I wouldn't do THAT again," said Rob. "Twenty babies at once was too many. Next time I'd do groups of three or four."

The singing is to die for. Intimate and lovely, it's mostly three sisters singing with light drum or guitar accompaniment. Lisi's childhood friend Stephanie Schneiderman has opened for Lilith Fair, and her sisters Lisa & Kim are just as good. They've sung together their whole lives, and it shows.

I recommend the CD even if you aren't Jewish. Me and my housemate were wandering around last night singing Zum Gali Gali in harmony while making dinner. The album is peppered with songs of children singing, and I think one song has a guy. But mostly it's those divine women, singing as if they loved you.

Clips, videos, and stills are here.

Great acting thoughts, great OyBaby

Hey -- check out Kipley's "Actor's Life" blog. (Click the goldfish on his site.) Kipley is an actor in New York, who asked, "Why do we act?" Mark Williams wrote back a great reply. If you're an actor, feel free to send your own thoughts to Kipley, and he'll post them.

And while I'm plugging my friends, check out this OyBaby video for Jewish babies. Beautiful three-sister singing of classic Jewish songs -- CD available -- while babies do baby things. Sweet, lovely, great. Made by parents who love their babies.

I fear I have o'ershot myself

I have five blogs I read daily. Just click down through them, check for posts. I'm a faithful reader. I like my writers to update daily.

Well, here's a funny thing. This has become so reflexive -- click the blog, check for new content -- that I've found myself feeling disappointed when no one has updated MINE since I last logged on. "When is this thing gonna UPDATE? -- Oh. Wait. Yeah."

Aiiiiiyiiiii! (laughing) I'm in the future now. When I start expecting other instances of myself to update my blog while I'm out, I fear I have o'ershot myself.

JOKE: Impatient Cow

From my terrific niece. This is a great joke to tell. It won't read like much, but it works well. Here's how you tell it.

YOU: "Knock knock."
THEM: "Who's there?"
YOU: "Impatient Cow"
THEM: "Impat-"
YOU: (interrupting) "MOOOO!"

The book and the building

I've made three decisions.

1. I'm not going to business school.
2. I'm going to write my theatre book.
3. I'm going to get a theatre building.

The book and building are both things I can start now. The book is a capstone to seven years of work. And the building is what will take me to the next level. A building is a big enough goal to pull me through many other steps.

I think there's another plain goal to come, about my body. I can feel its connection to the book, the building, and even my next job.

Why we give money to artists

I'm raising money for Akropolis. I gave some, and asked my friends to give. I have also been on the other end in the past, an artist receiving money. I'm noticing some new things about why I give.

1. I give selfishly, to get a show.

2. I give confidently, because of Akropolis's consistent excellence.

3. I give comfortably, because I see how hard they work, how far they stretch a dollar, how much they train. I have this same feeling about Jet City Improv, by the way, and the Intiman, the Odin, and Seattle Opera.

4. I give so they will keep exploring artistically, with all the not-knowing that entails. What I really want is the art they will start making about 20 years in.

When I've asked for money as an artist, it didn't occur to me that people would consider the art worth the investment. I thought it was more of a charity thing -- they were investing in our relationship, in the tax write-off, in that generous feeling. (And, given how rookie an artist I was, there probably WAS a lot of charity involved.) But now I realize, they crave good art.

We give money to artists because they feed our souls with their art.

Akropolis does it with radiant presence. Jet City does it with laughter. Seattle Opera does it with colaraturas. The Intiman does it with profoundly theatrical storytelling. The Odin does it with reverberation, stories that explode an hour in.

To raise more money, become a better artist.

Mira Calligraphiae Monumenta

Sorry, had some details wrong. The real name of that amazing illuminated manuscript is the Mira Calligraphiae Monumenta. Here's the scoop:

In 1561-62 Georg Bocskay, imperial secretary to the Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand I, inscribed the Mira calligraphiae monumenta as a testament to his preeminence among scribes. He assembled a vast selection of contemporary and historical scripts, which nearly thirty years later were further embellished by Joris Hoefnagel, Europe's last great manuscript illuminator.

It's small, the size of your hand. Here are two of the spreads.

Starbucks illuminated manuscript

Oh man. This book is like a drug. I hate to leave it. Each time I work on it, it attaches itself more thickly to me. I HATE leaving my own paintings. I always know where they are, geographically.

The book is now to the point that when you hand it to people, they go, "Ohhhh," and their faces soften and they turn the pages very gently, one by one. And they don't want to give it back.

I know JUST how they feel.

Their was a court illuminator in, like, the 13th century, who did a beautiful calligraphy specimen book for the king. Each page had perfect, confident, masterful lettering designs. It was a work of art. Calligraphia Ornamenta, I think it was called. Anyway, a hundred years later, a court painter very delicately went through and ILLUSTRATED the whole thing, adding ladybugs, roses, drops of water, and leopards to the lettering. If you look at it now, you can't believe it wasn't done at the same time.

That's how this book is. Someone writes... and art wells up around it. Someone makes art... and journal entries appear, nestled into it.

I dreamed about the spreads all night last night -- one slow one after another. I have, all my life, had dreams that I am poring over an illuminated manuscript, an artist's book, spending an hour on each page. When I wake, I can see the pages. Sometimes I make them.

The Empress

A silkscreen by Tienfan Jiang, that hangs in my front room.

Jiang was a painter in China. During Mao's years when you could be killed for painting anything original, Jiang would paint secretly at night, and destroy his paintings by morning. He did this for 20 years. Eventually the government changed. Now he is considered the founder of a whole school of Chinese art, and lives in San Diego.

The Empress gives me hope. One eye is the ocean, the other is the Mystery. She is terrible, like Aslan. She knows more than I do. On the days I am not rehearsing, she reminds me the universe is much larger than theatre, and there are other ways to grow as an artist.

I read once that if you ask a child to draw a picture of a tree, and he draws one with a hole in it, it means the child has suffered. I look at her different-colored eyes that same way.

Although... both my dog and my brother's pony, when we were little, had one brown and one blue eye. Perhaps she also looks familiar.

Leonid Anisimov says,

"Look on the most beautiful
and the most high
as long
and as often
as you can."

This is his single instruction for how to grow as an artist, as a human. He would call Nature the most beautiful and most high of all. Looking on the Empress with one eye, and the trees with my other, must surely be growing me.

Starbucks journal

John Steinbeck says that time doesn't change all at once; different towns live in different times. I live halfway between Redmond, Microsoft's capital, in 2004; and Carnation, a rural town in 1952. Carnation has one blinker between the farms and the river. The light marks the center, with a gas station, grocery store, pizza, chinese, Hong Kong variety shop, and Starbucks.

"I want to have a Starbucks journal," said the boy barista. "Would you write in it?" He handed me a black speckle-covered class notebook with lined paper. On the cover he had plastered Starbucks coffee labels, the mermaid in the center.

"Yes," I said. I went next door to the Hong Kong store and bought crayons. I got cut-up books and magazines from my car. I pasted and colored till they closed. My goal was, "Get as much art into this book as possible." Speed and quantity counted. The only other parameter was, I wanted the book to be enticing.

Three weeks passed.

I went back two days ago and asked to see the journal. "Oh, the journal," said the girl. "It's over there." The journal and crayons now lived on the end of the window counter, by the chess board and games.

I was blown away. The journal was over half full. EVERYONE had been writing in it. Several entries from two girls who had a crush on the boy barista. A baby's scribble. A child's "M O L L Y" in scraggly writing. Some children's drawings. Three visitors from Switzerland. A confident jock guy. A brooding poet in tiny black ink, sometimes illustrated, signed, "The Zen Guy." A flourished purple-crayon professional drawing of a unicorn. A couple poems. A big page saying, "I love Jesus," signed Craig H.

I spent another hour and a half pasting in pictures, mostly in response to the entries. "I love Jesus" got on it's facing page a beautiful, Quaker-peaceful, Tibetan carpet -- bars of maroon, mustard, turquoise, green. The poet got a quote from his poem, illuminated. I didn't touch the babies' pages. And, I sprinkled more art throughout.

This feels just like rehearsal -- create the SPACE, and the humans will tiptoe in. And like rehearsal -- the art is the result of a dialogue between unconsciouses.

What surprised me is that both times I had such a crude goal -- "Make a lot of art fast" -- and both times felt completely deep and immersive. It felt just like making a play. When I was done, I didn't want to let it go. The journal sang.

WHY? Why is it so effortless and the art so good there? Yet at home, I can't find the right book... I can't think of the right topic... nothing flows.

Maybe it's like that artist said -- don't try to throw one perfect pot. Throw a hundred pots. Throw a thousand. Perfection will take care of itself.

I'm off to Starbucks. Have a good day, y'all.

The dumb one, the smart one, and the monk

I feel like inside me there is a dumb one, a smart one, and a monk. The dumb me just wants to rehearse, write, paint, read, have deep conversations that last for years, dance, eat, make love, take hot showers, and sleep.

The smart one wants RESULTS out of all that process -- it wants to be famous, have published books, created companies, be rolling in wealth. It wants to breakthrough to some new level of what a theatre company is capable of, doing work no one has ever seen before. It loves adventure, surprises, learning, new experiences, new people, money, competition, and sweat. It's a long-strided being.

The monk wants to talk to god and sing. Rehearsing is one continuous conversation with god, as is... hmm, well, everything, come to think of it.

But -- we all need the smart one. Like now, drifting without direction, we're all just kind of hanging out waiting for the smart one to figure out a course and get us going. It's the smart one who will get us more time in better rehearsal rooms with committed actors and ever harder, funner artistic challenges.

Yeah, we all need the smart one. In my invisible inner theatre, I've got 250 guys standing around smoking and one project manager who's not asking for help. C'mon, honey, I say to her. Here, we'll help. Let's go take a hot shower. (Most of the guys stand up and put out their cigarettes, relieved. A few head out back to the river. A couple others lie down for a nap. A few just vanish, uninterested. Three stay where they're sitting, still smoking, deep in some discussion I cannot make out.)

The night of the blue moon

I saw a great play tonight -- Craig Lucas's The Singing Forest, directed by Bart Sher at the Intiman. A breakthrough for writer and director. A little slow off the start, but worth the wait for when it picks up.

It's wild I would see this play on the night of the blue moon.

"What was I THINKING, that I could leave theatre for 2 years to get an MBA?" was my first reaction. This felt like world-theatre, like you'd see in Krakow or Moscow. Like oxygen. My second thought was to consider more seriously a playwriting MFA.

Bart invited me for a sesh next week, and said I can observe his Our Town rehearsals.

Life. I want more of it. I want to stay in theatre forever. Tonight was a sharp reminder of WHY it's worth all this work to set up a sustainable life for myself in the theatre.

Under all this -- I'm restless because I'm not rehearsing. Normally I rehearse year-round, but I'm taking the summer off. When I'm rehearsing, I'm at peace.