Saturday, May 25, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
10 Productions I'd Like to See Between Now and Christmas
When asked the question, "If you could have a superpower, what would it be?" I, without fail, answer "Teleporting." Such a thing would come in so handy in almost every scenario I can think of.
I have just completed a big project (my school's production of Fiddler on the Roof just finished its run), so now I have more time to devote to the internet. Which means that I've been able to get my head out of the sand and find out what's going on in the world. And by "the world," I mean who's producing what these days on stage.
So, by region, here is a smattering of English-speaking plays I would teleport to see (Caveat: I have not completed exhaustive research - these are the shows that caught my fancy and made me sit upright on my stroll through the internet).
CANADA
I have just completed a big project (my school's production of Fiddler on the Roof just finished its run), so now I have more time to devote to the internet. Which means that I've been able to get my head out of the sand and find out what's going on in the world. And by "the world," I mean who's producing what these days on stage.
So, by region, here is a smattering of English-speaking plays I would teleport to see (Caveat: I have not completed exhaustive research - these are the shows that caught my fancy and made me sit upright on my stroll through the internet).
CANADA
- ARCADIA. Shaw Festival, July 14-September 7. It's one of my favourite plays. I love Tom Stoppard and I've never been to Niagara on the lake, so it's a perfect fit.
- THE BEST BROTHERS. Tarragon Theatre (Toronto). September 17-October 27. Confession of a Canadian Theatre sin: I've never seen a Daniel McIvor play. I've read a few . . . this one looks good and it would cleanse me of this particular unrighteousness of mine.
- VENUS IN FUR. Canstage (Toronto). September 29-October 27. I want to see what all the fuss is about.
- THE GREAT GATSBY. Theatre Calgary. October 15-November 10. I bet it'll be lavish.
CHICAGO
- THE WHEEL. Steppenwolf. September 12-November 10. Tina Landau and The National Theatre of Scotland sound like a winning combination.
NEW YORK
- VANYA AND SONIA AND MASHA AND SPIKE. Broadway. Plays until June 30. Chekhovian angst made funny. Sounds like my cup of tea.
- FETCH CLAY, MAKE MAN. New York Theatre Workshop. (Can't find the dates, but it looks like it's in the fall some time) Des McAnuff. I'd love to see a show directed by him.
- ONCE. Broadway. Open run. Not because of the movie or anything, but I've loved Enda Walsh for a long time, now. He's brilliant and I must see this.
SYDNEY
- ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD. Sydney Theatre Company. August 7-September 7. Again, Tom Stoppard. And, Tim Minchin! Plus, I've always wanted to see a show at STC.
LONDON
- THE HOTHOUSE. Trafalgar Studios. May 4-August 3. Admittedly, the last Pinter play I saw (No Man's Land at The Gate in Dublin in 2008) was not interesting. What was most interesting about it was the fresh paint smell coming off of the set, a shaft of bright light shining through the set window at one point, and the fact that it had a star -studded cast. But this one has John Simm, who is one of my favourite actors and my choice celebrity crush. So, it has to be good.
I've already seen MATILDA, so it's not on my list, but if you haven't seen it, you MUST.
I can't find any info, but if David Cromer is directing anything at all, anywhere at all, it would be a priority. Same goes if Stephen Karam has a show in production any time soon.
Stay tuned in the new year for other choices. Heads up, though for DO YOU WANT WHAT I HAVE GOT? A CRAIGSLIST CANTATA.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Moody Blue
I've been wrestling an inexplicable sadness these past couple days.
It started on Friday. I came home from doing some work at the school and just crawled into bed. I could hardly move. I brought a book with me, but the pages just gooped around in front of my face like cold, mushy porridge. I stayed there for hours. My appetite didn't even kick in (and I love food!). I ate much later than I usually do and then only just because it's what one does.
Yesterday wasn't a whole lot different. I had about 2 hours of housework to do and it took me all day to do half of it. I just kept crawling back to bed. Just sad, and not able to pull myself up. And not knowing why.
I'm not given to bouts of depression. I know that many people are, and I'm not in denial or anything, but it's just not something I happen to struggle with, so I know it's not that. I ruled out PMS (during which I can get certifiably crazy) as now is just not the time. So, wth? Why can't I function? Why do I feel so blue?
It happens sometimes. I realized it for the first time a little over a year ago. As I get older and the sod I travel increases and multiplies, I pick people up along the way. Most of them are dropped off not long afterward. Some are with me for short, intense periods of time and I never see them again. We're together for a particular reason and when the time's up, it's up and even though I may never see them again, they really really mattered to me for that time and an impression is left on me that may fade but never fully disappears.
Sometimes I meet people more or less in passing (some are local, some are long gone), but I think they're really cool, and though there's no reason for us to spend time together, I wish there was. I don't like to "glorify busy" as the fb meme scolds, but I just am. So, there is a huge amount of people who I love dearly and would love to spend more time with, but because they're as driven as am and doing their own things, there just isn't time for us to be epic together. Geography is a bitch, too: people move on, move away, or were never really near me to begin with. As I look at it all today, there are only a precious few who are at my side on a regular basis and have been for ages.
So, I think the cause of this moody blue is a subcutaneous awareness of missing all the people I've known and loved but who aren't near me for whatever reason. And also of anticipating the departure of those I know will be moving on, maybe not immediately, but eventually. This all results in an overwhelming pity party where I acutely feel the little bruises of all of those who have made their mark on me and who I would love to be near but can't. And it happens like this sometimes, that it all comes down to bear on me for a day or two, where my body insists on mourning those losses, because my brain is tied up with what comes next in the madness of the day-to-day. So, I can't get out of bed. So, I'm forced to pay heed and take time for it.
In times like these, I like to think of the relationships I have with my friends and precious acquaintances as jewels, our conversations (past present) as tapestries, all of which may otherwise be threatened by ephemera, but can be made to last somehow; as though by quantifiying them and giving them mass, I can will them into permanence.
At least I know, now, the origin of my malady. In a few minutes I have to suck it up. It's day 3 of this after all, and I have to finish the rest of my housework.
Love to you all.
It started on Friday. I came home from doing some work at the school and just crawled into bed. I could hardly move. I brought a book with me, but the pages just gooped around in front of my face like cold, mushy porridge. I stayed there for hours. My appetite didn't even kick in (and I love food!). I ate much later than I usually do and then only just because it's what one does.
Yesterday wasn't a whole lot different. I had about 2 hours of housework to do and it took me all day to do half of it. I just kept crawling back to bed. Just sad, and not able to pull myself up. And not knowing why.
I'm not given to bouts of depression. I know that many people are, and I'm not in denial or anything, but it's just not something I happen to struggle with, so I know it's not that. I ruled out PMS (during which I can get certifiably crazy) as now is just not the time. So, wth? Why can't I function? Why do I feel so blue?
It happens sometimes. I realized it for the first time a little over a year ago. As I get older and the sod I travel increases and multiplies, I pick people up along the way. Most of them are dropped off not long afterward. Some are with me for short, intense periods of time and I never see them again. We're together for a particular reason and when the time's up, it's up and even though I may never see them again, they really really mattered to me for that time and an impression is left on me that may fade but never fully disappears.
Sometimes I meet people more or less in passing (some are local, some are long gone), but I think they're really cool, and though there's no reason for us to spend time together, I wish there was. I don't like to "glorify busy" as the fb meme scolds, but I just am. So, there is a huge amount of people who I love dearly and would love to spend more time with, but because they're as driven as am and doing their own things, there just isn't time for us to be epic together. Geography is a bitch, too: people move on, move away, or were never really near me to begin with. As I look at it all today, there are only a precious few who are at my side on a regular basis and have been for ages.
So, I think the cause of this moody blue is a subcutaneous awareness of missing all the people I've known and loved but who aren't near me for whatever reason. And also of anticipating the departure of those I know will be moving on, maybe not immediately, but eventually. This all results in an overwhelming pity party where I acutely feel the little bruises of all of those who have made their mark on me and who I would love to be near but can't. And it happens like this sometimes, that it all comes down to bear on me for a day or two, where my body insists on mourning those losses, because my brain is tied up with what comes next in the madness of the day-to-day. So, I can't get out of bed. So, I'm forced to pay heed and take time for it.
In times like these, I like to think of the relationships I have with my friends and precious acquaintances as jewels, our conversations (past present) as tapestries, all of which may otherwise be threatened by ephemera, but can be made to last somehow; as though by quantifiying them and giving them mass, I can will them into permanence.
At least I know, now, the origin of my malady. In a few minutes I have to suck it up. It's day 3 of this after all, and I have to finish the rest of my housework.
Love to you all.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Found!
I found my phone.
It was in my laptop bag for two weeks. I always put it in my laptop bag, but there's a special pocket it goes in and it wasn't there. Apparently, when you're looking for something in a bag or a drawer or something like that, you should dump everything out of it and shake it all, like books and stuff. And magazines that you never read. 'Cause that thing you lost might just be trapped in there, between the pages of a magazine you've been carting around for no reason. I turned on the "Find my iPhone" thing as soon as it had enough power. So, there's that.
A person could respond to this in a number of ways, I suppose. Lament the lost time on whatever phone plan they're on. Be angry at oneself for not looking hard enough. I was just glad I found it. And I learned something from it. I felt a deep sense of loss without actually having lost anything, for one. It's good to feel things. But mostly, it built my faith. I have a firm belief that things are never really lost. Unless you see them slip down a drain pipe (that happened to my aunt's cell phone), or you accidentally throw something in the garbage, or leave something on a plane that you'll never return to - even then, it's a long shot.
I also learned about how other people respond to things they've lost. I asked folks (I may have monopolized a conversation or two about my plight) what they would do in my situation, like at what point they give up and call the time of death on the thing. For most people, it's not very long. For some it's half a day, for others, it's two days. Most give up after a week.
One of my favourite things about humankind is our capacity for faith. Faith is hugely unpopular these days - those of us who love it are often derided (often obliquely and always in generalities) for our apparent stupidity. Fuck 'em. I love everything about faith - the very idea of it in the first place and its insistence that we destroy the boundaries of whatever gets in our way. My faith extends to many things: God, that I can endure whatever tough thing I'm going through and come out of it okay, and in people - that they can conquer mountains if they want to. But my faith does not extend to the notion of dematerialization of solid objects.
So, when I lose something, though I hate that I'm stuck, I know that it's somewhere. It didn't just disappear. Yes, things get stolen, but it is surprising how few people these days want someone else's phone. So, when I pray about it (and I do), I start by asking where it is. Because it's somewhere. And then I wait for as long as it takes for an answer.
I feel hugely victorious. Things show up most often when you're not looking for them. I like that. It takes the pressure off. A day after the day I said I was going to give up, I reached into my bag and there it was. It was just there, announcing itself all nonchalant.
And I am so happy.
It was in my laptop bag for two weeks. I always put it in my laptop bag, but there's a special pocket it goes in and it wasn't there. Apparently, when you're looking for something in a bag or a drawer or something like that, you should dump everything out of it and shake it all, like books and stuff. And magazines that you never read. 'Cause that thing you lost might just be trapped in there, between the pages of a magazine you've been carting around for no reason. I turned on the "Find my iPhone" thing as soon as it had enough power. So, there's that.
A person could respond to this in a number of ways, I suppose. Lament the lost time on whatever phone plan they're on. Be angry at oneself for not looking hard enough. I was just glad I found it. And I learned something from it. I felt a deep sense of loss without actually having lost anything, for one. It's good to feel things. But mostly, it built my faith. I have a firm belief that things are never really lost. Unless you see them slip down a drain pipe (that happened to my aunt's cell phone), or you accidentally throw something in the garbage, or leave something on a plane that you'll never return to - even then, it's a long shot.
I also learned about how other people respond to things they've lost. I asked folks (I may have monopolized a conversation or two about my plight) what they would do in my situation, like at what point they give up and call the time of death on the thing. For most people, it's not very long. For some it's half a day, for others, it's two days. Most give up after a week.
One of my favourite things about humankind is our capacity for faith. Faith is hugely unpopular these days - those of us who love it are often derided (often obliquely and always in generalities) for our apparent stupidity. Fuck 'em. I love everything about faith - the very idea of it in the first place and its insistence that we destroy the boundaries of whatever gets in our way. My faith extends to many things: God, that I can endure whatever tough thing I'm going through and come out of it okay, and in people - that they can conquer mountains if they want to. But my faith does not extend to the notion of dematerialization of solid objects.
So, when I lose something, though I hate that I'm stuck, I know that it's somewhere. It didn't just disappear. Yes, things get stolen, but it is surprising how few people these days want someone else's phone. So, when I pray about it (and I do), I start by asking where it is. Because it's somewhere. And then I wait for as long as it takes for an answer.
I feel hugely victorious. Things show up most often when you're not looking for them. I like that. It takes the pressure off. A day after the day I said I was going to give up, I reached into my bag and there it was. It was just there, announcing itself all nonchalant.
And I am so happy.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
It's All About Your Platitude
Sometimes it feels like the world is coming down on my head and I don't know how I'm going to chew whatever I've bitten off (I know! It's a cliché, but I can't think of anything better right now). But it must be said that I love my life and I would never wish for anything in it to be added or taken away. I don't think there's anything I'd rather be doing or any life I'd rather be living than what I've got right now. And I'm acutely aware of my good fortune.
I just wanted to say that somewhere. Facebook is full of sappy shit like this and I would hate to think of someone eye rolling or dismissing me. I'd deserve it, but I'd hate it.
I just wanted to say that somewhere. Facebook is full of sappy shit like this and I would hate to think of someone eye rolling or dismissing me. I'd deserve it, but I'd hate it.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Shape Of An "L" On My Forehead
I love stories. I love telling them, I love hearing them and I love living them.
I've been a little story-obsessed lately. Like, duh, right? I write plays . . .
I find myself gathering folks around me, forcing this story or that on them. And then I make them tell me some of theirs. They all range from "That scar" to "A time when I was misunderstood" to "The last time I cried." And then I'll ask something like, "What does it feel like to tell your story?" In almost all cases, for me, it feels great! And I love hearing other people's, too. I always come away enriched somehow.
I'm living a story right now. It's called, "The time I lost my cell phone." I have lots of stories like that. "The time I lost my wedding rings." "The time I lost a $20 bill." (I think I have a few of those) The time I lost my purse." (LOTS of those) "The time I lost my keys." (Too many to count) "The time I lost my truck." (Not even joking) "The time I lost my wedding rings - again." The police have been involved in more than one of these tales.
I'm a loser. I wish that were funny. Perhaps you think it is. It is, sometimes. Losing things, for me, is like a disability. I'm not trying to cop out, it's just that when I lose something, my brain lapses completely and I have no idea what's become of the object in question. I'm the same with getting lost. All you people who are bad with names, stop judging. I am amazing with names. This is the same type of thing.
This cell phone story is not over because I have: a) not found it yet and b) not given up. I've been busy and this kind of thing requires focus. My cell phone has failed to produce itself amongst all of my cursory look-sees, so I need to devote time to it. Rip apart my office. Search under the car seats. Take apart the shelves of the entrance way of my house. Or pretend to stop looking for it so it turns up on its own.
See, right now, this story is highly unsatisfactory. I lost my cell phone and I haven't found it yet. Yawn. I demand better narrative than that. So between now and say, this coming Wednesday, I will either have found it or I will have acquiesced to its disappearance, but there is a good story here. I know it. Either way the battle will be won or lost and it may not be glorious, but I vow to make it INTERESTING.
I'll let you know how it goes in the next post. Thanks for listening.
I've been a little story-obsessed lately. Like, duh, right? I write plays . . .
I find myself gathering folks around me, forcing this story or that on them. And then I make them tell me some of theirs. They all range from "That scar" to "A time when I was misunderstood" to "The last time I cried." And then I'll ask something like, "What does it feel like to tell your story?" In almost all cases, for me, it feels great! And I love hearing other people's, too. I always come away enriched somehow.
I'm living a story right now. It's called, "The time I lost my cell phone." I have lots of stories like that. "The time I lost my wedding rings." "The time I lost a $20 bill." (I think I have a few of those) The time I lost my purse." (LOTS of those) "The time I lost my keys." (Too many to count) "The time I lost my truck." (Not even joking) "The time I lost my wedding rings - again." The police have been involved in more than one of these tales.
I'm a loser. I wish that were funny. Perhaps you think it is. It is, sometimes. Losing things, for me, is like a disability. I'm not trying to cop out, it's just that when I lose something, my brain lapses completely and I have no idea what's become of the object in question. I'm the same with getting lost. All you people who are bad with names, stop judging. I am amazing with names. This is the same type of thing.
This cell phone story is not over because I have: a) not found it yet and b) not given up. I've been busy and this kind of thing requires focus. My cell phone has failed to produce itself amongst all of my cursory look-sees, so I need to devote time to it. Rip apart my office. Search under the car seats. Take apart the shelves of the entrance way of my house. Or pretend to stop looking for it so it turns up on its own.
See, right now, this story is highly unsatisfactory. I lost my cell phone and I haven't found it yet. Yawn. I demand better narrative than that. So between now and say, this coming Wednesday, I will either have found it or I will have acquiesced to its disappearance, but there is a good story here. I know it. Either way the battle will be won or lost and it may not be glorious, but I vow to make it INTERESTING.
I'll let you know how it goes in the next post. Thanks for listening.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
"Why Do You Miss When My Baby Kisses Me?"
A lot of things make my heart beat (well, besides blood and oxygen and impulses from my brain). Cookies (my love for cookies is a blog post in itself, More on that later). My kids. God. Being mistaken for younger than I am.
I like seeing what will happen when the plan is that there is no plan. Par example: I've been teaching a course called Adapted Theatre for the last 3 weeks for kids with various special needs. There are 13 kids in the class and about 7 adult assistants. The course will continue until the end of June and they will perform for the public in late May.
Perform for the public. Not quite sure how to go about that. In the past (under direction from folks other than myself), this group has mounted shows based on familiar stories, such as Cinderella and Alice in Wonderland. They've combined Black Light puppetry with film and live action. It's been successful in the past and the community has been very supportive. And I think that's along the lines of what the kids would like to do this year, too.
But I just think there is so much more here that could be so much better.
To be clear: the past was great. But it wouldn't be as great with me at the helm because I don't find those types of stories all that interesting. What I find interesting is a person's own story: I want to walk in the shoes of another for 10, 45, 60, 90 (no more than 130) minutes at any given time. Whatever we create will be no more than an hour, I'm sure. I haven't come right out and said it, but this is the direction I'm trying to steer the group in. One might call it manipulation. It is manipulation, but I think it's for the best.
I've been inching my way toward getting them to tell their stories: what's it's like to be them, with all their fears and challenges and whatnot. Really. I mean, the things that the rest of us don't have to worry about at all. I got close to the gold mine the other day. We were talking about fears. I told them that I have a fear of failure. One of the fears that seemed to recur among them was that of being misunderstood. So, I went there. I asked them about their experiences with that. They mostly skirted the issue to start with, talking in gross generalities, and then one of them actually got real. She talked about the fact that she is blind in one eye and that when she asks about things and people point, she can't see where they're pointing and it just gets awkward. Another talked about his speech impediment and how people used to really misunderstand him, but how a former teacher complimented him for his progress in his speech.
That's about as far as we got for getting real in our discussion. But the room was hushed and I looked about and saw a few watery pairs of eyes belonging to kids who had something to say but weren't quite ready yet. Their day will come. It was all very Oprah-y. Which I totally dig, because it means that we can peel artifice away and get to the things that truly matter. Which is what great art is all about.
Anyhow. We've been working away, making scenes, generating material, and I gotta say, these people are entertaining (the students and their adult assistants). They have things to say. They're funny as hell and I LOVE working with them. I come into that class every day, not knowing how anything will turn out, but never failing to be delighted and surprised by what comes of it all.
So, we're building a show. The kids don't really realize it yet, but they're writing and acting toward something completely unheard of - for me and for them, anyway. I. can. not. wait to see how it all turns out.
I don't know what's ahead. When I go into a situation like this where the rules are that there are no rules (i.e.: we have dates and a venue, but no script), I hear this voice, a deep, masculine kind of voice like a sports announcer, that says, "This could go terribly wrong!" It could. I mean, what if we work hard and get a bunch of brilliant material, but they don't want to do it? Or, what if we work hard and it's brilliant, and it falls flat because the community just wants another fairy tale? Or what if I think it's all brilliant, but it really isn't? Or what if we just can't get it together somehow? Or we lose faith part way through and just want to give up?
I don't care. My heart is beating about this one in a way that forbids impediment in all its shapes and forms. Let's see how this turns out, shall we? I'll keep you posted.
I like seeing what will happen when the plan is that there is no plan. Par example: I've been teaching a course called Adapted Theatre for the last 3 weeks for kids with various special needs. There are 13 kids in the class and about 7 adult assistants. The course will continue until the end of June and they will perform for the public in late May.
Perform for the public. Not quite sure how to go about that. In the past (under direction from folks other than myself), this group has mounted shows based on familiar stories, such as Cinderella and Alice in Wonderland. They've combined Black Light puppetry with film and live action. It's been successful in the past and the community has been very supportive. And I think that's along the lines of what the kids would like to do this year, too.
But I just think there is so much more here that could be so much better.
To be clear: the past was great. But it wouldn't be as great with me at the helm because I don't find those types of stories all that interesting. What I find interesting is a person's own story: I want to walk in the shoes of another for 10, 45, 60, 90 (no more than 130) minutes at any given time. Whatever we create will be no more than an hour, I'm sure. I haven't come right out and said it, but this is the direction I'm trying to steer the group in. One might call it manipulation. It is manipulation, but I think it's for the best.
I've been inching my way toward getting them to tell their stories: what's it's like to be them, with all their fears and challenges and whatnot. Really. I mean, the things that the rest of us don't have to worry about at all. I got close to the gold mine the other day. We were talking about fears. I told them that I have a fear of failure. One of the fears that seemed to recur among them was that of being misunderstood. So, I went there. I asked them about their experiences with that. They mostly skirted the issue to start with, talking in gross generalities, and then one of them actually got real. She talked about the fact that she is blind in one eye and that when she asks about things and people point, she can't see where they're pointing and it just gets awkward. Another talked about his speech impediment and how people used to really misunderstand him, but how a former teacher complimented him for his progress in his speech.
That's about as far as we got for getting real in our discussion. But the room was hushed and I looked about and saw a few watery pairs of eyes belonging to kids who had something to say but weren't quite ready yet. Their day will come. It was all very Oprah-y. Which I totally dig, because it means that we can peel artifice away and get to the things that truly matter. Which is what great art is all about.
Anyhow. We've been working away, making scenes, generating material, and I gotta say, these people are entertaining (the students and their adult assistants). They have things to say. They're funny as hell and I LOVE working with them. I come into that class every day, not knowing how anything will turn out, but never failing to be delighted and surprised by what comes of it all.
So, we're building a show. The kids don't really realize it yet, but they're writing and acting toward something completely unheard of - for me and for them, anyway. I. can. not. wait to see how it all turns out.
I don't know what's ahead. When I go into a situation like this where the rules are that there are no rules (i.e.: we have dates and a venue, but no script), I hear this voice, a deep, masculine kind of voice like a sports announcer, that says, "This could go terribly wrong!" It could. I mean, what if we work hard and get a bunch of brilliant material, but they don't want to do it? Or, what if we work hard and it's brilliant, and it falls flat because the community just wants another fairy tale? Or what if I think it's all brilliant, but it really isn't? Or what if we just can't get it together somehow? Or we lose faith part way through and just want to give up?
I don't care. My heart is beating about this one in a way that forbids impediment in all its shapes and forms. Let's see how this turns out, shall we? I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Mortal Coil
We all suffer and suffering is relative.
I wish that weren't so. I wish suffering were on a scale that we could all agree upon. Like, "Surviving a tsunami" - 1000 points. "Getting home from work and there's no wine" - 10 points. Under that arrangement, those who have never survived a Tsunami or any other kind of 1000-pointer are off scot-free.
But, no. I've never survived a tsunami. And though I would categorize the no wine thing as a mere disappointment (annoying, but easy to get over), it seems I agonize over things that are really really insignificant to, say, everyone else.
Looking at it from the outside, it's easy to rate these things. But when we're going through it, it's amazing what can keep us up at night.
Some years ago, I read a book by Alfie Kohn called NO CONTEST: The Case Against Competition. Kohn is a bit of a radical - not everyone would agree with his extreme perspectives on parenting and education, but I'm not everyone, so I dig him. In the book, he identifies a phenomenon he refers to as MEGA - Mutually Exclusive Goal Attainment. Simply put, it means "My success equals your failure." In order for me to be good at something, you have to be less good, at least a little bit. There is a best and only one person can be that best. He goes on to pulverize that mentality and urge his readers to consider a world where we can all be stars.
And I agree with him. When I go to a show that one of my peers has written or directed, I arrive with a twinge of "I kind of hope this isn't good, so that whatever I do will look better by comparison." I would like to be a better person, but I'm not, so that's how it goes. However, I am always overjoyed when it's good. I'm glad my time wasn't wasted and that I could be inspired, or be brought to learn something new. So, I do think that we can all be stars and that there can be an infinite amount of excellence in the world.
But. When it comes to teaching, I have to be the best. As in, it's not cool if someone is better than me. Correction: it's not cool if someone is not better than me but is perceived to be. Full disclosure: I have to be the favourite.
Ugh, right?
Most of the time, this is not an issue. I'm a busy gal, so I go about my day just trying to get 'er done. And I love the work, so it's all good. But we're leading up to course selection for next year at school right now. Where kids decide what classes they're going to take. I'm telling you, it's having its way with me. The other day, we had to stand up in front of everyone and talk about our programs and why they should take our classes. I hate doing stuff like that. Kids should take my classes because Drama class is the best thing in the world and I, for one, would die without it. And I want them to feel the same way.
And in situations where there may be external limits on awesome, like the timetable will only allow for so many classes, or in the case of theatre production world, there may be only so much grant money or roles or audience appeal; competition may be inevitable.
My agony was over the question, "What if they like some other teacher or class or program better than me/mine and don't take my class?" I get bent out of shape about that stuff. As in, can't sleep -feel like my soul is being crushed by a vice grip- kind of thing. Wake up in the morning with my stomach in knots. A mortal coil, if you will. Sounds about accurate.
A mortal coil. Because, "What if kids don't want to take Drama next year?"
So, I need to remind myself that there is enough awesome for everyone. We can all be stars. To me, this is like, 500 points, but to anyone else it could be as few as 0 points. And I'm glad that as humans, we all understand affliction to one degree or another and that people have written about it so we can buoy each other up with our shared experiences of what it means to suffer.
And the mortal coil is easily sloughed off when I get back into that classroom and beam with joy because some kid did something awesome. And, it's okay if they like something/someone else sometimes. Sometimes. I'm working towards being okay with it ;).
It's okay, I don't need a tsunami to teach me a lesson. Let's be stars, you guys. All of us. At anything we want to be.
I wish that weren't so. I wish suffering were on a scale that we could all agree upon. Like, "Surviving a tsunami" - 1000 points. "Getting home from work and there's no wine" - 10 points. Under that arrangement, those who have never survived a Tsunami or any other kind of 1000-pointer are off scot-free.
But, no. I've never survived a tsunami. And though I would categorize the no wine thing as a mere disappointment (annoying, but easy to get over), it seems I agonize over things that are really really insignificant to, say, everyone else.
Looking at it from the outside, it's easy to rate these things. But when we're going through it, it's amazing what can keep us up at night.
Some years ago, I read a book by Alfie Kohn called NO CONTEST: The Case Against Competition. Kohn is a bit of a radical - not everyone would agree with his extreme perspectives on parenting and education, but I'm not everyone, so I dig him. In the book, he identifies a phenomenon he refers to as MEGA - Mutually Exclusive Goal Attainment. Simply put, it means "My success equals your failure." In order for me to be good at something, you have to be less good, at least a little bit. There is a best and only one person can be that best. He goes on to pulverize that mentality and urge his readers to consider a world where we can all be stars.
And I agree with him. When I go to a show that one of my peers has written or directed, I arrive with a twinge of "I kind of hope this isn't good, so that whatever I do will look better by comparison." I would like to be a better person, but I'm not, so that's how it goes. However, I am always overjoyed when it's good. I'm glad my time wasn't wasted and that I could be inspired, or be brought to learn something new. So, I do think that we can all be stars and that there can be an infinite amount of excellence in the world.
But. When it comes to teaching, I have to be the best. As in, it's not cool if someone is better than me. Correction: it's not cool if someone is not better than me but is perceived to be. Full disclosure: I have to be the favourite.
Ugh, right?
Most of the time, this is not an issue. I'm a busy gal, so I go about my day just trying to get 'er done. And I love the work, so it's all good. But we're leading up to course selection for next year at school right now. Where kids decide what classes they're going to take. I'm telling you, it's having its way with me. The other day, we had to stand up in front of everyone and talk about our programs and why they should take our classes. I hate doing stuff like that. Kids should take my classes because Drama class is the best thing in the world and I, for one, would die without it. And I want them to feel the same way.
And in situations where there may be external limits on awesome, like the timetable will only allow for so many classes, or in the case of theatre production world, there may be only so much grant money or roles or audience appeal; competition may be inevitable.
My agony was over the question, "What if they like some other teacher or class or program better than me/mine and don't take my class?" I get bent out of shape about that stuff. As in, can't sleep -feel like my soul is being crushed by a vice grip- kind of thing. Wake up in the morning with my stomach in knots. A mortal coil, if you will. Sounds about accurate.
A mortal coil. Because, "What if kids don't want to take Drama next year?"
So, I need to remind myself that there is enough awesome for everyone. We can all be stars. To me, this is like, 500 points, but to anyone else it could be as few as 0 points. And I'm glad that as humans, we all understand affliction to one degree or another and that people have written about it so we can buoy each other up with our shared experiences of what it means to suffer.
And the mortal coil is easily sloughed off when I get back into that classroom and beam with joy because some kid did something awesome. And, it's okay if they like something/someone else sometimes. Sometimes. I'm working towards being okay with it ;).
It's okay, I don't need a tsunami to teach me a lesson. Let's be stars, you guys. All of us. At anything we want to be.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Courting Danger
Sometimes I like to do something stupid, just to see what will happen.
I don't have occasion to go on solo road trips very often, but a few weeks ago it so happened that I drove home from Banff by myself. I had been at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat workshop (reflections found here) for a week, where I had basically been coddled and treated like a child (didn't have to go anywhere, all the food was provided - didn't even have to make my own bed!), so even just something simple as driving home (I live 3.5 hours away, which in Western Canada is nothing) was enough responsibility to really have to adjust to.
The Arts Centre is up a hill and around a corner in the town of Banff. It seemed like it was easy enough to get there, so I figured it would be easy enough to get out. It wasn't. I stopped for gas, got all turned around, had to ask for directions, etc. Maps? What? I'll intuit my way out.
I intuited my way on to the freeway headed for Calgary. I did that for a bit when it really started to feel like I was going the wrong way. So, I looked for a turnaround spot and went the other direction. No big D. Lots of time.
"Castle Mountain (or something). That sounds familiar. I'll turn off there. When I start seeing signs for Radium, I'll know I'm on the right track." After about 15 minutes of that, nothing looked familiar. So, I pulled over, pulled out my iPhone and called my husband to confess that I was lost in the mountains and didn't know what to do. He told me to use Siri. I didn't know how to use Siri. I tried. I got confused. I called back, "I don't know how to use Siri, now what?" At which point, he was like, "Look, if you don't figure this out, you're going to run out of gas and freeze to death. Figure out your damn phone." The asshole-ish quality I've conveyed here isn't accurate. He was feeling very helpless at trying to navigate me out of where I didn't know I was.
So, I did. I figured it out and I was on my way. Then, Siri said something about turning off. But there was no real turn off. Then, she recalculated the route to say that it would be a lot longer before I was to turn next. At which, I panicked a little. "What if it turns out I have to circumnavigate the globe to get where I need to go unless I just turn around and try to turn where she said I was supposed to in the first place?" So, I turned around. I didn't see what she was talking about, so I saw a turnoff point (for hiking or something) and decided to pull off there.
But Siri was talking and she distracted me, so I turned too wide and got stuck in the snow. Stuck stuck. I saw some parked vehicles close by, and went up to them, but no one was there. Out all day for a hike, I assumed. I grew up on a farm and have experience in getting stuck in the snow in the middle of nowhere, so I went old school. I stood out there and started waving people down.
Not for long. The first people to pass by stopped. An older couple, very nice. Together, we did what we could do (pushing, digging snow out), but ultimately we realized we needed more help. We flagged down another vehicle. This time a young couple. We tied some cables between the vehicles and tried to pull. Not quite there. So, a middle aged guy and his young adult son stopped to help us, too. And then I got unstuck and there was joy in all the land.
Oh, and the older couple had just come from Radium. I was going the right way. I don't know what Siri was talking about. Sometimes Siri just fucking makes things worse.
But the aberrant part of all this? I kind of liked it. I had a bit of a premonition before I made that turn that I was going to get stuck, but I ignored it because I wanted to see what would happen. I enjoyed seeing the problem play itself out to the solution. If no one had stopped, I would have been hooped, but I liked seeing if anyone would.
In this case, I enjoyed being taken care of. I love my life and wouldn't trade it for anything, but I spend my days making sure that people get dressed and brush their teeth and get to rehearsal and have everything they need for their film projects. In a deep part of my soul that I don't like to admit is there, I was thrilled to be revolved around (I'm always thrilled to be revolved around. So, this was a great opportunity to indulge). And in a life that plays itself out with a fair amount of predictability, it was cool to wonder what would happen next.
It happened again, just yesterday. I had a moment of, "The smart thing to do would be to 'x' but I don't want to bother, so I'll do 'y'" and the undercarriage of the car ended up stuck in the ground. Everything is okay, the car is fixed and it didn't cost anything, but again, I went with the thing I knew would get me in trouble and potentially eff up my life for a bit.
As I relayed this part of my nature to my teaching partner ("I court danger, it's something I do," I said.), he all but snickered at my idea of recklessness. But such a thing is relative, just like suffering or victory. And it's always a big deal to me at the time - "Why did I just do that?" But we need to get stuck and to solve our way out, don't we, we writers (or any of us theatre practitioners)? Otherwise, what would we have to say to anyone?
But, I'll keep doing it. I know it. Not on purpose, but because of my insatiable curiosity. And though I wish I could be smart, capable and responsible, there's a part of me that hopes I'll never learn.
I don't have occasion to go on solo road trips very often, but a few weeks ago it so happened that I drove home from Banff by myself. I had been at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat workshop (reflections found here) for a week, where I had basically been coddled and treated like a child (didn't have to go anywhere, all the food was provided - didn't even have to make my own bed!), so even just something simple as driving home (I live 3.5 hours away, which in Western Canada is nothing) was enough responsibility to really have to adjust to.
The Arts Centre is up a hill and around a corner in the town of Banff. It seemed like it was easy enough to get there, so I figured it would be easy enough to get out. It wasn't. I stopped for gas, got all turned around, had to ask for directions, etc. Maps? What? I'll intuit my way out.
I intuited my way on to the freeway headed for Calgary. I did that for a bit when it really started to feel like I was going the wrong way. So, I looked for a turnaround spot and went the other direction. No big D. Lots of time.
"Castle Mountain (or something). That sounds familiar. I'll turn off there. When I start seeing signs for Radium, I'll know I'm on the right track." After about 15 minutes of that, nothing looked familiar. So, I pulled over, pulled out my iPhone and called my husband to confess that I was lost in the mountains and didn't know what to do. He told me to use Siri. I didn't know how to use Siri. I tried. I got confused. I called back, "I don't know how to use Siri, now what?" At which point, he was like, "Look, if you don't figure this out, you're going to run out of gas and freeze to death. Figure out your damn phone." The asshole-ish quality I've conveyed here isn't accurate. He was feeling very helpless at trying to navigate me out of where I didn't know I was.
So, I did. I figured it out and I was on my way. Then, Siri said something about turning off. But there was no real turn off. Then, she recalculated the route to say that it would be a lot longer before I was to turn next. At which, I panicked a little. "What if it turns out I have to circumnavigate the globe to get where I need to go unless I just turn around and try to turn where she said I was supposed to in the first place?" So, I turned around. I didn't see what she was talking about, so I saw a turnoff point (for hiking or something) and decided to pull off there.
But Siri was talking and she distracted me, so I turned too wide and got stuck in the snow. Stuck stuck. I saw some parked vehicles close by, and went up to them, but no one was there. Out all day for a hike, I assumed. I grew up on a farm and have experience in getting stuck in the snow in the middle of nowhere, so I went old school. I stood out there and started waving people down.
Not for long. The first people to pass by stopped. An older couple, very nice. Together, we did what we could do (pushing, digging snow out), but ultimately we realized we needed more help. We flagged down another vehicle. This time a young couple. We tied some cables between the vehicles and tried to pull. Not quite there. So, a middle aged guy and his young adult son stopped to help us, too. And then I got unstuck and there was joy in all the land.
Oh, and the older couple had just come from Radium. I was going the right way. I don't know what Siri was talking about. Sometimes Siri just fucking makes things worse.
But the aberrant part of all this? I kind of liked it. I had a bit of a premonition before I made that turn that I was going to get stuck, but I ignored it because I wanted to see what would happen. I enjoyed seeing the problem play itself out to the solution. If no one had stopped, I would have been hooped, but I liked seeing if anyone would.
In this case, I enjoyed being taken care of. I love my life and wouldn't trade it for anything, but I spend my days making sure that people get dressed and brush their teeth and get to rehearsal and have everything they need for their film projects. In a deep part of my soul that I don't like to admit is there, I was thrilled to be revolved around (I'm always thrilled to be revolved around. So, this was a great opportunity to indulge). And in a life that plays itself out with a fair amount of predictability, it was cool to wonder what would happen next.
It happened again, just yesterday. I had a moment of, "The smart thing to do would be to 'x' but I don't want to bother, so I'll do 'y'" and the undercarriage of the car ended up stuck in the ground. Everything is okay, the car is fixed and it didn't cost anything, but again, I went with the thing I knew would get me in trouble and potentially eff up my life for a bit.
As I relayed this part of my nature to my teaching partner ("I court danger, it's something I do," I said.), he all but snickered at my idea of recklessness. But such a thing is relative, just like suffering or victory. And it's always a big deal to me at the time - "Why did I just do that?" But we need to get stuck and to solve our way out, don't we, we writers (or any of us theatre practitioners)? Otherwise, what would we have to say to anyone?
But, I'll keep doing it. I know it. Not on purpose, but because of my insatiable curiosity. And though I wish I could be smart, capable and responsible, there's a part of me that hopes I'll never learn.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Perfection
In which I confess my passion for art galleries and museums.
About this time last year, my family and I were getting ready to head out on a big trip to Europe. Mostly English-speaking Europe (and many folks don't even consider that to be Europe), mind you. But. Mimosa season in Provence - that was pretty extraordinary. You should go sometime.
I wanted to soak it all up, every minute. And the best way I knew how was to spend as much time in as many museums and art galleries as I could. I mean, that's where they put all the stuff that means the most to them, those nations and cities. The stuff that represents what they think of themselves and how they want the world to perceive them. And I went to most of the places I wanted to.
I was alone in my devotion. My family amused me for a time. At about Dublin, the whining started (but you should have seen! Irish peasants fending off the British army with these little makeshift daggers. The nobility and poetry of it all). In Paris, I was just about kicked out of the family (Umm . . . it's Paris. We could sit around the hotel, or we could go out and seize us some world class culture. Given a choice, I'm gonna seize. Even if I have to do it by myself). When we talk about it now, it's kind of like, "Ugh. Mommy and her (sigh) museums."
However. Early in the trip, before I exasperated everyone, we hit the V&A Museum in London and stumbled on to an exhibit that we unanimously agreed was outstanding. I was recovering from my disappointment at the closure of the costume exhibit (that always happens to me!), and was, admittedly, slightly bored of viewing Samurai uniforms and Japanese furniture (I do have a limit to my interest in museums. I draw the line at spoons and bowls - which was where we were kind of at by this point) when we saw it. This. Spider silk. Silk made from the spiders themselves, not boiled up cocoons. You can read more about it here. There was this beautiful cape:
This was just one piece. (I would totally wear this, bt dubs.) There were other things, including spools of threads of the stuff. And a big shawl (or large placemat, depending on what you wanted to do with it). You guys. We've all seen raw silk and dyed silk. Chiffon, duppioni, charmeuse, satin - you name it. All of it chump change compared to this (and I love fabric). It took 1.2 million spiders from Madagascar to make that cape. That's its natural colour. Every strand of it uniform (how rare - uniformity in nature!). Every strand of it strong and light and perfect and golden like what one might imagine the breath of God to be.
So, perfection in art exists. And that can be at once inspiring and crippling. Inspiring, because wouldn't we all love to hit that mark? Crippling, because what if we do all that work and we don't? Or worse, it doesn't land anywhere at all, but dematerializes into the oblivion of who the fuck cares? But think of what we could do if we gave it a good, honest shot.
But 1.2 million spiders. That's a lot of spiders.
My writing mentor, Elise Forier Edie (I wonder if she knows she's my mentor), has been on Twitter a lot lately (I'm becoming increasingly addicted to Twitter), urging us writers to "Dispense with ego. Write the worst crap in the world, but keep writing anyway," and "Let the draft be crappy. Write now, fix later."
I can do that. A far cry from the breath of God, but any start is a step toward something. It's better than nothing (and that's something!). And for those of us who are compelled to create, for whom not creating is hell on earth, this is the perfect advice. It precludes me, personally, from the excuses I manufacture to get myself out of writing ("No one will care" "This isn't going to go anywhere" "If I don't write, the world will be the same - days will continue to give way to nights which will give way to days again whether I write something or not"). It gives us permission to fail, so that in failing, we might have a chance of success. Some day. With something. Maybe even golden, breath of God success.
What's your equivalent to 1.2 million spiders?
PS: I still haven't seen the British Museum and the Pompidou Centre. What are your favourite galleries/museums?
About this time last year, my family and I were getting ready to head out on a big trip to Europe. Mostly English-speaking Europe (and many folks don't even consider that to be Europe), mind you. But. Mimosa season in Provence - that was pretty extraordinary. You should go sometime.
I wanted to soak it all up, every minute. And the best way I knew how was to spend as much time in as many museums and art galleries as I could. I mean, that's where they put all the stuff that means the most to them, those nations and cities. The stuff that represents what they think of themselves and how they want the world to perceive them. And I went to most of the places I wanted to.
I was alone in my devotion. My family amused me for a time. At about Dublin, the whining started (but you should have seen! Irish peasants fending off the British army with these little makeshift daggers. The nobility and poetry of it all). In Paris, I was just about kicked out of the family (Umm . . . it's Paris. We could sit around the hotel, or we could go out and seize us some world class culture. Given a choice, I'm gonna seize. Even if I have to do it by myself). When we talk about it now, it's kind of like, "Ugh. Mommy and her (sigh) museums."
However. Early in the trip, before I exasperated everyone, we hit the V&A Museum in London and stumbled on to an exhibit that we unanimously agreed was outstanding. I was recovering from my disappointment at the closure of the costume exhibit (that always happens to me!), and was, admittedly, slightly bored of viewing Samurai uniforms and Japanese furniture (I do have a limit to my interest in museums. I draw the line at spoons and bowls - which was where we were kind of at by this point) when we saw it. This. Spider silk. Silk made from the spiders themselves, not boiled up cocoons. You can read more about it here. There was this beautiful cape:
This was just one piece. (I would totally wear this, bt dubs.) There were other things, including spools of threads of the stuff. And a big shawl (or large placemat, depending on what you wanted to do with it). You guys. We've all seen raw silk and dyed silk. Chiffon, duppioni, charmeuse, satin - you name it. All of it chump change compared to this (and I love fabric). It took 1.2 million spiders from Madagascar to make that cape. That's its natural colour. Every strand of it uniform (how rare - uniformity in nature!). Every strand of it strong and light and perfect and golden like what one might imagine the breath of God to be.
So, perfection in art exists. And that can be at once inspiring and crippling. Inspiring, because wouldn't we all love to hit that mark? Crippling, because what if we do all that work and we don't? Or worse, it doesn't land anywhere at all, but dematerializes into the oblivion of who the fuck cares? But think of what we could do if we gave it a good, honest shot.
But 1.2 million spiders. That's a lot of spiders.
My writing mentor, Elise Forier Edie (I wonder if she knows she's my mentor), has been on Twitter a lot lately (I'm becoming increasingly addicted to Twitter), urging us writers to "Dispense with ego. Write the worst crap in the world, but keep writing anyway," and "Let the draft be crappy. Write now, fix later."
I can do that. A far cry from the breath of God, but any start is a step toward something. It's better than nothing (and that's something!). And for those of us who are compelled to create, for whom not creating is hell on earth, this is the perfect advice. It precludes me, personally, from the excuses I manufacture to get myself out of writing ("No one will care" "This isn't going to go anywhere" "If I don't write, the world will be the same - days will continue to give way to nights which will give way to days again whether I write something or not"). It gives us permission to fail, so that in failing, we might have a chance of success. Some day. With something. Maybe even golden, breath of God success.
What's your equivalent to 1.2 million spiders?
PS: I still haven't seen the British Museum and the Pompidou Centre. What are your favourite galleries/museums?
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Why Wouldn't I?
So, I've returned from the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop in Banff. It was awesome. Different in many ways from the FDC Nationals, but awesome nonetheless.
In several of the many conversations I had with people there, I was asked why I was there. As in, I'm a teacher (I haven't been writing much lately, so I left that detail out), and not a stunt performer or an actor, so what would possess me to come to a Stage Combat Workshop?
The quick response was, "It's nice to be a student." Lots of nods and, "Sure, that makes sense."
I would then be asked if I would take any of what I learned back to my students. Not really. I don't really have the skill to teach a room full of teenagers what these master instructors are teaching to a room full of adults with varying degrees of skill. There are definitely some skills and tricks I will put in my back pocket for directing shows when they're called for. Mostly approaches to physical comedy.
The workshop is a series of 90 minute classes on a variety of topics for a number of different skill levels over the course of six days. So that's a big chance to learn a lot of things from a lot of different people. By the end of Day 1, I stopped trying to master the skills and focussed on what it felt like to be in the room with those teachers. What was it about what they were doing that made me feel excited, or bored, or successful . . . stuff like that. Also, how did time move? Did it seem like it whipped by? Was I wondering what would be for lunch? Would I like to see more from this person? These are things that matter a great deal to students. And the stuff is fun. And do-able (sidenote - one of the biggest necessities in learning anything is a teacher's belief that the student can do the thing being taught. A quality which was present in spades at the workshop.)
I also watched how the instructors interacted with each other and how they made the quality of the participants' experience their top priority. And they succeeded.
Conflict is hard to write. In my world as a wife, mother and teacher, my job is to prevent conflict. "Be nice." "Don't fight." Don't say that comment that might incite a reaction, just suck it down and move forward. I have decent communication skills, so I don't run into as many conflicts as I used to. Plus, it's not socially acceptable to start conflicts and act like an ass, like we do sometimes when we just want what we want and we don't care how we get it. But nobody wants to see a play where everyone just plays nice.
Many of the classes talked about the nature of fighting. What causes two people to lose it and go at each other? Why may they choose not to? How close do you need to be on stage for something to happen? What is the dynamic when there are more than two people in a fight? How do we maintain tension and when do we let go of it? I don't think this just applies to plays with fighting in them. Every playwright needs to grasp how one stabbing remark differs from a series of cutting comments. And the ensuing reactions. I actually can't see a better way than on your feet, putting it all into your body and having it at the ready when you need to write a scene.
So, in my brain, the question isn't "Why am I here?" It's "Why isn't every teacher and playwright at something like this?"
In several of the many conversations I had with people there, I was asked why I was there. As in, I'm a teacher (I haven't been writing much lately, so I left that detail out), and not a stunt performer or an actor, so what would possess me to come to a Stage Combat Workshop?
The quick response was, "It's nice to be a student." Lots of nods and, "Sure, that makes sense."
I would then be asked if I would take any of what I learned back to my students. Not really. I don't really have the skill to teach a room full of teenagers what these master instructors are teaching to a room full of adults with varying degrees of skill. There are definitely some skills and tricks I will put in my back pocket for directing shows when they're called for. Mostly approaches to physical comedy.
The workshop is a series of 90 minute classes on a variety of topics for a number of different skill levels over the course of six days. So that's a big chance to learn a lot of things from a lot of different people. By the end of Day 1, I stopped trying to master the skills and focussed on what it felt like to be in the room with those teachers. What was it about what they were doing that made me feel excited, or bored, or successful . . . stuff like that. Also, how did time move? Did it seem like it whipped by? Was I wondering what would be for lunch? Would I like to see more from this person? These are things that matter a great deal to students. And the stuff is fun. And do-able (sidenote - one of the biggest necessities in learning anything is a teacher's belief that the student can do the thing being taught. A quality which was present in spades at the workshop.)
I also watched how the instructors interacted with each other and how they made the quality of the participants' experience their top priority. And they succeeded.
Conflict is hard to write. In my world as a wife, mother and teacher, my job is to prevent conflict. "Be nice." "Don't fight." Don't say that comment that might incite a reaction, just suck it down and move forward. I have decent communication skills, so I don't run into as many conflicts as I used to. Plus, it's not socially acceptable to start conflicts and act like an ass, like we do sometimes when we just want what we want and we don't care how we get it. But nobody wants to see a play where everyone just plays nice.
Many of the classes talked about the nature of fighting. What causes two people to lose it and go at each other? Why may they choose not to? How close do you need to be on stage for something to happen? What is the dynamic when there are more than two people in a fight? How do we maintain tension and when do we let go of it? I don't think this just applies to plays with fighting in them. Every playwright needs to grasp how one stabbing remark differs from a series of cutting comments. And the ensuing reactions. I actually can't see a better way than on your feet, putting it all into your body and having it at the ready when you need to write a scene.
So, in my brain, the question isn't "Why am I here?" It's "Why isn't every teacher and playwright at something like this?"
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Work of it.
I like working on things. You know, mucking around. I love rehearsal. I love reading plays and picking out scripts to direct. I love auditions (though I hate cutting people). I like writing drafts of plays and thinking about how I would rewrite them. Mulling over characters and the things they might do.
I love all of this so much, the work of the theatre, that I would trade it for the finish line.
You see, by the time a show that I'm directing reaches the polishing stage, I start to lose interest. I've accomplished most of what I wanted to and the actors have to start to make it their own. And I fuss over details, yes, but in a kind of forced "it's my responsibility to point this out" kind of way. For me, the fun is in discovery - helping groups of young actors figure out how to work together, pushing them toward different ways of interpreting their work. Performance, to me, is almost a necessary evil.
Isn't that awful? Isn't performance what it's all about? Yes, it is. All that work is for naught if, ultimately it doesn't mean something to an audience. The audience is who it's for. They determine the true value of a given work by their presence and precious attention. But audiences freak me out. I love them, I do. But I fear them, too. When a production goes up, it's out of my hands, and it feels like I (and more importantly the work I've done for the previous three months or so) meets its maker. Judgement ensues.
I'm fortunate to work in educational theatre. Everyone loves kids and wants to see them do well, so the audiences I have the fortune to work with are always willing and supportive. But, I don't believe that in the theatre, "everything always works out" as they say. Sometimes things aren't ready. Or they just plain suck. I have a mortal fear of that scenario, something I've worked on sucking. Mortal. It's happened, bt dubs. Not always, but I'm aware that it's possible. And that possibility lurks over every show.
So, I think I walk around with this "I'm process-oriented" label I've placed on myself in part as some sort of excuse to not see things through all the way. In terms of my writing, I wonder if I avoid reaching completion and pushing for production. Do I like playwriting limbo? Is my residency there due to mortal fear or a love of mucking about in development/discovery stage?
It's worth thinking about, anyway.
I love all of this so much, the work of the theatre, that I would trade it for the finish line.
You see, by the time a show that I'm directing reaches the polishing stage, I start to lose interest. I've accomplished most of what I wanted to and the actors have to start to make it their own. And I fuss over details, yes, but in a kind of forced "it's my responsibility to point this out" kind of way. For me, the fun is in discovery - helping groups of young actors figure out how to work together, pushing them toward different ways of interpreting their work. Performance, to me, is almost a necessary evil.
Isn't that awful? Isn't performance what it's all about? Yes, it is. All that work is for naught if, ultimately it doesn't mean something to an audience. The audience is who it's for. They determine the true value of a given work by their presence and precious attention. But audiences freak me out. I love them, I do. But I fear them, too. When a production goes up, it's out of my hands, and it feels like I (and more importantly the work I've done for the previous three months or so) meets its maker. Judgement ensues.
I'm fortunate to work in educational theatre. Everyone loves kids and wants to see them do well, so the audiences I have the fortune to work with are always willing and supportive. But, I don't believe that in the theatre, "everything always works out" as they say. Sometimes things aren't ready. Or they just plain suck. I have a mortal fear of that scenario, something I've worked on sucking. Mortal. It's happened, bt dubs. Not always, but I'm aware that it's possible. And that possibility lurks over every show.
So, I think I walk around with this "I'm process-oriented" label I've placed on myself in part as some sort of excuse to not see things through all the way. In terms of my writing, I wonder if I avoid reaching completion and pushing for production. Do I like playwriting limbo? Is my residency there due to mortal fear or a love of mucking about in development/discovery stage?
It's worth thinking about, anyway.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Let There Be Dogs!
So, today I was chatting about my play with a dramaturg (Michelle) from Alberta Playwrights Network. A few years ago, I developed a relationship with APN (love them!). Tooth Sized Holes is the second play I've sent there.
I was expecting her to bring it up. She totally has a point. "So, you have two dogs in this play . . ." (the ellipses being code for " . . . and how do you expect this to ever be produced?" - but in a kind and supportive way).
She began the conversation by asking how I felt about the play - where it was at, etc. I was thrilled to be able to respond by saying that my life has taken a U-turn of sorts and that though a couple of years ago I was quite ambitious about playwriting, I have the luxury now of writing for the joy of it and for the unadulterated thrill of discovering the layers and possibilities of a story. And I think I believe that. Production isn't as much on my mind as it used to be, but I still feel the drive to write plays. Anyhow, it ends up that I am in a good place in my feelings towards this latest draft of Tooth Sized Holes and let 'er rip. Tell me what needs doing.
Hence the dog concern. Yes, there are two dogs in the play and although one of them takes more of a principal role, they are both on stage at the same time for one scene. I realize that rare is the theatre company that will to take that on when they could go for something that, say, doesn't have dogs in it and would be much easier to produce. There was some subtext about theatrical ways of including dogs in the story without actually having dogs on stage.
I responded by saying, "I wrote the play I wanted to write. It has dogs in it. Some people go to the theatre because they want to see something in particular, some people go to everything, some people are dragged there. People have dogs." And then I said something about the fact that maybe Shakespeare and his colleagues wondered about presenting his audience with a severed head, but it doesn't seem so weird now. And maybe it wasn't then either, but it was the first idea that popped into my head.
As I relay it, it seems like the tone of the conversation was much more snarky than it was. It was not snarky at all - I just think sometimes that playwriting in this day and age has become highly limited. That's probably a really great thing. Limitation gives way to creativity. I know that. But is there room to think outside of such strict limitations? What if someone were to take a risk and produce this play and then, suddenly, dogs become all the rage in plays? To the point that everyone spends their time trying to figure out how to put a dog or two in their scripts?
I don't know. Just something I'm thinkin' about.
I was expecting her to bring it up. She totally has a point. "So, you have two dogs in this play . . ." (the ellipses being code for " . . . and how do you expect this to ever be produced?" - but in a kind and supportive way).
She began the conversation by asking how I felt about the play - where it was at, etc. I was thrilled to be able to respond by saying that my life has taken a U-turn of sorts and that though a couple of years ago I was quite ambitious about playwriting, I have the luxury now of writing for the joy of it and for the unadulterated thrill of discovering the layers and possibilities of a story. And I think I believe that. Production isn't as much on my mind as it used to be, but I still feel the drive to write plays. Anyhow, it ends up that I am in a good place in my feelings towards this latest draft of Tooth Sized Holes and let 'er rip. Tell me what needs doing.
Hence the dog concern. Yes, there are two dogs in the play and although one of them takes more of a principal role, they are both on stage at the same time for one scene. I realize that rare is the theatre company that will to take that on when they could go for something that, say, doesn't have dogs in it and would be much easier to produce. There was some subtext about theatrical ways of including dogs in the story without actually having dogs on stage.
I responded by saying, "I wrote the play I wanted to write. It has dogs in it. Some people go to the theatre because they want to see something in particular, some people go to everything, some people are dragged there. People have dogs." And then I said something about the fact that maybe Shakespeare and his colleagues wondered about presenting his audience with a severed head, but it doesn't seem so weird now. And maybe it wasn't then either, but it was the first idea that popped into my head.
As I relay it, it seems like the tone of the conversation was much more snarky than it was. It was not snarky at all - I just think sometimes that playwriting in this day and age has become highly limited. That's probably a really great thing. Limitation gives way to creativity. I know that. But is there room to think outside of such strict limitations? What if someone were to take a risk and produce this play and then, suddenly, dogs become all the rage in plays? To the point that everyone spends their time trying to figure out how to put a dog or two in their scripts?
I don't know. Just something I'm thinkin' about.
Monday, October 22, 2012
What You Do
Have you ever met someone, and got to know them a little bit and been so impressed with the fact that they are doing (job wise) exactly what it is they're supposed to be doing?
I'll give you an example. I know a lighting designer/professor at one of the universities I used to attend. She is a brilliant (pun!) lighting designer and also a fabulous teacher. She is interested in student learning, and makes it her business to make students better (and feel better about their work) when they leave her class.
I've also met people -talented, smart people - who have just never seemed to land where they were meant to. A case in point is an old friend of my husband's. He didn't graduate high school, took a number of jobs, made a lot of money, lost it all, is divorced, has had trouble with the law and from what I can tell, has no place to go. And yet, you should listen to him speak! Gorgeous speaking voice. He has a gregarious personality and relates really well with people. He could easily be some kind of radio talk show host, or even television host for that matter. When we spent a little bit of time with him this summer, I couldn't help but think, "If only he had a good drama teacher, who could have encouraged him . . . "
I've never ever really wanted to be anything but a high school drama teacher. I have a distinct memory as a teenager of thinking to myself, "I just love drama class. I want to be in drama class all day." Which led me, quite naturally, to go down that road. I've been in and out of the drama classroom - I had kids, I taught strictly academic courses for a year and, of course took time off with my recent sabbatical. I often wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be doing. Does everyone wonder that about themselves?
I went to Kidprovisers at the Edmonton Fringe this past summer. Basically, the adult professionals carried the young folks through all of the scenes, but I was so happy to see young kids doing drama and being apprenticed in the craft. I think that was a telling moment: "Kids doing drama. What could be better?"
I love writing, of course. I have precious little time to do any these days, but I hope to do more soon. I hope to have more to say about that next time.
Cheers.
I'll give you an example. I know a lighting designer/professor at one of the universities I used to attend. She is a brilliant (pun!) lighting designer and also a fabulous teacher. She is interested in student learning, and makes it her business to make students better (and feel better about their work) when they leave her class.
I've also met people -talented, smart people - who have just never seemed to land where they were meant to. A case in point is an old friend of my husband's. He didn't graduate high school, took a number of jobs, made a lot of money, lost it all, is divorced, has had trouble with the law and from what I can tell, has no place to go. And yet, you should listen to him speak! Gorgeous speaking voice. He has a gregarious personality and relates really well with people. He could easily be some kind of radio talk show host, or even television host for that matter. When we spent a little bit of time with him this summer, I couldn't help but think, "If only he had a good drama teacher, who could have encouraged him . . . "
I've never ever really wanted to be anything but a high school drama teacher. I have a distinct memory as a teenager of thinking to myself, "I just love drama class. I want to be in drama class all day." Which led me, quite naturally, to go down that road. I've been in and out of the drama classroom - I had kids, I taught strictly academic courses for a year and, of course took time off with my recent sabbatical. I often wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be doing. Does everyone wonder that about themselves?
I went to Kidprovisers at the Edmonton Fringe this past summer. Basically, the adult professionals carried the young folks through all of the scenes, but I was so happy to see young kids doing drama and being apprenticed in the craft. I think that was a telling moment: "Kids doing drama. What could be better?"
I love writing, of course. I have precious little time to do any these days, but I hope to do more soon. I hope to have more to say about that next time.
Cheers.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Fight Club
Can I tell you about something really cool?
Sometimes we have experiences that are so deeply meaningful and profound that it's a long time before we can put words to them. And when some time has passed, to do so is to risk letting go of the immediacy and excitement of that adventure - that the intensity and they way it's remembered will never quite be the same and we want to hold on to our version of those memories as tightly as we can. But there comes a point when the experience demands utterance and defying the call to express it only results in a dull, chronic stomach-rot. I've had a few times like these in my life, but there really is something special about my time in Vancouver during the 2012 Fight Directors Canada National Workshop.
Back in May, I learned that I would be teaching Drama at the high school this fall. That's totally cool, I love that stuff. But, I really want it to go well. And I know that I don't always relate so well to teenage boys (I just don't get them. I mean, I'm a teacher, so I should, but . . . ) and I thought, "You know what? I should really look into taking a stage combat course. If I can teach them how to throw a few punches and kick each other in the nuts for a scene, they'll be thrilled and I'll be golden."
So, I looked into it online - something that would fit the timeline of anywhere between then and the end of the summer. I've never done anything like this before, so I let Google do the walking. The first thing that popped up was an FDC Basic class at Rapier Wit in Toronto. That sounded totally cool. Then I discovered the Nationals which would be a couple of weeks later. A variety of circumstances (to do with timing and family stuff) led me to go with Vancouver. I was looking at two weeks of intense training in unarmed, quarterstaff and sword combat for the stage. Cool, right? Yes. Oh, and at the end we would have to get up in front of a panel of judges and be tested on 3 choreographed partner fights . . . *Cool.*
So, I made my decision. And then I put off doing anything about it. A week would go by and my husband would ask, "Have you registered yet?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"Yep." And then I wouldn't. This happened a few times. I left it until the last minute.
And then,
"Have you booked your plane ticket?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"'Kay." More procrastination. I booked. And then I checked the website I don't know, about a week and half before it was to start and noticed that I booked it for a day too late. I must have read it wrong, so I had to change my flight.
I should have been excited and I was, but I was also really dreading it. What the hell was I thinking? I had never done anything like this before and I was completely out of shape. And not that I want it to matter, but 40 is looming larger than I want it to. I'm short. I'm left-handed. I could have just not gone. But as the start date approached, I began to know (in a way that I wished I could ignore) that this was going to be about far more than just teaching kids how to kick each other in the nuts on stage. It would also be about me going through something really hard just to come out on the other side of it still standing.
I had five goals (the pursuit of which took up all the available space in my head):
• learn the moves
• try not to look like too much of a moron
• catch the bus on time (there were two buses from downtown Vancouver to Capilano University in North Van).
• follow the pack and don’t get lost (the classes were in various buildings).
• don’t forget to eat (when you're married you become half-useless. Food is the domain of my other half).
As regards the second point, (for the first week at least) I felt like a moron every day. Every minute of each of those days. I'm talking tears. Most people (including some of the instructors, certainly those looking to be instructors) were younger than me. I thought I could be so cool about learning from younger people, but it was harder than I thought. I mean, it's humbling. I'm usually the teacher - the one who knows and imparts, not the one who doesn't know and is at the mercy of another to impart. But I got over it and then it was wonderful. The young folks (not to the exclusion of the older-than-me-folks, who are master teachers and completely mesmerizing) were extremely cool and smart and funny and totally dedicated, not to mention unrelenting in their high standards. It was not long before I was enchanted by the whole thing.
But. Let's just say I was out of my element.
Cut to the first day of the second week. It was a good start - I had been struggling with all of my choreography for the entire first week and spent some of our one free day studying and rehearsing. Sword class was first and I made it through the choreography fairly smoothly when my partner and I presented it to the class. Therefore, a win.
I pause here to talk about my gargantuan fear of performing.
As a teenager, I loved being on stage. I enjoyed it a bit beyond high school, but then I think something changed. Maybe there was some kind of significant identity shift or something in my early twenties, but I found myself shying away from acting (or even being interested in it.) Drama class? That's my thing - be it teaching or participating. Putting myself out there in front of people, especially professional actors and directors? I could die. In there somewhere is a malignant form of insecurity entwined in narcissistic self-obsession. Any way you look at it, I am most at home in the rehearsal hall, the classroom or in front of the computer - not onstage.
So, I made it through the morning sword class. And I got through most of the rest of the day all right. But then we had a second sword class at the end of the day. I was pretty spent (see above re: completely out of shape). And nervous - getting through the choreography the first time seemed like a fluke and I had so many doubts about being able to reproduce it. The instructor wanted to see the scenes again, pair by pair. I went first last time, so I kept sitting there as each of the pairs went up to show their work. Time marched until only one pair was left other than myself and my partner. Class was due to be over so I just sat there and let them go, relieved that I seemingly dodged a bullet. But it was not to be. We were called up. And I choked. I lost my way and the thing completely fell apart. My partner (who was actually an advanced actor combatant journeying to be a fight instructor) was a champ and made the best of it, but I felt awful because I knew that I didn't really try because I didn't really feel like it.
There was some time to eat before we were due to be back for evening rehearsals. You can't go back and change what happened, you can only change what you do from there. So I took some time to feel bad and let that bad feeling register in my gut for a while so that I could ensure that such a thing wouldn't happen again. As I thought it all through, it became clear to me that this fight stuff isn't about me (What? Something's not about me?) It's about the partnership. And a partnership only really works if both people bring everything they have to serve each other. So, even though I'm new at this, and I fumble over myself every five seconds, my partner (any of my partners) needs me, too. In short, I learned that I don't have a right to my insecurities.
Oh.
I went back to rehearsal and worked like a dog. Things went better from there. Turned out, I had a lot of fun throughout the rest of the week. Classes were great and rehearsals were better. And then, I failed my fights.
Yeah, I failed the fights. Which I expected. It's really cool how the whole thing is run. You have your fights pair by pair and then a bunch of hours pass and the fight masters call you in one by one to give you your results. By that time, you're tired and thinking about going home and wearing real clothes every day and feeling surprised that though you didn't come here with any intent to get to know anyone, that you might actually miss some people. It's an intensely emotional time. The fight masters were really supportive and it all resulted in a good conversation. I may or may not have gushed about how great I thought everyone was. I meant every word.
The game face I hoped to don didn't pan out when I left the room to face my classmates. I totally wanted to pick up my things, take the bus back to downtown and meet up with my sister for dinner like she and I had tentatively planned. That's what I wanted to do. But something inside just said, "Dammit, you're staying here and you're going to hug and congratulate the others when they come out of there." I did. It wasn't easy, but I really was proud of them all and I'm glad I had the chance to show them that.
There was a "do" after. A party at a pub. I didn't want to go to that, either. I would rather have run and hid in urban obscurity with my sister anywhere in Vancouver except the pub where the party was being held. Again with the "Dammit, you're going. It's not going to kill you. And people may want to see you and hang out with you, so just stop your bawling and go."
I'm glad I went. The humiliation of my relatively public failure subsided after a couple of drinks and I was thrilled to be able to enjoy the company of some of the funnest, most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet (as are most people you meet for a short time I suppose, but it was true in this case for this period of time, anyway).
I haven't taught anyone how to fake-kick someone else in the nuts yet. I don't know if I'm any closer to understanding teenage boys, either. I may eventually, but even if I never do, I have this remarkable experience that has rendered me forever changed in a way that I still don't know if I can fully articulate. Not to mention that it was among the most exceptional learning experiences I've ever had. You can't beat that.
And I'm still intrigued by all this fight stuff. I haven't done any of it since, but I'll be at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop over the new year in Banff. I think it's going to be totally scary, but I can't wait to find out for sure.
Sometimes we have experiences that are so deeply meaningful and profound that it's a long time before we can put words to them. And when some time has passed, to do so is to risk letting go of the immediacy and excitement of that adventure - that the intensity and they way it's remembered will never quite be the same and we want to hold on to our version of those memories as tightly as we can. But there comes a point when the experience demands utterance and defying the call to express it only results in a dull, chronic stomach-rot. I've had a few times like these in my life, but there really is something special about my time in Vancouver during the 2012 Fight Directors Canada National Workshop.
Back in May, I learned that I would be teaching Drama at the high school this fall. That's totally cool, I love that stuff. But, I really want it to go well. And I know that I don't always relate so well to teenage boys (I just don't get them. I mean, I'm a teacher, so I should, but . . . ) and I thought, "You know what? I should really look into taking a stage combat course. If I can teach them how to throw a few punches and kick each other in the nuts for a scene, they'll be thrilled and I'll be golden."
So, I looked into it online - something that would fit the timeline of anywhere between then and the end of the summer. I've never done anything like this before, so I let Google do the walking. The first thing that popped up was an FDC Basic class at Rapier Wit in Toronto. That sounded totally cool. Then I discovered the Nationals which would be a couple of weeks later. A variety of circumstances (to do with timing and family stuff) led me to go with Vancouver. I was looking at two weeks of intense training in unarmed, quarterstaff and sword combat for the stage. Cool, right? Yes. Oh, and at the end we would have to get up in front of a panel of judges and be tested on 3 choreographed partner fights . . . *Cool.*
So, I made my decision. And then I put off doing anything about it. A week would go by and my husband would ask, "Have you registered yet?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"Yep." And then I wouldn't. This happened a few times. I left it until the last minute.
And then,
"Have you booked your plane ticket?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"'Kay." More procrastination. I booked. And then I checked the website I don't know, about a week and half before it was to start and noticed that I booked it for a day too late. I must have read it wrong, so I had to change my flight.
I should have been excited and I was, but I was also really dreading it. What the hell was I thinking? I had never done anything like this before and I was completely out of shape. And not that I want it to matter, but 40 is looming larger than I want it to. I'm short. I'm left-handed. I could have just not gone. But as the start date approached, I began to know (in a way that I wished I could ignore) that this was going to be about far more than just teaching kids how to kick each other in the nuts on stage. It would also be about me going through something really hard just to come out on the other side of it still standing.
I had five goals (the pursuit of which took up all the available space in my head):
• learn the moves
• try not to look like too much of a moron
• catch the bus on time (there were two buses from downtown Vancouver to Capilano University in North Van).
• follow the pack and don’t get lost (the classes were in various buildings).
• don’t forget to eat (when you're married you become half-useless. Food is the domain of my other half).
As regards the second point, (for the first week at least) I felt like a moron every day. Every minute of each of those days. I'm talking tears. Most people (including some of the instructors, certainly those looking to be instructors) were younger than me. I thought I could be so cool about learning from younger people, but it was harder than I thought. I mean, it's humbling. I'm usually the teacher - the one who knows and imparts, not the one who doesn't know and is at the mercy of another to impart. But I got over it and then it was wonderful. The young folks (not to the exclusion of the older-than-me-folks, who are master teachers and completely mesmerizing) were extremely cool and smart and funny and totally dedicated, not to mention unrelenting in their high standards. It was not long before I was enchanted by the whole thing.
But. Let's just say I was out of my element.
Cut to the first day of the second week. It was a good start - I had been struggling with all of my choreography for the entire first week and spent some of our one free day studying and rehearsing. Sword class was first and I made it through the choreography fairly smoothly when my partner and I presented it to the class. Therefore, a win.
I pause here to talk about my gargantuan fear of performing.
As a teenager, I loved being on stage. I enjoyed it a bit beyond high school, but then I think something changed. Maybe there was some kind of significant identity shift or something in my early twenties, but I found myself shying away from acting (or even being interested in it.) Drama class? That's my thing - be it teaching or participating. Putting myself out there in front of people, especially professional actors and directors? I could die. In there somewhere is a malignant form of insecurity entwined in narcissistic self-obsession. Any way you look at it, I am most at home in the rehearsal hall, the classroom or in front of the computer - not onstage.
So, I made it through the morning sword class. And I got through most of the rest of the day all right. But then we had a second sword class at the end of the day. I was pretty spent (see above re: completely out of shape). And nervous - getting through the choreography the first time seemed like a fluke and I had so many doubts about being able to reproduce it. The instructor wanted to see the scenes again, pair by pair. I went first last time, so I kept sitting there as each of the pairs went up to show their work. Time marched until only one pair was left other than myself and my partner. Class was due to be over so I just sat there and let them go, relieved that I seemingly dodged a bullet. But it was not to be. We were called up. And I choked. I lost my way and the thing completely fell apart. My partner (who was actually an advanced actor combatant journeying to be a fight instructor) was a champ and made the best of it, but I felt awful because I knew that I didn't really try because I didn't really feel like it.
There was some time to eat before we were due to be back for evening rehearsals. You can't go back and change what happened, you can only change what you do from there. So I took some time to feel bad and let that bad feeling register in my gut for a while so that I could ensure that such a thing wouldn't happen again. As I thought it all through, it became clear to me that this fight stuff isn't about me (What? Something's not about me?) It's about the partnership. And a partnership only really works if both people bring everything they have to serve each other. So, even though I'm new at this, and I fumble over myself every five seconds, my partner (any of my partners) needs me, too. In short, I learned that I don't have a right to my insecurities.
Oh.
I went back to rehearsal and worked like a dog. Things went better from there. Turned out, I had a lot of fun throughout the rest of the week. Classes were great and rehearsals were better. And then, I failed my fights.
Yeah, I failed the fights. Which I expected. It's really cool how the whole thing is run. You have your fights pair by pair and then a bunch of hours pass and the fight masters call you in one by one to give you your results. By that time, you're tired and thinking about going home and wearing real clothes every day and feeling surprised that though you didn't come here with any intent to get to know anyone, that you might actually miss some people. It's an intensely emotional time. The fight masters were really supportive and it all resulted in a good conversation. I may or may not have gushed about how great I thought everyone was. I meant every word.
The game face I hoped to don didn't pan out when I left the room to face my classmates. I totally wanted to pick up my things, take the bus back to downtown and meet up with my sister for dinner like she and I had tentatively planned. That's what I wanted to do. But something inside just said, "Dammit, you're staying here and you're going to hug and congratulate the others when they come out of there." I did. It wasn't easy, but I really was proud of them all and I'm glad I had the chance to show them that.
There was a "do" after. A party at a pub. I didn't want to go to that, either. I would rather have run and hid in urban obscurity with my sister anywhere in Vancouver except the pub where the party was being held. Again with the "Dammit, you're going. It's not going to kill you. And people may want to see you and hang out with you, so just stop your bawling and go."
I'm glad I went. The humiliation of my relatively public failure subsided after a couple of drinks and I was thrilled to be able to enjoy the company of some of the funnest, most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet (as are most people you meet for a short time I suppose, but it was true in this case for this period of time, anyway).
I haven't taught anyone how to fake-kick someone else in the nuts yet. I don't know if I'm any closer to understanding teenage boys, either. I may eventually, but even if I never do, I have this remarkable experience that has rendered me forever changed in a way that I still don't know if I can fully articulate. Not to mention that it was among the most exceptional learning experiences I've ever had. You can't beat that.
And I'm still intrigued by all this fight stuff. I haven't done any of it since, but I'll be at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop over the new year in Banff. I think it's going to be totally scary, but I can't wait to find out for sure.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
0 to 60
Holy fuck. I shouldn't say things like that, it misrepresents me (I like to think of myself as the kind of person who wouldn't say things like that. But obviously, I'm wrong). But, man. I went from a total couch potato to hardly having a minute in the day to even, like, eat.
It's cool, though. It's all good (kinda, except that I have no time). See, I mentioned before about job shuffling . . . So, what happened was that the guy who was originally going to be a partner in crime of sorts in the Drama department at the school is now the Vice Principal. I opted to take his position (there was no middle ground), but it means a steep learning curve. I know nothing about film. And I'm now teaching it. To give you an idea.
I just auditioned kids for You Can't Take it With You. We had such a fun time. I'm in denial about having to make a cast list. I could seriously be happy just sitting about making stuff up with a bunch of kids. These guys are awesome!
A former student from many moons ago stopped by and we chatted through the whole lunch hour. SO good to catch up with her.
That's that. Just gotta breathe.
It's cool, though. It's all good (kinda, except that I have no time). See, I mentioned before about job shuffling . . . So, what happened was that the guy who was originally going to be a partner in crime of sorts in the Drama department at the school is now the Vice Principal. I opted to take his position (there was no middle ground), but it means a steep learning curve. I know nothing about film. And I'm now teaching it. To give you an idea.
I just auditioned kids for You Can't Take it With You. We had such a fun time. I'm in denial about having to make a cast list. I could seriously be happy just sitting about making stuff up with a bunch of kids. These guys are awesome!
A former student from many moons ago stopped by and we chatted through the whole lunch hour. SO good to catch up with her.
That's that. Just gotta breathe.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Cape Fear
So,things are crazy around here right now. There's been some job stuff - changes, shuffling, you know, stuff - and that has thrust me into having to really face the school year coming up and all that will entail. It's all good, it's just there are some unknown quantities that translate into "this school year is gonna be hella busy." Writing 'to do' lists helps to mitigate the chaos. I swore off 'to do' lists when I was an at home mom at the time my kids were little. It is so depressing to come across a piece of paper in May that has "October - finish drapes for Georgia's room" written on it and and it didn't get done and all it felt like I did during that time was hold a baby. But somehow, now, the 'to do' thing helps clear my head. These days, it's things like, "Haircut 12:30", "Meet with Joel 1:45", "Call Dave and ask if he got in touch with Evelyn."
Out of the blue, without being entirely aware of it, I actually wrote this down on my page today: "Deal with fear about sending scripts to companies that have invited me to."
In July, I sent a query to the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. I got a message back from the guy that deals with that sort of thing (not sure if he's the literary manager or associate producer . . . his name's Will and he seems very nice) wanting to see the full script, so I sent it. That's easy. He asked, I submitted. Now I go on with my life as usual until he gets back to me.
I've been in this position before with a few prominent theatre companies. I would give my eyeteeth to be produced at these places. They asked for a script, I sent it and then they wrote back to say that though that particular script isn't right for them, they really like my work and would I send them something else? At which I get a warm feeling inside and then go on with my day as though it didn't happen.
Ummm . . . what?
I have other plays. Most need rewrites. I've avoided getting to them. Here's the thing: What if I send something and they don't like it? And then they decide that they were wrong about me and write me off? The fear of that scenario is nothing short of arresting. At least this way, I'm sustaining mystery. Who doesn't love a little mystery?
I know. Hence the list item.
I have had some experiences in this past year which have been completely life-changing. I will tell you about them in detail some time. The bottom line is that fear has to go. I don't know how, but it's on my list. Please understand that this is a big deal. Remember the mouse thing way back? Along those lines.
Love you, blogosphere. G'day.
Out of the blue, without being entirely aware of it, I actually wrote this down on my page today: "Deal with fear about sending scripts to companies that have invited me to."
In July, I sent a query to the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. I got a message back from the guy that deals with that sort of thing (not sure if he's the literary manager or associate producer . . . his name's Will and he seems very nice) wanting to see the full script, so I sent it. That's easy. He asked, I submitted. Now I go on with my life as usual until he gets back to me.
I've been in this position before with a few prominent theatre companies. I would give my eyeteeth to be produced at these places. They asked for a script, I sent it and then they wrote back to say that though that particular script isn't right for them, they really like my work and would I send them something else? At which I get a warm feeling inside and then go on with my day as though it didn't happen.
Ummm . . . what?
I have other plays. Most need rewrites. I've avoided getting to them. Here's the thing: What if I send something and they don't like it? And then they decide that they were wrong about me and write me off? The fear of that scenario is nothing short of arresting. At least this way, I'm sustaining mystery. Who doesn't love a little mystery?
I know. Hence the list item.
I have had some experiences in this past year which have been completely life-changing. I will tell you about them in detail some time. The bottom line is that fear has to go. I don't know how, but it's on my list. Please understand that this is a big deal. Remember the mouse thing way back? Along those lines.
Love you, blogosphere. G'day.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Walking Out
I walked out of a play last night. That brings my count to a total of three (plays that I've walked out of in my life).
The first play I walked out of was 4 Rooms (an adaptation of the movie of the same name) at the Stage Door in Cranbrook. A former student directed it, so we went to support him and the theatre community in general. It was awful. The storyline didn't go anywhere, the characters were completely unlikable (and un-rootforable - and uninteresting - the biggest crime ever), besides which the production was just sloppy. My husband and I didn't even make it through to intermission. Luckily we were sitting at the back and I think we slipped out unnoticed.
The second play I walked out of was Hurlyburly. I think it was at the Carousel Theatre on Granville Island some 12 years ago or so. I'm not sure what company put it on, but I think it was one of those groups of actors (who never really stay together very long) who think they're going to rock everyone's world by getting together and mounting something "edgy." I went with my brother and prior to the show starting (out in the foyer), one of the company members (could have been the director) assured us that the show was going to be great and punctuated the fact that it would be "full on" with such force that it left me unclear as to whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. It sucked - for many of the same reasons 4 Rooms did. At intermission I looked over at my brother (apologetically) and asked him how he was doing. His answer resembled something like, "In my worst dreams, where I question whether I would really rather live or die and decide that dying would be better, I look around and I'm sitting through this play." I felt the same way, so we left.
Which brings me to last night. Where I live, the theatre community is pretty tight and supportive. As in, no one goes super public when a production sucks balls. Which is good in many ways. I know how hard it is to put up a show, and depending on who you've got in your cast and to support you with lights, costumes and sets at the local level, results are always variable. I've directed good stuff and not so good stuff, so I am thankful that the blows are soft when something doesn't land quite the way I hoped. So, even though my sentiments about this topic are strong, I feel a little guilty about coming clean.
The birthplace of this most recent disappointment is the Wildhorse Theatre at Ft. Steele. Years ago, Ft.Steele had some caché as a professional summer theatre gig for young emerging artists. Some seriously good people (with hefty training and chops) came out and spent their summers there, giving solid crowd-pleasing work. Though the "Fort Steele Follies" as they were called weren't my favourite style of theatre, I was always pleasantly entertained and appreciated the level of execution and I was always impressed. For details on the kinds of theatre offerings currently available at Ft. Steele, check it out here.
I went to the evening play last night, along with 9 other folks (no, that was not the number of people in my party, that was the sum total of the audience), one of whom is my good friend, Eve. I'll let you read about the play (title, synopsis, etc.) yourself, but the first half can be summed up thus: Talk. Talk. Talk. Irrelevant backstories galore. Two characters play a multitude of caricatures (oops, I meant characters) placed in a fictitious historical situation I could not care less about. One of the actors (that's 50% of the cast!) stifled a yawn on two occasions. Right up there in front of everyone. One of them was right before he told the audience (there was a lot of "telling the audience" in this play) how much he adored the girl he was sitting in the boat with. Oy.
After the polite but scattered applause at intermission, I looked over at Eve. She confessed that she was falling asleep and was bored as fuck (okay, she didn't quite say that, but that was her sentiment). Since we were two of ten people in the audience, and since I was pretty sure I was spotted by one of the actors (whom I know - he is a former student - God, I am such a bitch), I was reluctant to leave (but I wanted to leave). We knew a couple of the other audience members - a mother and daughter combo - and we went to the foyer to suss out whether they were going to deke so Eve could catch a ride back to Cranbrook with them. They looked like they were staying put, so I acted on my "I'm leaving and they can just suck it" impulse (a true rarity - I felt so rebellious!). Eve and I bolted. Before we got to the car, we joked, "Will the two leads (whose names escaped us because the plot was so confusing) succeed in convincing the town that there really should be a radio station where young girls can sing mildly jazzy songs?" Who the fuck cares? Not us.
You see, babies are being born. Wombs are closing. The earth is turning on its axis. So many things are happening in this world that if we want people to go to the theatre, we have to give them a reason. The play's the thing. It really, really is. The best acting, the flashiest lighting design and the most fly set in the world cannot cover over the multitude of sins inherent in a bad script. Much of the faults of last night's travesty were due to the horrible, horrible script. It is my prayer that Ft. Steele (and the local theatre community in general) can raise their game at choosing scripts. Aristotle provides a means of determining what's important in that endeavour.
Let me close with this. I, as an audience member do not owe any given production company (should I choose to attend one of their shows) anything more than my money and polite attention. It is I who am owed. I am owed a reason for being there and I am owed engagement. I hereby declare a moratorium on sitting through execrable plays from beginning to end in the interest of being seen supportive. No one needs to be rude, but neither does anyone need to miss out on the glories of laughing and joking with friends or enjoying a night summer breeze (or having pubic hair pulled out one by one, for that matter) because they felt obligated to stay in a dark room with a handful of other people suffering through a terrible theatre production.
Step it up, Ft. Steele. You can do it.
The first play I walked out of was 4 Rooms (an adaptation of the movie of the same name) at the Stage Door in Cranbrook. A former student directed it, so we went to support him and the theatre community in general. It was awful. The storyline didn't go anywhere, the characters were completely unlikable (and un-rootforable - and uninteresting - the biggest crime ever), besides which the production was just sloppy. My husband and I didn't even make it through to intermission. Luckily we were sitting at the back and I think we slipped out unnoticed.
The second play I walked out of was Hurlyburly. I think it was at the Carousel Theatre on Granville Island some 12 years ago or so. I'm not sure what company put it on, but I think it was one of those groups of actors (who never really stay together very long) who think they're going to rock everyone's world by getting together and mounting something "edgy." I went with my brother and prior to the show starting (out in the foyer), one of the company members (could have been the director) assured us that the show was going to be great and punctuated the fact that it would be "full on" with such force that it left me unclear as to whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. It sucked - for many of the same reasons 4 Rooms did. At intermission I looked over at my brother (apologetically) and asked him how he was doing. His answer resembled something like, "In my worst dreams, where I question whether I would really rather live or die and decide that dying would be better, I look around and I'm sitting through this play." I felt the same way, so we left.
Which brings me to last night. Where I live, the theatre community is pretty tight and supportive. As in, no one goes super public when a production sucks balls. Which is good in many ways. I know how hard it is to put up a show, and depending on who you've got in your cast and to support you with lights, costumes and sets at the local level, results are always variable. I've directed good stuff and not so good stuff, so I am thankful that the blows are soft when something doesn't land quite the way I hoped. So, even though my sentiments about this topic are strong, I feel a little guilty about coming clean.
The birthplace of this most recent disappointment is the Wildhorse Theatre at Ft. Steele. Years ago, Ft.Steele had some caché as a professional summer theatre gig for young emerging artists. Some seriously good people (with hefty training and chops) came out and spent their summers there, giving solid crowd-pleasing work. Though the "Fort Steele Follies" as they were called weren't my favourite style of theatre, I was always pleasantly entertained and appreciated the level of execution and I was always impressed. For details on the kinds of theatre offerings currently available at Ft. Steele, check it out here.
I went to the evening play last night, along with 9 other folks (no, that was not the number of people in my party, that was the sum total of the audience), one of whom is my good friend, Eve. I'll let you read about the play (title, synopsis, etc.) yourself, but the first half can be summed up thus: Talk. Talk. Talk. Irrelevant backstories galore. Two characters play a multitude of caricatures (oops, I meant characters) placed in a fictitious historical situation I could not care less about. One of the actors (that's 50% of the cast!) stifled a yawn on two occasions. Right up there in front of everyone. One of them was right before he told the audience (there was a lot of "telling the audience" in this play) how much he adored the girl he was sitting in the boat with. Oy.
After the polite but scattered applause at intermission, I looked over at Eve. She confessed that she was falling asleep and was bored as fuck (okay, she didn't quite say that, but that was her sentiment). Since we were two of ten people in the audience, and since I was pretty sure I was spotted by one of the actors (whom I know - he is a former student - God, I am such a bitch), I was reluctant to leave (but I wanted to leave). We knew a couple of the other audience members - a mother and daughter combo - and we went to the foyer to suss out whether they were going to deke so Eve could catch a ride back to Cranbrook with them. They looked like they were staying put, so I acted on my "I'm leaving and they can just suck it" impulse (a true rarity - I felt so rebellious!). Eve and I bolted. Before we got to the car, we joked, "Will the two leads (whose names escaped us because the plot was so confusing) succeed in convincing the town that there really should be a radio station where young girls can sing mildly jazzy songs?" Who the fuck cares? Not us.
You see, babies are being born. Wombs are closing. The earth is turning on its axis. So many things are happening in this world that if we want people to go to the theatre, we have to give them a reason. The play's the thing. It really, really is. The best acting, the flashiest lighting design and the most fly set in the world cannot cover over the multitude of sins inherent in a bad script. Much of the faults of last night's travesty were due to the horrible, horrible script. It is my prayer that Ft. Steele (and the local theatre community in general) can raise their game at choosing scripts. Aristotle provides a means of determining what's important in that endeavour.
Let me close with this. I, as an audience member do not owe any given production company (should I choose to attend one of their shows) anything more than my money and polite attention. It is I who am owed. I am owed a reason for being there and I am owed engagement. I hereby declare a moratorium on sitting through execrable plays from beginning to end in the interest of being seen supportive. No one needs to be rude, but neither does anyone need to miss out on the glories of laughing and joking with friends or enjoying a night summer breeze (or having pubic hair pulled out one by one, for that matter) because they felt obligated to stay in a dark room with a handful of other people suffering through a terrible theatre production.
Step it up, Ft. Steele. You can do it.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Back to School Prep
So, because I've had thirteen months of easy living, it is most certainly time to get my head around going back to work in September. A facebook friend of mine (a drama teacher in Missoula) posted that she had justhad her first back to school dream (nightmare). I had my own (in response to hers, I think) the following night. Here's my comment to her post:
"I had my first one last night. Usually, there's a bunch of kids running amok and they have no interest in anything I'm saying (which usually doesn't actually happen until the 3rd week or so). This time, I helped a couple of egocentric boys work out their differences and then I stopped everything to address the fact that my hair had turned grey overnight. I said, "I know you must be all wondering about my hair - it just happened suddenly, but you should know that I'm fine with it. I love grey hair . . ." and then Tina Fey, who was sitting in the front row said, "I do too!" and then we talked about how more women should just let their hair go grey. There was a studious looking girl in the back with her hand up, but I ignored her because I was afraid that she would ask if we could move on so the class could actually learn something. I wanted to keep talking to Tina Fey about my hair."
And so it begins. The phrase "Lazy time is over" has been echoing in my brain. I have indeed been very very lazy, particularly this last month. "Lazy time is over" reminded me of a favourite clip of mine from That 70s Show:
http://yt.cl.nr/0hPL6EgFjK4
The clip has nothing to do with my topic for today. Just a window into things I think are funny.
Cheers to you.
"I had my first one last night. Usually, there's a bunch of kids running amok and they have no interest in anything I'm saying (which usually doesn't actually happen until the 3rd week or so). This time, I helped a couple of egocentric boys work out their differences and then I stopped everything to address the fact that my hair had turned grey overnight. I said, "I know you must be all wondering about my hair - it just happened suddenly, but you should know that I'm fine with it. I love grey hair . . ." and then Tina Fey, who was sitting in the front row said, "I do too!" and then we talked about how more women should just let their hair go grey. There was a studious looking girl in the back with her hand up, but I ignored her because I was afraid that she would ask if we could move on so the class could actually learn something. I wanted to keep talking to Tina Fey about my hair."
And so it begins. The phrase "Lazy time is over" has been echoing in my brain. I have indeed been very very lazy, particularly this last month. "Lazy time is over" reminded me of a favourite clip of mine from That 70s Show:
http://yt.cl.nr/0hPL6EgFjK4
The clip has nothing to do with my topic for today. Just a window into things I think are funny.
Cheers to you.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Little Squeezes
So, my last post was all about how I live in little old Cranbrook where I live out my polar existence, at once decrying the smallness of my geographical location and rejoicing in that same smallness.
Last week, I was exiting the Rec Plex where my kids were having their swimming lessons and who walks by me -nonchalant as all getout - but Brent Carver. Just a Canadian Theatre icon, nbd. Now, I don't know the guy personally. I taught his niece, I go to church with his other niece. His sister is very nice. But our paths have never crossed. It was cool to see him. And it was cool to have an antidote for my existential fears that my writing is in vain because I just live in Cranbook and not some exciting metropolis . . .
It made me think a little differently. Little things like that can spur one on.
Last week, I was exiting the Rec Plex where my kids were having their swimming lessons and who walks by me -nonchalant as all getout - but Brent Carver. Just a Canadian Theatre icon, nbd. Now, I don't know the guy personally. I taught his niece, I go to church with his other niece. His sister is very nice. But our paths have never crossed. It was cool to see him. And it was cool to have an antidote for my existential fears that my writing is in vain because I just live in Cranbook and not some exciting metropolis . . .
It made me think a little differently. Little things like that can spur one on.
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