Cowboys and Bohemians

'Baby, Lorca, Dali, and Finding Your Table'

2012-01-20T10:32:00.001-08:00

It's a beautiful day in Arizona. I'm sitting out in the back yard listening to the birds chatter as Baby sits across the yard staring at me the way she does. She's always waiting for a word, or a clap, or ball that whizzes and bounces off the back wall in the corner. This morning we went down to the corner to get a cup of coffee, (she always goes with me) and even though it’s a short trip, she always has the same excitement to go, as if we might suddenly head down the highway to some new town. Its always a wonder to be driving along and try to figure out just your dog is thinking. Lately, as we get ready to get some sleep, she's got in the habit of lying in the middle of the bed. When I get under the covers and push her over to the side of the bed, she let's out this little sigh as if to say, "Hey, I need my space too!" We spend so much time together its got so we know every nuance of each other with a little movement or a word. Last night, before rehearsal, I cooked some chicken. When I got home, I put a piece of it in a bowl and brought it back to the bedroom. I let her in from the window and went back to the kitchen for some water. While I was gone, she climbed up on the chair and ate the whole piece in the time it took me to get back. She had never done that before. I can have any food anywhere and she will not touch it unless I tell her she can have it, but last night, she ate a whole chicken breast in the time it took me to walk in the kitchen and back. As soon as I walked in, I knew what she had done, and so did she. That was a sight, she and I discussing the error of her ways. She started negotiating before I had time to say anything, especially the two words she hates to hear, 'Bad Dog," only I don't usually say it that way. I usually speak to her in a general conversation, whether it's good or bad. The wonder of it all is that even this morning, I said to her, "Why did you eat that piece of chicken?" And she still knew what I meant. Now you tell me dogs don't have a brain that they can think and reason with and I'll tell you you're nuts. I honestly have to say, lately, the hardest part of my day is when I have to head out for rehearsal without her. That's a negotiation as well. And we do talk about it. And she does talk back, even though she knows she can't go. When I get home, she's waiting at the back gate and as I get out of the truck, she let's out one little howl to say hello. When I'm writing or playing guitar, she lays right at my feet, as if this is her job, and that is muse enough.

Last night was four weeks until we preview this latest play I'm directing, Lorca in a Green Dress. And even though I'm not worried, (I have a terrific cast) it was the night I laid in bed with the lights off going through every possible production detail. I'm also designing the set, (which I think when you are directing is an advantage) but it's also a second big job. Imagine a large square space 40' by 40' and imagine having to fill that space with a giant installation piece. That will give you a semi-understanding of how much goes into a set. I'm designing the Lorca Room, where Federico Lorca goes immediately after he dies-where actors playing different aspects of himself help him adjust to his death and also decide on his options. The gypsies and some sects of Islam believe that you have such a room for forty days after you die to prep you for what is to come. So, its not really purgatory, (purgatory would be easy to design) it’s a room that's befitting of each individual, in this case Lorca, the poet, the playwright, the artist, contemporary of Picasso, friend of Salvadore Dali, and someone who was murdered for being a communist sympathizer. So, it's both daunting and exciting. Because the design is not complete, I have to block the play, (the physical composition) semi-knowing what the set pieces will be.

Last night, I had a vision of a giant hanging door, (upside down) from the ceiling, (the ceilings are very high) to define the back wall, with a miniature of the same door painted on the wall on the opposite side of the Lorca Room and somehow tie them together. I had a vision of the two side walls defined by hanging windows, on one side, a stained glass window with a outline of the moon fixed within it, and defining the other side a rusted prison window, with two chains to hold it in place from the bottom and the top. I also imagined all of the furniture pieces designed as ammunition boxes from the Spanish Civil War. Tonight, as I lay in bed with the lights out, all of that will probably change, or at least be rearranged. So, the job is not only to build or find the objects, but to also decide on the hardware and fixtures, and project a giant semi-Daliesque mural on the extreme back wall, 18' X 40', the paint and details of the design, install it in a couple of days, and you will have an idea of what my job for that part of the production involves. It's irritating as hell to have some people infer that as a hobby. There are years and years of training your brain to think this way.

On the directing side, I am interpreting the literary work of a Pulitzer prize winning playwright, and for me, a Latino playwright, so I have to wrap my brain around the Spanish and the period. (Spanish Civil War, 1936). I have to know his history, (both playwright and subject) his life, his art, his plays, and his poetry. Which means reading, thinking about it, and seeing it all in motion. (Thank God for the internet!) Which gives me lots of information with the ease of a search. In this particular play, there are nine people on stage at all times, including a flamenco dancer. (So there is Spanish guitar throughout with dancing) In that regard, the directing is much like choreography, because the actors are constantly moving. I can never really stop to even think that its an impossible job, I just have to move forward at lightning speed, so that the play is completely on its feet in the next two weeks so that I will be able to find the interior of the play in the last two weeks. (We have been in rehearsal for two and a half weeks) Trust me, however, in all of this, I am thankful every day for what I do, it is an interesting job, and there are many spirits to help me go about the business of bringing this beautiful play to life.

As for other elements of my life, there is the music which happens every Saturday night, and as I've said many times before, I'm always excited to go into a place where people are having dinner, get up on a tiny stage and see if I can add to what they are already experiencing. Last Saturday, I had a break through in the music, which happens maybe once or twice a year, where an epiphany happens in regard to what you are doing. Last week, it was a vocal epiphany, a spiritual connection between the words and the meaning of the songs. My theory on this break through has to do with the directing job, which as I said, is a very focused concentration on what things mean. So, at this particular time, the music and the theatre are symbiotic, in that one is informing the other. If you are interpreting a song as though it is the poetry of Lorca, the rendition of the song changes quite drastically. The funny part of it was having this epiphany while people where eating and going about their business, however, on that night, instead of the music being just ambient music, it did turn into a performance, which is always an added bonus, but rare in this particular kind of gig. (It's not a concert, but it turned into one). Doing this kind of gig requires that you find your table. Finding your table is what I use when I play in a restaurant/bar, where I look for the table that is having the best reaction to what I'm doing. I focus on what I think will be their kind of music, and I change up my set to fit them. Then, as I'm playing, I find the most resistant table, and try to figure out a song that will bring them on board maybe just a little bit. All of this is done with watching body language, making eye contact, or making conversation with them without being intrusive. Then, there is the money hour. That's the hour you are going to make the most money from the customer. It's when busyness, alcohol consumption, and just the right song all culminate to get that five or ten bucks before they leave. If I can get tens or twenties, I know I've had a good night. In this particular restaurant, it's mostly a five or ten tops, but lately I've been pulling in some twenties. Lastly, if you do have a good night when it is turning into more of a concert, or there is some special guest, (last week there was a Thai musician I let play on my set) you take advantage of it and turn up the volume. Oh, one last thing. I usually never say, "This is a song that I wrote…blah, blah, blah…" rather, I may tell a story about the song, but I slip original songs in between great covers, because that's (in my opinion) where I'm going to get the best reaction. Lately, I have had people come up and ask, "Whose song was that?" Like maybe they'd heard it but couldn't remember the artist. That's when you know your song is working, because they are asking about it. Yesterday morning, I worked on a song I wrote at the beginning of the summer. I usually work on songs for this year that I actually wrote last year. For some reason, a song is better with some age. I do have those songs that I will do fairly immediately after I write them, but a song will get better if you write it and then wait for it. A song that I didn't think was very good turned into something else entirely from what it was when I wrote it. I'll do one more really good rehearsal of it, and then sing it tomorrow night. Again, I never really tell that story yet, instead, no one will know that this song is getting its first public performance. To go along with the story, I have a song that I wrote seven or eight years ago, that required me to have seven or eight more years of guitar playing before I could sing it! That’s always a surprise, to learn that you wrote a song that was really too difficult for you to do. Okay, I got the bulk of the writing done for today, and now its back to Lorca. Have a great day, it feels good to be working on things I love, even though the pay check for it comes later, I will survive. Thanks to good friends and these little jobs, I always seem to have a five or a ten on my desk in my room…

'Dog Moves the Universe'

2012-01-12T09:11:00.000-08:00

Wow. I got out of bed earlier than usual with the thoughts a poppin'. Maybe it was a night of good sleep. I can rarely go to sleep without waking up at least a couple of times, followed by a walk into the kitchen for some water, and for the last several months, my current obsession with the expanding universe. Sleeping lately, has to be accompanied by the sounds of astronomers evangelically standing in fields of grass expounding on the complexities of the universe. I remember during my following Jesus, (the period I call The Jesus Days) for weeks on end, I would look in the paper to find evangelists who were in town and speaking at some little church, or sometimes in large auditoriums, healing the sick and poetically waxing on the virtues of following Jesus. The more extreme the meeting, the more satisfied I was. I remember once being in Blythe California at a Four Square Pentecostal church listening to an evangelist in Spanish and watching him knock people to the floor with a swoop of his hand. Several of them even hit the hard cement floor without benefit of catchers who would catch the fall as they were being slain in the spirit. It's interesting to think of these things now, and how at the time, I was really like a journalist who was willing to participate, as it all seemed like some strange exciting drama.

The most important experience I had in this regard was being at a retreat with the church that I was involved in. There was a man speaking named Dick Smith, who claimed that he was a prophet with the gift of knowledge. At first, things seemed tame enough, a blessing here or there as he laid his hands on a few people towards the front of the congregation. People had their hands in the air several were speaking in tongues. Suddenly, Dick Smith walked up the isle to where I was standing near the back and began to frighteningly speak in tongues. He walked straight up to me, laid both of his hands on my head and began a long and dramatic prophecy concerning the trajectory of my life if I followed Jesus. A large group of the congregation also gathered around me as this dramatic prophecy unfolded. He told me that thousands of lost souls would come to the knowledge of Jesus through my words. He declared me an evangelist, and that I should go into the desert and consecrate myself.

Now logic would reason that perhaps these unusual events would have led me into the desert for a life of saving souls and preaching the gospel. Contrarily, it had the opposite effect. It was shortly after that my faith began to falter, and that for many reasons. It was actually, the beginning of the crisis of my faith to follow this particular path. Now I've looked back often at that particular event, and I suppose reasoned that there was indeed a certain evangelical quality to my personality, but if it did anything, it began to open my eyes to the hypocrisy of religion, and within the culture, like any society, a penchant for the celebrity for those who were deemed, gifted. I went from just being treated as one of the pack, to someone with great expectations. The great expectations didn't materialize as I began reading my way out of the fundamentalist thinking. I never really left the church, but I did find it in the theatre where the ideas of faith, folly, and philosophy did not always have the same plot. I suppose in the theatre I've been sort of like a circuit preacher, carrying the message of ideas to the small buildings and rooms on the outskirts of towns and villages depending on the kindness of strangers.

As I've recently began analyzing my writing, mostly the plays, I can see the influence that these dramatic gospel times had in my writing—from shock to God, and now I suppose, to the universe. I suppose the continuance of looking for the answers to being human and what it all means has finally forced me to leave the earth and humanity, and look deeply into the cosmos for answers to the questions that I seek. So, my new evangelists are these scientists and astronomers who are searching for meaning and reason millions of light years away. What would it mean if we were suddenly confronted with a solar system with life abounding in a far away place? What if heaven was merely another planet on the other side of the universe? When I listen to these astronomers and scientists talk about these discoveries, I get the same feelings I used to get when a great evangelist would come to town. My only concern is that perhaps my penchant for the far reaches of the universe is tied to an early exit, and that is where I must be careful. Perhaps the innocence and belief in mankind has become more and more jaded the longer I live, and that subconsciously, I'm increasingly disgusted in the way we treat each other.

I am coming closer, however, to learning and beginning to write about love again, as I experience the void that the lack of it seems to teach. Oddly, in a time of feeling a deep sense of loss, it's my dog who has given me back the simple nature of it. This morning, as I was getting my coffee, walking outside, getting ready to write, she was following me around, forever trying to catch my eye. She follows me from room to room, tilts her head when I speak to her as if she is understanding everything I say. It's interesting to have such an unexpected experience of deciding to find an animal to take care of and love, you begin to realize that they are really taking care of you, and teaching you something that you needed to learn. Perhaps she can teach me the nature of someday sharing this same connection with a human being. Every morning I write, she lies serenely at my feet, and knows that support is what I need. A thousand prophets singing of the universe could not even begin to speak of it, one simple and constant act. Wow.

Reading through this short essay, it occurs to me that we should not be afraid of seeking out new experiences. When I went obsessively to hear the great evangelists of the world, I had no thought of what people would think of me—I wanted answers and was willing to seek them. You can't walk into an auditorium of sick people wanting to be well and watch someone attempt to heal them without being moved. Each thing we do is an act of faith. I don't ever feel contempt for these people who are willing to step out and try to heal someone, the contempt I feel is the mixture of capitalism and religion. As religion continues to permeate our political system, its evident to me that money really is the source of evil, and its very easy for one to succumb to it from an innocent genesis. However, just because you realize these things, don't ever stop seeking for the answers. The answers may be as hazy as a quasar spewing gas five billion light years a way, but the thought of it, the movement of it, can give you hope for another day. There are charlatans in every field, blight in every eye, but to see through the window even dimly, is sometimes enough.

'Bitter Milk Kills the Kittens'

2012-01-10T10:39:00.001-08:00

Last night, the first rehearsal for Lorca in a Green Dress went splendidly. Before the rehearsal, we had a meeting with the board members of the Teatro Bravo Company, to discuss the reading of the plays sent to the company for staged readings in the spring. I was given five plays to read before the meeting, and I have to say, it is hard to reject plays that you have read, when so many of these writers have spent so much time writing them. In an ironic note, before the meeting, I checked my email to find a rejection notice on a query letter and sample I had sent out for the novel, Charlie Foster. Although I've gotten much better about rejections, when you get one, it lingers in the mind for several hours, but as the years stack up, and you learn the nature of the business, the rejection doesn't sting like in the old days. The marketing dynamic is this: For every hundred queries or plays that you send out, there is a slim possibility that one will get a positive response. It is much easier, however, to send out letters and pdf files via internet than it was in the days gone by. It used to be a six-month or year process just to see if someone would even take a look at what you had. Now, the rejections are much faster. A week or so ago, I got a rejection that was an obvious form rejection. (This is a letter that is obviously written to reject en masse without having to write anything personal.) It was such a lousy form letter, that I wrote a rejection letter to the rejection letter. That was fun, and made sure I did it in the spirit of absurdity and not out of anger. Bitterness is the enemy of the artist. Bitterness builds a wall that keeps you from freeing creativity. Bitterness will kill your creative impulse, bitterness will kill the kitten. I think it's prudent to have a bitterness meter, and check it often. My advice to young writers is, get the rejection, ponder it for awhile, examine the nature of the letter, and move on. As Mary Kole, an agent for Brown Literary Agency wrote in this recent letter, an acceptance is highly subjective. So often, the timing of what you have is in the hands of the universe. Agents, publishers, managers, are people too, with their own experiences and tastes. And so often, they are looking at the market. What might not work now will maybe work later, so you keep sending, sending…

As I was sitting at the table, myself rejecting one of the plays, I thought of the young man who had written it, checking his email each day to see if by some grace of the Gods his play would be selected to have a staged reading. The sad fact of the matter is that if he continues to write, it may be years before he gets that letter of congratulations. Most writers quit before that letter comes. Talent is definitely a good thing to have on your side as a writer or artist, but experience and craft take years to develop no matter how talented you are. Back in the years when I was coaching gymnastics, I learned something very valuable. It was never the most talented gymnasts that got us to the National finals. More often, it was the less talented with an understanding of a work ethic. So often, extremely talented people rely on the talent to always be there, but variables do funny things to talent. I'm a pretty lousy guitar player, so I have to play my guitar more often than most. No one would hire me as strictly a guitar player, I've had to develop other variables that give me some worth, and that is truth.

Fortunately, there were two other plays that I really did like, and one that I loved. It had the ambition of youth and talent, and someone who had a meticulous eye for form. As it goes through other readers, it may or may not end up in the reading series, but whether it does or doesn't, I have a note to write to this playwright to encourage her. There is blood and sweat on her pages. Oh, one more irony. The other play I liked was submitted to the committee by the agent I had for a few years in the nineties, Susan Schulman. She let me go because I signed a contract for a publication while she was on vacation. (I was such a rookie) And, for the record, she was really mean about it. I have to admit, although I don't think its bitterness, I've always wanted a part of success to show her that she missed something. Although it’s a small part of my motivation, it is a steady variable that helps keep me going. And now, so ironic, I'm reading a play of one of her clients to reject or accept it. Now, what would you do? The fact is that the playwright was very good and I really liked his play. If you stay in the business of writing long enough, the universe will reveal itself in funny and ironic ways.

So, the rehearsal went well, I have a wonderful, intelligent, and talented cast, and the journey has begun. Talk about a thousand variables. What will it look like? What will the actors wear? What will be the tone of the text and the acting? What will the publicity look like? With a swelling cast and crew of fourteen people, will sickness strike? Tragedy? Will someone suddenly take an acting job in California? If we spend the hundred and twenty hours it takes to plan this party will people show up? Will the sky fall? These are all questions that you quickly ask, but in the big picture, after the years of doing it, you get to a place that you can handle whatever happens. And in the end, the magic of theatre will come through, and as instincts are telling me today, this one is going to be a special one…and that is what you must always think, one image, stacked upon another, until the images take the form of matter. Let's find out why Lorca was killed for being a poet, shall we? It seems like a worthy task, and well, I have nothing better to do..

One more note on bitterness: A healthy dose of anger out of experience and conviction is not the same as growing bitter. Respect for the work and your personal knowledge of who you are as an artist IS worth fighting for. The relationships between artists, agents, managers, artistic directors, etc. are like any other relationships that might form. It's usually the second date that will tell the tale. Personal experience. One last comment for artistic directors. Get to know the artist if there is something that interests you. Some artists come with their work, that's just the way it is. Dogma in theatre can become just as pervasive as it becomes in religion, keep your mind open. Sometimes, communication comes in the form of something real. There are a thousand stories in the naked city, find the one that works for you, and find people who are not afraid to communicate with you. I've actually had correspondence with agents who rejected my work, but because I wrote and asked questions, they were willing to write back and I learned some neat little tricks. However, be forewarned, some agents, artistic directors, managers, etc. cannot take any kind of personal affront. Be careful, and remember letters that were written with passion used to be the way things got done. Not so much any more, I'm finding more and more that critical thinking is mostly offensive to the thin skin of the artist.

'Strange Planet'

2012-01-09T11:39:00.001-08:00

Today I have that edgy feeling that happens right before a project really starts. As I've said before, no matter how many days I've lived through at the start of directing a play, there is always that sinking feeling of "What if I really don't know what I'm doing and people find out?" And then I get in a room full of actors and artists and the spirit moves over me like a baptism. It's not really like riding a bike, its more like getting in an airplane with the compass set for Alaska, and hoping that the weather, the instruments, and the fuel gage are all in working order. Because the play deals with the death of Federico Lorca, (a Spanish poet and playwright) I already feel that I have some identity with the character. This weekend, I watched a very cool documentary on the Spanish Civil War. The nature of the war is so convoluted, its hard to follow exactly why everything in the country fell apart, but in the end, it was all about the nature of several political factions losing power. Its interesting to note that several times in history, democracy has failed a culture, the most noted was the failure of the German culture immediately following World War I, democracy spun the society in the direction of Nationalism, and well we know what happened after that. As I sit here in the back yard of the quiet serenity of Phoenix, Arizona in a relatively calm state of the nation, its mind boggling to read and think about what happens during revolution and civil war. Millions of people die for the lack of common sense. I know there is much more to the equation than just common sense, but I wonder sometimes where God is in all of this killing and terror. I wonder what the end game even is.

Saturday night was a banner night with the music. Starr, David, and I played our twelve songs together while people dined on Thai food, and then I did two sets as a solo act, singing mostly my own songs. It's a little strange to be on a tiny stage singing 'Your Cheating Heart' while people are eating Thai cuisine, but I also notice the juxtaposition of the two somehow fusing together to make it work. I remember living for a time in the East Village in NYC, and often going to a restaurant called Mugsy Chow Chow. As if the name weren't strange enough, the cuisine was purely Italian, with abstract paintings on the wall in the manner of de Kooning, and then the very steady sound of honky-tonk music from the forties and fifties. Somehow, it all worked together to create a hybrid that gave it a genuine original experience, so, when I have the thoughts come into my head that I may be playing the wrong music in the wrong place, I remember that experience, and the images, tastes, and sounds, all seemingly making sense.

Although I have no grand notions of being the 'breakout' country performer of the year, I'm noticing that the experience is what makes it worth the subtle discomfort of a disapproving public, as if I should have a real job, a real house, and a real mortgage and family. It's possible that these thoughts are a fabrication in my own head, but I still sometimes doubt my penchant to spend so much of my time making music and writing. Over the years I've noticed the changing nature of a public when confronted with live performance, as if it makes them a little uncomfortable to be in the presence of people standing up with instruments playing, 'Crazy' while they eat. In a society that is becoming increasingly electronic and isolated, the live experience between audience and performer without a 'buffer' is more difficult to win.

As I get older and write more, I've also noticed that writing to examine with a relative honesty also makes people uncomfortable. I've written several letters recently that get terse replies, as if I'm making some kind of attempt to justify my life, or to excuse my foibles, or establish a point of argument or debate. I usually write not to find excuse with my sometimes destructive behavior, rather I write to try and analyze it for a point of change. My God change is difficult! I often feel like that planet I saw in a universe documentary, 'Weird Planets', that was careening through space without a sun to orbit around. Gravity it seems, didn't have the sufficient power to pull it in, and so there it goes, trying to find the end of the universe. I've taken the time I've had recently to study many of the things that I seemed to have been left out of growing up in an educational system that seemed void of gravity for me as well, with good reason, as we did move around to many a solar system that found me looking for my orbit. Now, as I look back, I believe I was unusual in my ability to observe the planets and the sun that was trying to give off light. I think I became a teacher because I could never find that sun with the gravitas to pull me in, or one that cared to. I was not the child that one would notice with a particular set of skills that a sun would care to have me orbit. I was more of that rocky oval planet who gave off some very definite radiation. Okay, enough of the solar system metaphors, you get the picture…planet careening through space looking for a sun.

I've also been recently examining and thinking a lot about past relationships with the women in my life. As my planet circles back through the lost plain of relationships, I've been so fortunate in that all the women I've had substantial relationships with have all been remarkable women. There isn't one relationship I've had that I'm bitter about, in fact, the universe gave me PLANETS. Again, (I said I wouldn't use the planet metaphor but again, its such a good one I hate to waste it), it seems that I had no experience or desire to stop the traveling and build a steady orbit. Lately, I've been thinking that I may be able to do it, but alas, the light of youth, the faith of potential, the career building trajectory to settling in a nice retirement with a notion to hike, read, and prepare complicated meals have seemed to have passed me by. For some reason, my value system never included the amassing of objects that would make me more comfortable. Even more so than ever, all of my earthly possessions would fit in an army duffle bag. That doesn't exactly send shivers amongst available women, (well, not the right kind of shivers). It seems that I made a much better lover than a steady competent nest builder, (Although I know how to use tools.) For the first time in my life, I haven't given up on the notion of a relationship, but I don't worry about it so much anymore. For a time, I convinced myself that being a single man who could manage my life was the first priority, and then the real lifetime relationship would come. Then I believed that I could find someone with some of the same things I valued. However, an examined life is one that spends the whole of it wondering what it does value. So there you have it. I remember times when I felt ashamed of being a playwright, hiding the fact that this is what I did. The music I never really hid, I just didn't talk about it so much. So, here I am, in the post middle of my life, with a few crates of plays, and old guitar, and a few books. I can assure you, these things don't fall into categories on dating sites. Anyway, as uncomfortable as it is to discuss these things, perhaps something will come of it, in the meantime, I need to spend a few hours preparing to run a first rehearsal. Its sounds so…arty… strange entry…strange planet.

'Thomas Paine's Funeral'

2012-01-06T10:18:00.000-08:00

Last night was one of those nights where I think I slept, but I'm not really sure. Reading the play last night with the actors brought me home with a head full of information that I couldn't possibly process. In my twenties and thirties the process of information moved at lightning speed, and there was never enough information to satisfy me. I would move from book to book trying to fill the hungry gap of history, science, fiction, poetry, plays, and philosophy. I noticed several years ago, after I had the operation on my hip, it was much harder to move at the same speed. Reading was harder to manage, my attention to books began to falter. It was evident that either the anesthesia had something to do with it, or the onset of depression that I've fought ever since. I only know that concentrating on reading was drastically effected. Although I think I've done some of my best writing since that day, it took a concerted effort, and I found the plays began to drastically mix with the subconscious mind.

My mother has always known what books to give me, and has schooled me the whole of my life in the classics, poetry, biographies, etc., or whatever she intuitively knew what to give me. The latest batch of Christmas books are lying on the table—when I think of picking one up I seem to get suddenly tired. I don't know how many years it may take to get that fervor back. Or perhaps it never will. I read somewhere that anesthesia can have strange effects on people, and all I can say, is since that day coming out of surgery this is what I've noticed. Flesh and bone where not really made to slice open and put in replacement parts. Each time I move I can feel the steel rod moving up and down the inside of my thigh. Accepting it has been the hardest, because I've never been able to fathom not taking off up a mountain or getting on a trampoline. I've tried to explain it to people, imagine a giant stick on the inside of the strongest part of your leg, always rubbing up against the muscle. In my case, the nerve endings have never gotten used to having this foreign object invading the casing of my leg. I honestly believe that was the first real time I felt the pang of mortality, that legs could cease to function, that the brain could become older and slower.

The research I've been doing for the play I'm directing has to do with The Spanish Civil War, which is one of the hardest political puzzles I've ever had to study. I find I have to read the material over and over to understand the end result of my subject, which was the senseless death of one of our greatest poets and playwrights, Federico Lorca, being shot three times late at night in front of the headlights of a truck at thirty-eight years old. I prefaced all of this history with the rise of the fascist regimes of Hitler and Mussolini. When I watch the old film footage of these two fascists making their speeches, it's hard to make the connection of these mortals being men. I think more of drug induced mental illness with touches of some evil force inhabiting their bodies. And then, when I think of just one life of someone I love—to think of 50 million people dying because of these two men, (well three if you also consider Japan's Hirohito.) Living most of my life in a relatively safe place, (accept a penchant for self-destruction) it makes me some what ashamed that there were times I wanted to take my own life when so many did not have a choice. But I suppose suffering is relative, and the energy of life is fleeting.

After spending the time reading and researching these years in history, I decided to reach back even further, to see if I could find threads to any of this madness. So, I watched a six hour documentary of all the American presidents from Washington to Reagan, to see if there was something I could see inherently in all of us that could cause us to spin out of control and become so simply mad. I have to tell you, with some of the presidents we have endured, its amazing that we still have a country. You'll have to trust me on this one, for I'll not site examples. Suffice to say, between the corruption, the greed, the drunkenness, the war, the slavery, the multitude of infidelity, I'm still a little shocked that we are all not stark raving mad. I'm surprised we are not shooting one another in the streets...(well, not everyone).

So, this thread took me to The American Revolution, which is where I am now. I think I finally found the subject of my next play, which has been a long time coming. I've noticed that the body of work that I've amassed over the years have been very personal plays. So personal perhaps, that the rawness in the plays may be the weakness. Unless you've lived a life that has some identity to a soul of self-destruction, there may be no point to putting them on stage unless you do so at the level of craft. You can't write for twenty years and not learn something of craft, but perhaps the stories are too self absorbed and depressing. Perhaps the heroic nature of Eugene O'Neil and William Inge's stories have passed by with history. So, I'll have to find another way of moving into places where I can combine the two. I think I've found one of my subjects through reading and researching the American Revolution, Thomas Paine. When I look back through my foggy mind, I remember the name, but I didn't remember the effect he had on the genesis of the formation of our country until last night in fitful sleep as I listened to his story. This morning, I read that when he died, there where six people at his funeral, because of his aversion to Christianity. I mean here's a man we owe a great part of the evangelism of rallying the people to liberty and when he died, six people showed up to give him homage. Sorry Christians, but this does not bode well for your beliefs. I'm sure there is more to the story, but still, it seems perfectly normal to me. So, Thomas Paine, you are about to enter the modern world, and perhaps you can shed some light on the subtle difference between a monarchy, a president, and a congress…

'The Mythology of the Mind'

2012-01-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

This is the first December I can remember making it through without the feeling of some crisis looming. I let the days slip past, one after the other and didn't think too much about it being December. December has always been the 'trouble' month, as I'm sure it is for many. It seems to fall into two categories, those who love December and those who loathe the memories, the financial burdens, family conflicts, and the rest of the pesky little contrivances. Rather than dwell on the memories, I tried to just live in each day and calm my mind, and now its over.

So, that brings me to January, the month of new beginnings for so many. For me, it's more of another starting point, not so much of new beginnings. January is always a good month for sending out plays, query letters, and communications of all kinds. People seem to be fresh and ready to read. October and November were months that I tried to get some plays in shape to send out. I'm a little disappointed that I slowed way down on the novel, for I had a good head of steam going. I'm still excited about its prospects, but at least I have enough written to send off as a sample. I don't know what's going to happen if someone writes back and wants to see the whole novel. I guess I'll have to do three weeks of non-stop writing. Jack Kerouac wrote 'One the Road' in four weeks, but he had the benefit of writing on Benzedrine, which I refuse to do. I always thought that writing on drugs or drink was somehow cheating. I was surprised to learn that Tennessee Williams (in his own autobiography) says he wrote his greatest works under the influence of some kind of chemical to keep him going. I lost some respect for him, even though his work is still astonishing.

Thanks to my friend Chuck and David Barker, I've been able to see several plays the last couple of months. I'm always amazed that no matter how good or bad the play is, I'm always enthused about it, the passion for theatre is still there after all of these years. Further, it seems that I'm seeing it in a depth I hadn't noticed before, as if its one giant painting that is moving around and talking to me. Today, I'll walk into a theatre and start directing a play, 'Lorca in a Green Dress' for Teatro Bravo. No matter how many times I direct a play, there is always that underlining fear that I will get there and have no idea what to do or say. Directing is always the perfect analogy of faith. No matter how many times you do it, it seems as though you walk in knowing nothing. Maybe that's the key, 'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God." And, truth be told, I'm directing a play written by a Latino playwright with mostly Latino actors. The playwright, Nilo Cruz, however, is a master playwright and fairly young, which makes me realize how very dated some of my own plays are. And then that makes me think of the burden of writing more plays that have 'ahold' of the times we live in now. I can remember writing plays and having that thought in my head, that I needed to write plays that can last twenty or so years.

I did spend a good part of November sending plays out to various companies. With the internet, it makes it so much easier to send out plays, but I've had to have Chuck help me change them into pdf files. In the old days, there was the query letter that you had to send, wait weeks for an answer as to whether you could send your play, then make a hard copy of the play, with another envelope to receive the rejection, which so often was the case. I haven't heard anything back from the plays I sent except for one. I could tell it was a form letter, so I answered it. I answered it tersely, because it was a form letter with all kinds of mistakes and that 'false' unfortunately, that many form letters contain. It was kind of fun to write a rejection letter to the rejecter.

This has been a great fall for playing music. Even though I haven't been playing and writing songs like I have in the past, I have a regular Saturday night gig at a very nice Thai food restaurant that keeps my chops up. Knowing that you are going to play in front of an audience once a week is a good motivator to keep playing. Even though I'm not playing all through the week, I still try to take one new song in to play. Although last week, I put a four-piece band together to play New Year's Eve, so there were four rehearsal sessions. I think it went really well. I built a stage for the restaurant, and although its small, it works really well. So, New Year's Eve, we pieced together audio equipment and played for three hours. It was fun. Although I like to do the solo show, playing with other musicians is always good practice. Didn't we always learn that as children? "Play well with others?"

I have some decisions to make this month. I've been trying to negotiate a theatre company project in Boulder, (Utah not Colorado) but after last summer, I'm trying to decide whether that is where I want to be for the summer. I had a great many revelations concerning my relatives that I won't get into here, suffice to say that I discovered that I am definitely not a part of the immediate family. The only way I can explain it is when you are a child and you grow old enough to realize that your mother and father are not the perfect people you thought they were. The fantasy about them you build up in childlike innocence comes tumbling down, brick by brick. Perception collaborates with perception, and there you are, confused and feeling alone. Fortunately, I had friends that I didn't know I had, who know my foibles and love me anyway. As a result, I have been able to rebuild things that I thought were lost, and hope that I thought would never return. Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

I have also come back into contact with an old friend of mine from the gymnastics days, Dave, who has come through in a big way. We had several years training gymnasts together in an amazing gym. One of the first things he said to me when we met was that gymnastics was never the same after I left. I was immediately lifted when he said that. Sometimes, I think its good to 'not know' the affect you may have on a situation, for in that place of humility things may be happening that you don't realize. If you knew it, they many not be happening at all. We were in our twenties then, in the best shape of our lives and full of action. We could fly through the air with the greatest of ease, and that was our fantasy of 'running away and joining the circus', in fact, we learned things that circuses had never thought of. We were invincible and could fly…

So what happens when our bodies can no longer fly? I suppose we have to fly in our minds and in our dreams. I know the writing helps, it helps the mind focus and move on to other tricks, even if the matter our bodies are made of can not soar in the same way. I often have dreams of those gymnastics days, when my body is young again and can do the things I was once able to do. Dave and I use to push each other to master new tricks on the gym floor, gymnastics was the sport of the Greeks, and now, perhaps we will just have to think like the Greeks. The downside of being older for me is the many injuries I sustained during that period. Its not that I don't walk like a normal man, its just that I have so many places in my body that were never fixed then. I have a sore neck constantly, an old tear in my bicep, a thumb and a foot that were broken, (never went to the doctor) and most dramatically, a hip that is made of titanium. That is the price of flying. Being currently free of pain medication, although it gives me a clearer head, means that I have to be in a level four or five pain level every day that I get up. When I've been chastised for being on pain medication or taking a couple of shots of whiskey in the past, the only think I have to say to you, (and you know who you are) is that you don't have to live in my body. In my twenties, I was fearless with my body. I'm sure the bulls I rode then also had an effect. Luckily, there were not too many car wrecks. The right side of my body, where the titanium holds up my leg is the worse. For some reason, my nerves seem to reject the metal, and so they jump and let me know they are not happy. To my detractors, please don't tell me what I need.

So, my transition continues. I've noticed that for some people, their transitions are barely perceptible, they seem to ease into new phases as gently as a butterfly takes flight. For me, my transitions are difficult, and take years to perfect. The third act of my life is slowly coming into vision, but its still blurry and filled with some blight. But I will get there, God willing, and in the meantime, all I can do is stay alive…

'Show Me You Love Me'

2011-10-19T13:14:00.001-07:00

As an observer and someone whose politics have always been moderate while leaning to the left, these are some observations I have made about the occupy movement and other issues.

I became a writer because I was raised in an environment where the discussions on everything never stopped. The kitchen tables and living rooms that I was brought up around were a continued conversation that seemingly had no end. My only complaint as to being raised this way was that sometimes the discussions reached fever pitches of emotion, turning them into screaming matches that simply wore people out. I was amazed however, that my mother, four aunts, and assorted friends, would rest up, and begin the discussions all over again. Books, typewriters, theatre, poetry, and exhaustive letter writing (when my aunts were apart) where the natural order of the day. The men, however, were archaic. Picture these five women, (mother and aunts) raised in an environment of cowboys, farmers, loggers, and alcoholics, fueled by copious amounts of reading and literature, and you have the makings of a family that has a firm understanding of drama. Stacks of books permeated our apartments, trailers, and sometimes even summer camps, and the reading and writing never stopped. This hybrid of language mixed with a primitive action of life was where I learned the subject matter of my plays and writing. It's also why it makes them difficult to produce or be produced, because my plays are formed from this strange hybrid of language and primitive action. However, it is what I know. All of us, are some kind of hybrid of our experience mixed with language formed within. Sometimes the language has been activated by experience, and sometimes it’s a product of education, or an intellectual formation of meaning. The strongest manifestation of our vocabulary, however, is the language that has been activated by experience. This is the language we know the best.

I really believe that our access to social networking is an important and wonderful thing, because even if people are not reading literature or participating in the arts for a language graft, people are at least writing things and sharing their thoughts in public. Ten minutes on Facebook, and I can experience an array of thoughts, feelings, and passions. I can laugh at someone's sense of humor. I can see something posted that is from the mind of someone else, and how it links to the person that posted it. Its like that commercial that used to be on the radio touting that— the language in which we speak is a reflection of a our soul or personality. I think its true, and although we've all experienced some mindless and self absorbed rhetoric on Facebook such as what a person just ate, I'm still encouraged by all of it.

In this latest movement of protest, social networking is becoming an important tool, linking us together for common concerns. Those who are not able to physically be at a protest can express themselves by posting something or writing a few words. There is a massive energy right now moving across the social networking sites, and it's powerful. Language, expression, power.

For most of my life, I think I've been a person who can easily move through and understand the language someone is speaking. As a teacher of theatre, I always taught that the two obvious forms of communicating were non-verbal and language, the strongest of the two being the action of communication, or the non-verbal kind, show me you love me don't just say it. I have been reminded of this every day while directing this play, that language activates movement, or often the other way around, that movement, or psychological gesture, can create a powerful language, movement, and action. It's great having the playwright present in rehearsal, because so often my interpretation of the language as a director can have a much different meaning for me than the playwright's intention. Sometimes, however, this difference of interpretation can work for a play, but more often than not, the playwright's intention is the best working form. Over the years, I've also noticed that the best plays in my estimation, are plays where the language is activated by action. A conversation between two people sitting in chairs across from each other tends to be more of an intellectual exercise than a conversation that is going on when a boat is sinking. One is activated by the truth of the circumstance and conflict, and one is activated by intellectual stimulus. Growing up in my home, the people having these conversations were up on their feet and activated. The language was infused with finger pointing, door slamming, sometimes pushing, and face to face confrontation, all mixed with a language that had come from classical novels, journalism, and poetry. Every day was a new play to experience, conflict and action were just a normal part of the events.

As I've been listening to the nation's dialogue, I'm distressed at the increasing gap between the use of language and it's meaning even though we are all speaking English. I can listen to people in the media speaking and see what's happening in our country, and I'm becoming strangely convinced that there is indeed, a language of revolution biting the air, mixed with the action that is now taking place in the form of protests. There is a not so subtle fear rising from the right, almost subconscious in nature, fueled by people who are taking action in the form of these protests. Action will always be a stronger language than rhetoric, even though people make courageous attempts to lesson its virility with intellectual and ideological expression. The hostility that is rising from the right, the rich and the powerful, and the politicians who are in fear of losing their comfortable meal ticket, are attempting to patronize its importance by using what they perceive as a superior ideology and elevated language. This is the news, and its really old news. Action will always infuse language with a more powerful meaning, even though the vocabulary may be of a simpler form. The middle class of this country are men and women who have had to physically find form with language, and it's powerful. I always try to listen to both sides of the argument, and I have to tell you, as a person who I think has always had a pretty moderate and fair ability to listen to both sides, I'm becoming not only incensed by what I am hearing, but am finding it more difficult to be forgiving and fair concerning my country men and women who are speaking in an elitist and capitalistic language. As someone who has always been listening, I really believe the gap has so increased between the classes, I don't know if it can ever come back short of some kind of real revolution.

I'm really not finished writing about this, but need to get some things done before rehearsal tonight. I do feel moved, however, to join in the protest, and I believe there are many others who are on the cusp of joining this cause. I've always thought myself reasonable in regard to the political system, or at least fair, but I'm expressing to you, if I'm angry about this, there are many others whose anger and willingness to engage are out there, and if you keep it up, we will be joining you.

'Short, but Sweet'

2011-10-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

The novel is going well. I'm in the process of moving it to another location, hopefully to start building readership and interaction. It's taken me a little longer because when I get to the document to start moving it, I end up rewriting. I'm also enjoying an advancing mentorship from my mother, Gerry, who is writing a very interesting novel at the same time. At eighty years old, her writing muscle is astonishing, her originality and execution flawless. I am very fortunate to have been raised in a home where the tap, tap, tap, of the typewriter is a sound that still resonates within me. I am also very fortunate to have been surrounded by writers. My two living aunts, Ann and Linda are also accomplished writers. My Aunt Linda King, a poet and writer who has multiple publishing and reading credits, and my Aunt Ann whose book, 'Let's Drive' was just published this summer, are a continued source of inspiration. When I was a teenager, while living in Los Angeles, I was fortunate to have experienced days and nights living at my Aunt Linda's where I would come home and find some of the best poets in the city in the living room. Charles Bukowski, Neeli Cheri, Joan Smith, and writers of all sizes and shapes could be sitting around talking about poetry and writing. My cousin Cheryl is an accomplished poet and facilitates a writing workshop every year in October. My cousin, Camille, is one of the best songwriters I know, (and I know quite a few of them). Most of my life, I wrote plays, poems, and songs, because I loved the immediacy of taking a written piece and putting it into the hands of actors or musicians, giving me motivation for the continued pursuit of the playwriting muse. Lately, however, I'm making a shift to this new form, which on some days (like today) is daunting, but most days I'm finding a new hope with the written word in a new form.

I'm also currently directing a play, 'The Man in the Black Pajamas,' by Chuck Hinckley, a sci-fi drama which I believe is going to be something very special. We are four weeks away from opening night, and the cast is excellent. I'll continue to give more information on this project, in hopes that if you are in Phoenix, you can come and see a new play for the American stage.

I'll also begin posting some links to some of these writers who have been such an inspiration to me, in the meantime, look for Charlie Foster, the novel, to come up in another location soon. In the meantime, back to work, and thank you so much for reading!

Charlie Foster, (continued)

2011-10-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, the writing is done for the day. Lots of pain in my body today, but hopeful. I don't feel the same control of the writing today, but need to post it anyway. Control is a touchy thing.

NOTE: If you are just coming onto read, you can go back several posts to read the beginning of the novel. I hope it will be worth it!

(Charlie Foster continued)

The second week of the improvisation class Jodie and Juliet learned the second rule of improvisation: Listen carefully to the other actor or actors. Mr. Fincher was careful to take the actor component out of the rule and have the students apply it to real people for the exercise. Mr. Fincher had the students sit down across from each other and have a general conversation. The difference in the conversation was that they were required to listen to each other in a way they hadn't listened before. "Instead of thinking about what you want to say, listen carefully to the other person, respond to them, really listen to what they have to say," Mr. Fincher told them. "Start with small words and gradually work your way into a short conversation." Juliet sat across from Jodie and stared directly into her eyes.

"Hi." Juliet began.

"Hello." Jodie responded.

"You're Jodie McDermott." Juliet said after a short pause.

"Juliet. I don't remember your last name," she responded jokingly.

"Norman. Like in, Norman, is that you?" Juliet said.

"What?" Jodie questioned.

"Nevermind. Joke." Said Juliet. Jodie looked at her friend pensively.

"Sad, isn't it?" Jodie changed the subject.

"What's sad?" replied Juliet.

"It's sad that youth is wasted on the young", said Jodie.

"George Bernard Shaw," responded Juliet.

"Bingo," said Jodie.

"Aren't we smart today," responded Juliet.

"Okay, said Mr. Fincher. Everyone close your eyes and have the conversation again. What does the other person's voice sound like? Is it low? Is it fast or slow? Does it comfort? Does it make you feel anything?"

The class repeated the exercise. Jodie decided during the exercise that Juliet's voice sounded beautiful, almost serene. There was something entirely sincere in her words and delivery. She didn't want to say this to Juliet, but she did think what a wonderful friend she had in Juliet, that Juliet's voice was a voice that would always be truthful to her, something that she craved. Everyone in her life had been less than truthful, teachers, parents, other friends, even her older brother had learned to lie from her father, who lived in another state.

When Juliet listened to her Jodie's voice, she thought it sounded very direct, as if she needed to get out something important, as if she needed to say everything that was inside her all at once. Jodie was slightly stung when Juliet shared this with the class, but it was the truth. Jodie kept so much of her personal angst inside of her, but she was looking for a way to get it out. For the two weeks after Charlie Foster's funeral and her new friendship with Juliet, she was troubled about what had happened. Even though it was her that called 9-1-1, neither her and Juliet had been questioned by the police. They had not been involved in the game, but they were close enough to see what happened when Charlie grabbed Mike and was pushed into the water. They both assumed that the truth had come out from the other kids, only to find out later that the story had changed to Charlie falling into the river by himself. They also both assumed that since Mike Berry had not been at school, that he was still recovering from the awful truth of what had happened. It was in these thoughts that she remembered Mr. Fincher's first rule of improvisation: Find the truth in the given circumstance. This rule was a beacon of light for Jodie, she thought about it day and night for several days and began to apply it to the whole sections of her life, "Find the truth in the given circumstance," she kept saying to herself. Okay, she thought, (What's wrong with this picture?) Her and Juliet had talked about it when the truth of the situation had come out, but it seemed to bother her more than Juliet who thought the truth would come out in its own time. "Let it go," she had said to her friend. But Jodie could not let it go. Third rule of improvisation: Develop a relationship with the other characters.

Mr. Fincher could not have known that his rules were taking hold in a very unexpected way. That sometimes, like the proverb says, apples of gold in settings of silver is a word spoken in the right circumstance. The fact was that Mr. Fincher had walked into the perfect storm, a storm that a teacher both dreams about and dreads. Jodie and Juliet were about to take this new found wisdom and put it to the test.

After Jeff was able to get back in the water, he began to log as many hours in the pool as he could stand. He started swimming before school, after school, and even sometimes on the weekends. Before the Charlie accident, he would swim without any real thoughts, which was one of the reasons he liked to swim. He had read in a Zen book that Mr. Harper had given him, that swimming was one of those sports where you could empty your head, which was a really great thing to do with your mind. When his head was empty, he could swim for miles. However, now, his head was full of thoughts as he swam, especially in the first mile. If he could swim long enough and far enough, he could still get that Zen feeling of emptiness, but it was much harder to achieve. He would think of things he had never thought of before, like how strange it was to be a human being on a planet in the universe. At least once during the swim, he would think about that day he almost had Charlie's wrist.

Although Charlie and he had developed a relationship, it was always in the confines of the English class. If they saw each other in the hallways at school, sometimes there would be a simple acknowledgement with a nod of the head, but never were words spoken between them. However, in the English class, the words came out of both of them generously. Charlie was smart, in fact, Charlie had given Jeff books that began to really open up his life. Charlie and he had talked for several classes after Charlie had given him 'A Farewell to Arms' by Ernest Hemingway. They talked about the war, the morality of it, and they both decided that they would never fight in a war even though Jeff had once thought of joining the Army to see the world. Charlie was the first one who had taught Jeff what a metaphor really was even though Jeff could site the definition of the word from memory. Outside of class though, it sometimes bothered Jeff that he would rarely even acknowledge Charlie. In fact, he would sometimes go out of his way to keep from running into him. This didn't seem to bother Charlie, he never mentioned it in class. He just accepted it.

The day that Charlie fell into the river, Jeff and some of his friends where near the big tree, close enough for him to see the game of Marco Polo that was going on. He thought it was odd that Charlie was playing this game with such a popular crowd, especially Mike Berry and Kyle Smith. Although Jeff knew Mike and Kyle on a friendly basis through sports, it was not his group of people. At one point, he and Kyle Smith had started to become friends, but he found Kyle to be mean spirited and arrogant. Perhaps it was because he was always boasting about Mike Berry's exploits on the football field and how he had schooled Mike on the art of football. After the accident, Kyle had also said some things about the accident that he found just plain stupid, and had called Kyle on it one day afterwards at the picnic tables at school. Without Mike to be there to defend him, Kyle had just kicked one of the benches and quickly left.

When Mike had put the hat on Charlie's head and pulled it down, Jeff could feel his whole body tense up, as though it knew somehow what was about to happen. Ten seconds later, it did. Jeff knew that Charlie had never set foot or hand into a swimming pool, and also knew how devastatingly fast the water was running that day. When Charlie fell in, he did not hesitate. His mind was completely focused on the task of bringing Charlie out of the water. "CHARLIE, you stupid idiot!" He had yelled, right before he dove straight into the current. When he had found Charlie, hanging from the root of a bush beneath the bank, he had one split second to grab his wrist, which he did to no avail. At least five or six times a day, this thought would come to him, (that he had failed Charlie and that Charlie had everything to live for.)

Who could have known how the ensuing weeks would bring the people on the bank that day together. In the highly complicated social interaction in a high school of over twelve hundred students, no one could have predicted the miraculous gathering of the ones who were there that day. It was gradual, but not slow, as they were all somehow drawn to each other by the death of one of themselves, even though it was Charlie Foster, a kid that no one even knew or cared about. Or, as Trish so succinctly put it, "A kid who had bad acne, low self-esteem, and had probably never had one friend in his miserable life." Perhaps it was the awful truth of knowing that something was horribly unresolved, or perhaps it was fate, or the unbearable thought in each one of them that something had to be said between them. It wasn't a conscious decision according to Nancy, rather it was an act of God. (She said this because she didn't really even believe in God). It started in the park behind the school, where Nancy and Debbie went to smoke joints and ditch, where Jana went to lay in the sun, where Jeff went one day to run when the pool was closed, and where Kyle somehow landed. It was Jodie and Juliet who would bring the new game into the mix, and it would be a dangerous one.

Charlie Foster (more)

2011-10-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling today with pain and anxiety, however, when I write it seems to take my focus away from the pain in my body. Last night I had an overwhelming message after I talked to my mother in regard to spending more time in mediation. The message was clear and concise. It was something akin to this very thing I just said on focus, "That more time is needed to be devoted to going in where the pain resides in my body to take it away. That I'm holding onto the pain, to justify medication, and the pain is not letting go either. It's a paradox. When you decide to let the pain go from your body, and in fact, order it to leave, it will." It was an unexpected message. I wasn't thinking on this subject at all, in fact I wasn't doing anything that would warrant a message directing me. Afterwards, I did remember something in my reading on Buddism that if "You sought a teacher, the teacher will appear." Perhaps this is the teacher beginning to appear.

Here's some more Charlie Foster. This novel is very rough, but is writing itself. Each day I get up to write it, I know exactly where to begin. Its as though the sections are already written, at least the story, I just have to get it down.

Charlie Foster (continued)

There was one insight into the plight of Mike Berry. Melissa Berry, Mike's sister was going through a terrible time of her own. Her and Jana Peterson had been friends a couple of years before, and she knew that Jana had been on the river bank that day. When it had all happened, Melissa had sat in her room with her year books, finding photos of all the kids who were at the river that day, moreover, the kids that had specifically been right there when Charlie fell in. Charlie Foster was a sophomore, like her, but there was only the freshman photo of Charlie. There was no sophomore photo of Charlie when the yearbook had come out the week before the accident. Either Charlie had been absent that day, or he had chosen not to have his picture taken, the latter was probably true, as Charlie rarely missed a day of school. There was a paragraph at the bottom of the sophomore photo section that stated the students who were not photographed in the yearbook. Oddly, he was not even mentioned in the paragraph. Several days after the accident, she had called Jana on her cell phone, to see if she could find more information about what had happened. Of course Jana was forthcoming, maybe a little to much so, but Jana had said that day was very much on her mind, and she memorized everything she saw, including all the kids who were there and exactly what had happened from her perspective.

"Okay, she said, I'm going to tell you what happened, but you have to keep quiet about it, I don't want to get anyone in trouble." She had said.

"What do you mean? responded Melissa, whose going to get into trouble?"

"We were playing Marco Polo on the bank of the river. We used to play it here all the time in the water, but the water was too high and fast." She told Melissa.

"So, what happened?" Melissa said. She could feel her heart pounding and the palms of her hands getting clammy. "What happened!" She said again.

"There was a hat, a fedora hat. The person who was it wore the hat. That's the way it worked. So everyone could see the person, you know, who was it. The person who was it just had to close their eyes, you know, it was a trust thing. When it was Charlie's turn to be it, Mike pulled the hat down over Charlie's eyes, you know, sort of kidding around. When the hat was pulled down, Charlie started the game. "Marco." "Polo." This went on for awhile, and Charlie was getting closer and closer to the river because he couldn't see. Everyone who was there knew that Mike went down to keep Charlie from falling in the water, but then Charlie said, "Marco." and Mike said, "Polo…" And Charlie grabbed onto Mike. He just reached his arms around Mike and sort of latched onto him, grabbing his shirt. Mike told Charlie to let go, but Charlie wouldn't let go and Mike pushed Charlie, you know, just to get him off. Charlie was holding onto Mike so tight that it ripped Mike's shirt off and he staggered backwards and fell into the river."

"Oh my God…" Melissa responded, "Oh my God… So—"

"So Mike thought it was his fault, but it really wasn't see…it wasn't Mike's fault at all because Charlie was holding him so tight—Mike just wanted to get Charlie off of him, see?"

"Yes. So Mike pushed him into the river, or, at least, thought he did." Melissa offered.

"Yes. So when the cops came and started questioning everyone, no one told that story. They just said that Charlie fell into the river, you know, sort of by himself. Everyone kept Mike out of it, because, well, everyone knew that it wasn't his fault."

"Everyone but Mike," responded Melissa.

"Yea, I guess no one thought he would take it so hard, you know. When the cops questioned him, well, he just went along with everyone else, and that's the way it went down." Jana said. "Are you alright?" she offered.

"Thanks for telling me, can I call you again?" She said to Jana.

"Of course you can. I mean is Mike alright? I mean, he hasn't been at school and everyone's wondering what's going on…" Jana asked.

"No, Mike's not alright. He's at my Aunt and Uncles in Colorado." Jana responded. "It's been really crazy here with my folks and all, Mike had to go to the hospital and everything. Things are really screwed up."

"Well, if you talk to Mike, tell him that we all stand behind him, and we miss him." It wasn't his fault, I mean if you think about it. He just wanted Charlie off of him, that's all, it could have happened to any one of us. I mean, I can't explain how tightly Charlie had onto Mike, like he was crazy or something. I think maybe Charlie thought—"

"Charlie thought what?" Melissa said.

"Maybe Charlie thought Mike was about to throw him into the river." Jana finally explained. "Okay, like he was scared, because some boys had been threatening to do that, you know, throw him into the river."

"What boys, Melissa quickly asked.

"Oh, you know, those boys at school who hate Charlie Foster. That's what I know, that they had threatened to throw him in, earlier, I mean. When he first got there with Mike and Kyle."

"So, Charlie came with Mike and Kyle?" Melissa asked.

"Yes," he did Jana replied.

"Why did Charlie come with Mike and Kyle?" asked Melissa.

"No one really knows. I mean, maybe he asked if he could ride with them. Maybe they found him on the road." Replied Jana. "No one knows why Charlie had come with them. I have to go, my Dad's home," Jana finally said. "Goodbye. I'm glad you called. You tell Mike from me, from all of us who were there…"

"I will," said Melissa. "I will. The weird thing is that I really wanted to go to the river with Mike that day. Except I was grounded. I mean, I never have even been to river, or where you guys all go, but I wanted to go that day. My Dad said, "No." That's weird, isn't it?"

"Yea, that is weird." Bye."

Melissa took out the freshman yearbook and turned to the page with Charlie Foster. She stared into the one eye that was visible and she began to cry. (what a mess), she thought.

The fact is, there were many kids scanning their yearbooks for pictures of Charlie Foster, after all, he was dead. Many of the kids who sat next to him or saw him in the halls begin to rethink anything that connected them to him. The fact that Charlie said very little about himself, or even spoke during any of his classes created a mystery that baffled the students. There was one student who had a connection to Charlie that know one really even knew about, and that student was Jeff. Jeff and Charlie were in an English class together, even though Jeff was a senior and Charlie was a sophomore. Charlie rarely spoke in class, but Jeff knew this, that Charlie was very smart. Charlie was the only sophomore in the class, he would had to have been. One day, Jeff looked on Charlie's desk and there was a book. It was a book that was old and tattered, but Charlie brought it to English every day. The title of the book was 'The Idiot' by Fyodor Dostoyevski. When Jeff first saw the book on Charlie's desk, he chuckled to himself, and thought, (wow, that really makes sense!) He thought that maybe Charlie was taking lessons from the book and it seemed to all make sense that Charlie would be reading a book called, 'The Idiot'. He didn't say anything to Charlie, but a few weeks into the year, his curiosity got the best of him. He checked out the book at the library and started to read. At first, the Russian names of characters in the book were so hard to pronounce that he couldn't keep track of any of them, but then he applied a trick his teacher had taught him. Memorize what the names look like. Sort of like a picture of them. This helped, but it was still very difficult for him to get through, until about page sixty, when it all begin to make sense. After that, he would read the book each night until he was finally finished two weeks later. Jeff always looked at the book on Charlie's desk when he came to class, but now he couldn't help staring at it, and then stare at Charlie. One day, he spoke to Charlie and asked,

"So, are you Prince Myshkin?"

Charlie turned to look at Jeff slowly and carefully. "What?"

"Prince Myshkin. In the book," he allowed.

"Oh, Charlie had said, "Well no, but I guess I…" he stammered.

"What?" Jeff said.

"I guess I kinda do relate to him… I mean, he…" All the color drained from Charlie's face.

"No, its okay, I understand," said Jeff. "You don't have to answer. It's quite a book," Jeff said, and then class began.

"Charlie Foster' (more)

2011-10-09T17:59:00.000-07:00

After today, I'll be publishing Charlie Foster in another blog, so here I can continue on with 'personal essays'. However, my writing energy lasts only four to five hours a day, so the three months I figure I have to finish this novel, will probably take most of my writing energy, however, I will attempt to apprise you of what is happening in my life, but for now, it has to be, finish the novel, and write like the madman that I am.

(More Charlie Foster)

The improvisation class was a another life changing experience for both Jodie and Juliet. Not only was the theatre teacher from the university in his early thirties, but, as Juliet said, "He was drop dead gorgeous."

It was obvious that he loved what he did, and his love was contagious amongst the students. It was the first time the girls found that Shakespeare was really pretty sexy, and that all things were possible on the stage and maybe, in life as well. The instructor sat on a chair several feet in front of them on the first day of the class, staring at each one of them silently. Finally, when the silence was so deep Juliet thought that she would faint, he spoke.

"All the world's a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players: 

They have their exits and their entrances; 

And one man in his time plays many parts, 

His acts being seven ages.

At first the infant, 

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 

And then the whining school-boy,

with his satchel and shining morning face,

creeping like snail  unwillingly to school.

And then the lover,  sighing like furnace,

with a woeful ballad  made to his mistress' eyebrow.

Then a soldier, 

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, 

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 

Seeking the bubble reputation

 even in the cannon's mouth." Immediately after he had finished, the entire twenty students were hooked.

The very first improvisation they did was the dead body improv. This was an exercise where each of the students were asked to come upon a dead body in the woods and react to it. Maybe it was because he had them under his spell so completely, or maybe it was because they were so curious and eager that the exercise became so powerful that no one ever forgot it. Or, maybe, it was because Charlie Foster was still on everyone's mind. Mr. Fincher could not have known about Charlie, or maybe he did, and that was the point. No one had the courage that first day to ask him. When Mr. Fincher asked who wanted to play the dead body, Jodie immediately shot up her hand. She lay down on her stomach, spread her arms out to her sides, turned her face downstage and let her breathing become shallow. Then she closed her eyes and died. The first girl walked up to Jodie's dead girl, took a step back and walked on. Every one looked at Mr. Fincher, but all he said was, "Next." But, as each new student advanced on the body, the reactions became more dramatic and real. Finally, when it was Juliet's turn, she walked to Jodie's body, stopped, got on her knees and began to sob. At first, Mr. Fincher, the teacher thought of stopping her, for it was plain to see that her sobbing was real. But just as he was about to stop the exercise, Juliet grabbed her friend's arm and turned her over. She then reached beneath her shoulders and pulled her up into her arms. The room became silent again, except for the gently sobbing in Juliet's chest.

It was a full ten seconds before Mr. Fincher stopped the exercise. He walked onto the floor where Juliet was kneeling and gently touched her on the shoulder. When he stopped her, Jodie suddenly opened her eyes and made jazz hands, "Surprise!, she said, dead but not forgotten!" It broke the ice for the rest of the class and everyone started laughing. Juliet tried to laugh, but she was disappointed that the moment had ended. She thought she could have sobbed for a very long time. Mr. Fincher then explained the reason for the class, passed out the rules of improvisation, and bid them goodbye with another monologue from Shakespeare.

It was the first time in the budding relationship between Jodie and Juliet that they had nothing to say to each other. They walked to Jodie's car, saying nothing about the class or Mr. Fincher, the silence continued until Jodie dropped Juliet off at home.

Kyle Smith talked to Mike Berry only one more time after the day at the river. Kyle and Mike had been best friends since eighth grade after Mike had got him out of a scrap with some older boys. Of course Kyle was very different in eighth grade, insecure, tall and lanky, and full of questions. Mike had been just the opposite then, outgoing and fearless. It wasn't until he got in high school did he begin to feel insecure. In eighth grade, he was rather big for his age, maybe that helped him realize that he could use his size for good or bad. In Kyle's case, he used his size to scare the older boys away from Kyle, and eventually, took Kyle under his wing. Kyle was grateful, and became Mike's right hand man, doing things for him and making sure he knew he was a special person.

When Kyle finally got some one to answer the phone, it was Mike's mother, who only said that Mike was staying at his aunt and uncles, and that he was going through a terrible time. When Kyle asked for a phone number where he could reach Mike, his mother had told him that it would be better not to call right now, that Mike would call him when he was ready. Kyle wanted to press the issue to Mike's mother, but decided that yes, Mike would call him for sure, after all, they had been friends for going on five years. Mike's mother then asked Kyle how he was doing, he said fine, but was also very sad that Mike was not around. Kyle tried to keep her on the phone, but it seemed like the more they talked about Mike, the more upset she got. Kyle told her he knew that Charlie Foster's death had a really strange effect on Mike, but it was ruled an accidental drowning and that it was determined that Mike had nothing to do with it. "Yes," she said, I know." And that was the end of the conversation.

Debbie Logan did not want to go to school the day after the accident. She didn't want to face the other students, she didn't want to answer any questions, and she certainly did not want to spend the day lamenting someone she had no real connection to. She was angry at herself for feeling this way, that Charlie Foster's most certain death had kept her up all night. She convinced herself that maybe he wasn't really dead, that maybe he just swam down the river and disappeared, finding a new identity in a new town. This seemed to help, and finally, at four in the morning, she drifted off to sleep. When she woke, she called Nancy, and told her not to pick her up, that she was taking a sick day and that Nancy could go on without her. "What?" Nancy had said. "No way! You are coming with me, on today of all days."

"What's the big deal about today," Debbie responded.

"Look, I know its Monday, and I know its going to be weird at school today, but you can't let me be there by myself," she said.

"Okay, are you on your way?" Debbie said.

"I'm almost there." Nancy responded.

It was almost ten minutes before Debbie emerged from her house to get in Nancy's old volkswagen. "You're stoned," she said when she got in the car.

"Half stoned," Nancy replied, I smoked about an hour ago, but plan on smoking the rest on the way to school. You in?"

"Might as well," replied Debbie, "I mean it is Charlie Foster day. Let's smoke to Charlie, and to the river, with its current so swift."

"Wow, gettin' poetic on me," Nancy responded. "You know, there's one thing I don't understand. Why didn't anyone just step forward and tell the police what happened. I mean, it was still an accident. Why didn't we say something?"

"I've been thinking about that all night," Debbie replied. "Its just, you know, one of those things."

Nancy took a half of a joint out of the ash tray and lit it. She took a long drag and held it in, then handed it to Debbie. Debbie took it, and did the same. The both finally laughed when they exhaled the smoke at the same time. It was almost time for the first bell to ring, and they would be ten minutes late. "I hate being stoned and late, said Nancy, everyone looks at you like, they know."

"That's because they do know," Debbie replied. They laughed again as they sat at a red light. The light seemed to take forever before it turned yellow. "Caution, said Debbie, caution light." Debbie wished she was still in bed, wished she could shut the curtains tight and sleep all day. No one was ever home from seven o'clock to six thirty in the evening, sometimes later, and today would have been a good day for sleeping. It was still cloudy, with a chance of a thunderstorm, exactly the kind of day that she liked to sleep.

Stephanie Knox started a shrine to Charlie Foster on the bank of the river where Charlie fell into the water. Although the river was fifteen miles away from where most of the kids lived, she figured that some would make the trip at least once, even if it were out of curiosity. She was right. Flowers, notes, little statues of Jesus, balloons, and candles began to show up each week that she went back to the river bank. Although she had told several of her friends what she had done, it was amazing that so many kids began to make the pilgrimage to the shrine. By the end of the first week, the river had subsided, and so the shrine looked a little odd on the river bank, so far from the water. When she made the third trip up to the river, she had blown up a photo of Charlie Foster from his freshman year of school. It was a strange picture. Charlie's hair was much longer then, hanging down over his face, one eye barely visible. If you looked closely at the washed out picture, you could see the horrible scarring that had taken place on Charlie's face, maybe that explained the long hair, that he was trying to cover all of it up. All she really knew of Charlie until that day in early April, was that he was a boy that was continually picked on by many of the students from school.

One day, she had even been a witness to this. It was on lunch hour, inside of the cafeteria. Charlie had milk dumped on his head. Although she saw it happen and felt bad for Charlie, there was nothing she could do, after all, she was not someone who was very popular herself, and had also been picked on relentlessly by a girl in the seventh grade. She understood that awful feeling of being called out by name, and waiting for the girl to walk up to her. Mostly, though, it was a general name calling, the girl never touched her. At first Charlie seemed surprised when the cold milk seeped down his face and onto his striped shirt. There was a momentary quiet in the cafeteria as everyone became aware of what had happened. Then a couple of kids started to laugh, and to everyone's surprise, Charlie started laughing too. Then to everyone's wonder, Charlie took his own milk and poured it over his own head. This seemed to evoke hysteria amongst the kids in the cafeteria, and even a couple of cheers went up. The boys who had poured the first carton of milk on Charlie were a little shocked by Charlie's self abuse, and quickly left the cafeteria so as not to get in trouble. As for Charlie, he quickly left the room too, leaving his half-eaten lunch on the tray.

Charlie Foster, (the novel) continued

2011-10-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

(Really having fun with this!)

It was a well-known fact that Trish Vander had a habit of telling gigantic lies and stories. She was the girl who was famous for allegedly sleeping with four of the five main players on the varsity basketball team. Everyone knew that this could have very well been the truth, but when the story broke around school, it was peppered with misinformation, and information that she herself had spread. Apparently, she wanted everyone to know that her goal was to take them one at a time in the back of a truck at a party in the desert on the same night. Mike Berry, she said, was the only one on the team who refused her generosity, but it was also known that Frank Hernandez would never consider getting in the back of a truck with Trish Vander, and besides, as Steven Cornell had pointed out, Frank wasn't even at the party, he was camping with his family, but this was just Trish, doing her thing. She seemed to thrive on everyone knowing about her sexual conquests, something that some of the girls even envied, though they would never really say it.

It was also known that if you wanted pills, Trish was your girl. Her parents' medicine cabinet had an endless supply, and if you knew Trish, or hung out with her for a day to listen to her stories, you could probably get them for free. She liked valium the best, she said, because they relax you, and as Trish was famous for saying, "God only knows, that I like to relax!" She was also the only girl at school who had been sent home for breaking the dress code, sometimes wearing skirts so short and tight that it often sent teachers into a panic. Her leopard skin skirt had caused Coach Myers to hyperventilate so badly that he had to leave school that day. Coach Myers was a Christian, as he often pointed out, and he had told the principal that Trish Vander was on a speedboat to hell, and something had to be done about it. Of course there were rumors that he was driving the speedboat, but that was also another one of Trish's stories. Even though everyone laughed at the image of Coach Myers driving Trish's speedboat, no one believed that Coach was even remotely involved with Trish Vander, but she did it seems, have an effect on his breathing.

On the morning that Charlie Foster had drowned in the river, Trish was being her wonderful self, and had one goal in mind that day, Mike Berry. This had been going on for the better half of the year. Mike was never mean to her, but he also wished she would just leave him alone. He could not seem to bring himself to tell her that, however, and so they were often seen together under suspicious circumstances. That afternoon, Trish had on her skimpiest black bikini, even though it was rainy and cool. As Stephanie Knox had pointed out, she was hanging onto Mike Berry's neck like a noose on a condemned man that day, and everyone saw that he was finally giving into her seduction. Of course when Charlie fell into the river, that changed everything. Mike Berry was left lamenting the death of Charlie Foster on a rock, and it would be the last time they ever saw each other.

No one could have predicted the impact that Charlie Foster's death had on the school. New relationships were formed, old ones were ruined, and for the next two months moving right on into summer, Charlie Foster was to become the most popular kid in the school. Of course, Charlie probably didn't know it, even though Jimmy Dallance said he was most definitely still walking the halls. Jimmy even claimed he talked to Charlie one night after taking some acid. Jimmy was always coming up with new stories while he was taking drugs, but oddly enough, they all had a moment of truth that only Jimmy was capable of delivering. Many of the kids were scared that he was going to die in some awful way like Charlie had because he was so out of control, as Nancy pointed out, but people still listened to him and believed his Charlie Foster story. Jimmy said that he was sitting under a streetlamp watching the bugs fly around the light, when Charlie suddenly flew down and sat next to him. Jimmy said that Charlie just sat there smiling at him, and then started to talk about all the things he didn't get to do while he was on earth. Jimmy said he just sat there and listened to all of Charlie's ramblings, and then Charlie just got up and walked away. It would have been a story that would have been dismissed by most, but it was Jimmy Dallance, and even though it was widely known that Jimmy liked his drugs, the fact that Jimmy even mentioned cats was freaky, especially to the ones who had gone to the funeral and saw the cats in front of the casket. He also said that Charlie's face was completely zit free, and that his body was lit up like a glow stick. The most hair raising part of Jimmy's story was that Jimmy stopped taking all drugs except for smoking pot after Charlie appeared to him, and then he got a job at a bakery.

Chapter Three

The week after Charlie's funeral, a teacher from the university started teaching an improvisation class after school to drama students who wanted to participate. Juliet and Jodie went together, and were rarely seen apart after Charlie's funeral. At the funeral, they had sat next to each other and then spent the afternoon, listening to music, eating half of a chocolate cake and finally ending the evening watching Jesus's Son, a movie starring Billy Crudup and Samantha Morton, one of Jodie's favorite actresses. They found that they had so much in common that it was even a little disturbing, as though fate had resisted as long as it could, and finally brought them together. Or, as Jodie, said, Charlie Foster brought them together. They both loved to read books, especially classical novels, and both of them wanted to be actresses when they finally left school. Although they were both juniors, they were relieved that they had one more year to finally get more fully involved in the drama department, even though, as Juliet finally said, they were both scared to death of being on stage. Together, however, they began a journey that would take all fear away from life and stage, as Trish liked to say, "I didn't always like it, I mean, they were kind of like that movie, you know, Single White Female. They were like one person, sometimes Jodie would be the killer, and sometimes it would be Juliet." Jodie thought it was funny when she heard Trish had said that, but Juliet didn't like it at all. Although she only knew Trish through stories and from that day at the river, she was determined to say something about it. It probably wouldn't have been to big of a deal except a kid in her drama class started calling her single white female. It didn't bother her at first, until Jodie and her watched the movie. Jodie thought it was funny, but Juliet was deeply offended by it.

"Why do you let it bother you so much?" Jodie had said to her.

"Because Jennifer Jason Leigh is a killer in the movie," Juliet had responded.

"Just let it go."

"That girl is a such a whore and a stoner." Juliet had said.

"She's actually pretty entertaining. I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't someone else who started the story." Jodie responded, "it's really not her style, her stories are usually about herself."

It's true that Jodie and Juliet had become fast friends but that was pretty normal in high school. I mean most girls had their best friend, so why was it different for them?

"Its because we are in the drama department. Most kids think its weird. Comparing us to a horror movie is their way of complimenting us really. I mean, its Jennifer Jason Leigh and Bridgett Fonda, I think that's pretty cool," Jodie explained, "besides, Trish's day is coming. Her stories will come to haunt her. Hey, maybe we should kill her!"

"Shut up! Why would you say that!"

"I'm only kidding!"

"Well don't kid like that, it freaks me out." Juliet replied.

"It freaks you out because you probably thought about it." Jodie pressed.

"What?" Jodie said loudly.

"Remember the first rule of improvisation?"

"Find the truth in the given circumstance," Juliet responded, finally laughing.

"Oh my God, that's funny." Jodie laughed.

As Jodie and Juliet were becoming friends, Jeff was still struggling with the death of Charlie. Although his hand had not been seriously injured, it had taken him a full two weeks to get back in the water and swim. Even though swimming season had come and gone, the coach had required that all of the swimmers get their hours in the pool for the whole year. For two weeks, he would get in to his swimming suit but could not get himself into the water. He found himself standing on the edge of the pool, unable to dive in. Sometimes, he would just sit on one of the benches and go over the situation with Charlie again and again. Finally, at the end of the two weeks, he dove straight in and swam for three miles. When he finally did stop, he found himself crying uncontrollably at one end of the pool. No one was in the pool area, and he found a relief in allowing himself just to cry about it. He couldn't remember crying before, even as a small child.

Jeff was also having dreams about that day. Each time, he would feel Charlie's wrist with his hand, and see bubbles coming out of Charlie's mouth and nose in the water. Even though the water was muddy that day, it seemed to him that beneath the bank of the river, the water was clear and very green. Charlie's eyes were always open during the dream, and he could see his hand, wrapped around a root of a bush that pushed out into the water. A teacher, Mr. Collins, had reached out to Jeff after class, and told Jeff that it might help if he would write down what he was feeling. He even gave him a composition book to do so, but it wasn't until after that first day in the pool that he wrote anything down.

First rule of water safety. If you go near the water, you better know how to swim, he wrote, one of many rules he would write down through the rest of the year and into the summer.

'Charlie Foster' (The Novel)

2011-10-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

I've decided to start writing a novel so that my writing time will start moving somewhere. Charlie Foster is actually a play that is published with Anchorage and Dramatic Publishing, but I've decided that writing the novel will give me some more instruction, writing in the third person, which I rarely do in prose. Another learning curve. This novel is based on an experience I had while in high school, or rather, many experiences I had in high school both as a student and a teacher. I may move it over to another place, so that I can continue the personal essays that I'm writing, (someone brought that to my attention, apparently I'm not blogging but writing personal essays) Anyway, I'll post the writing I did this morning. Its rough, a very first draft, but its been really fun to write, and its been a diversion from the angst filled writing I've been doing. Okay, the novel has lots of angst, but putting it in third person and fictionalizing the characters is a sudden relief.

Charle Foster

(a novel)

Chapter One

When Charlie Foster fell into the river that late afternoon, no one really knew what to do. It had been raining on and off for three days, the river was muddy and moving fast, and the water was rising up over the grassy bank at least ten extra feet. Five or six of the ones who were there that day and saw him fall in moved as close to the water as they dared, standing motionless at the edge, silently looking for any part of him that might rise to the surface. Stephanie Knox swears she saw Charlie's arm and hand break the surface, but no one else saw anything else of Charlie, or at least that's what they told the police. It was a full ten seconds before anyone said or did anything. Nancy said it was like a movie moving in slow motion. She also said it was Jodie McDermott who was the first one do really do anything.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Somebody do something! You guys! We can’t just let him—" Jodie didn't exactly know how to finish her sentence.

"CHARLIE!! You stupid idiot!" Jeff quickly took off his shoes and socks, followed by his shirt.

"Jeff, what are you doing?" Yelled a frantic Stephanie.

"He’ll drown!" Jeff quickly replied. "Do you think Charlie Foster knows how to swim? Hell, No!"

"Jeff, it’s stupid to go in that water!" Said Jana, assessing the situation.

"The water is too fast, Jeff—"

"Get some help!" Yelled Jeff, right before he dove into the water and headed downstream.

"Jeff! I’ll call 911!" Jodie yelled, hoping she could somehow stop an already swimming Jeff. She pulled out her cell phone, and with a shaky finger pushed the three numbers.

"We have an emergency! At the river! I don't know, where are we you guys?"

"The dirt road by Castle rock," Jana responded, "Tell them to hurry!"

Meanwhile, Charlie Foster was confused at what had happened. The cold water had numbed his body immediately, and he was trying to remember if he knew how to swim. For several seconds, he didn't know if he were up or down in the water. He opened his eyes to see if he could see anything. The muddy water stung his eyes, and the next thing he felt was a branch hitting him on the side of the head as he began tumbling beneath the bank of the river. He reached out with his hand to see if he could hold onto something, but he was moving much too fast. Finally, he did get a hold of a branch, but the river was much stronger than the one arm he had to hold it. The last thing he remembered was that he couldn't breath.

Jeff looked up from his frantic freestyle stroke, his arms moving like two windmills. Jeff was a good swimmer, but the current was very fast. He took another breath and tried to slow down his stroke. He let the current carry him in hopes that it would take him in the same direction it had carried Charlie. He claims he did see Charlie Foster that day, and in fact, as he went beneath the bank of the river, he even says he had grabbed Charlie's wrist. Kyle Smith says that would have been impossible, because the river was moving much to fast and Jeff was to far behind him. It ended what little friendship he had with Kyle, in fact, they came very close to a fight over it. Kyle said he was just using logic and he didn't understand why Jeff had to be such a putz about it. Jeff says that Charlie was holding onto a branch beneath the bank, and that's how he was able to catch up with him. After that, Jeff says, he let the current carry him down, but he almost had a hold of him.

When the fire trucks finally pulled down the dirt road towards the bank of the river, it was a full fifteen minutes later, and neither Jeff nor Charlie had been seen. Two of the firemen began running down the bank of the river, one of them pushing through the bushes and shrubs that lined the bank. The third fireman stayed behind, and was already beginning to ask questions. Nancy, Juliet, and Stephanie had quickly collected all the beer and empty cans and had put them in the trunk of Stephanie's car before the fire truck had arrived, and before the police began to show up.

"Thank God," thought Stephanie, "that no one really had time to get drunk."

That was the first thing the policeman asked them, if Charlie or Jeff had been drinking.

"No, officer, we were just…out here…" Nancy had stammered, not really knowing what to say. She knew that Charlie had maybe drunk a couple of the beers, but not enough to have this happen, not enough for him to just fall in the river.

Mike Barry sat on a rock. He was running both of his hands through his hair, and his face was very red. That's what Nancy remembers. When Nancy had been smoking pot, she remembered things like that. What people looked like, what they were wearing, whether they were happy, sad, or even scared. She remembered that red face the most, and the look in his eyes.

"Does someone want to tell me what happened?" The cop said.

Nobody said anything at first. Everyone stood in silence. Finally, Trisha stepped forward. "It was an accident, he fell into the water. It didn't look like he could swim. He just went under right away and disappeared."

" And the other boy?" The cop questioned.

"Jeff went in after him, to save him I guess, I mean, it happened so fast," Jana joined in.

Everyone was relieved when the fireman appeared from downstream with Jeff. The girls all began running down the river-bank until they reached him.

"Oh my God, Jeff! Don't ever do something like that again!" yelled Stephanie.

Jeff had a large scratch across his chest, and he was holding his hand. He looked like he was about to cry, that's what Nancy said later, and she wanted to cry too. She usually didn't get emotional when she was stoned, but this was different, something in Jeff will never be the same, she thought. Although the other girls were treating him as some kind of hero, she knew that Jeff didn't feel so heroic, he was just scared, and so was she.

Chapter Two

The next day in school was very quiet. An announcement was made in each of the classrooms that Charlie Foster's body had been found, and that he was dead. That's all they really said, although the rumor quickly spread around the school that he had been found almost a mile down stream, and that his body looked as though it had been badly beaten. Someone else had said that his arm was broken and was bent behind him like the guy in the Deliverance movie. The principal had wanted to do an assembly that day, but decided that it could wait for the next day, to see what other details emerged.

"You're Jodie McDermott?" Juliet said, catching up to Jodie quickly and gently pulling her arm.

"Where do I know you from? Oh, you were there." Jodie replied.

"We started in Drama, the first of the year," said Juliet.

"What happened to you?"

"Oh, I switched to sixth hour, same class, only later." Replied Juliet.

"Art imitating life", Jodie said, "Talk about drama."

"Are you going to the funeral?" Juliet asked.

"I never miss a good funeral," she replied, teasing.

"Maybe we could go together, Juliet said.

"You were there, weren't you? I mean I saw you there at the river," said Jodie.

"You called 9-1-1.

"I did."

"Did you know him?"

"Did anyone really know Charlie Foster?" Jodie replied. They walked together to class, one of many walks that began on that day.

"Charlie was in my earth science class. I mean, I didn't really know him, he was, you know, quiet." Juliet said as they walked.

Mike Barry didn't come to school the next day, or the next. In fact, it became obvious to the whole school that Mike Barry may not come back to school for the rest of the year. It was a little strange, because Mike Barry was a senior, and there was only two months of school left in the year. Rumors began to surface that Mike had some kind of emotional breakdown after Charlie died, and that he was even taken to a hospital. Everyone loved Mike Barry. He was the quarterback on the football team, and led the team to the state championships for the first time in twelve years. The college scouts swarmed around the coaches, his parents, and of course Mike himself. Everyone knew that Mike wanted to go to USC, but the college he had chosen had been a well kept secret the entire year. Mike was the perfect size for a quarterback, and he was also very good looking, a characteristic that he was modest about, and that's probably why people liked him all the more. He had the perfect shyness that attracted students and teachers alike, an A student, and more that enough athletic talent that made him a three sport legend. And now, he had disappeared right along with Charlie Foster. It was true that no one really understood how or why that Charlie Foster had ridden to the river that day with Mike and Kyle, but most said that Mike was such a nice guy that he had invited Charlie himself.

There were forty-two students who left school to attend Charlie's funeral. Several of the kids made a banner that said, "We love and miss you, Charlie". That didn't seem like a lot in a school of over 1200 students, but it was enough to make Charlie's grandmother very happy. Nancy told her mother that she was a very strange lady, wearing a Hawaiian mumu to the funeral, and it seemed like all she wanted to do was talk to the kids about what their future plans were. Nancy told her mother it was the strangest funeral she had ever been to, and Nancy's mother responded that Nancy had only been to three funerals in her life. But, Nancy was adamant about it being just plain weird, and that no one really even knew this kid. Nancy said that the grandmother was the only relative, and that she had brought three cats to the funeral, put them in cages, and set them down near the coffin. It was a closed casket, which only added to the mystery and rumors. Some said later that not only was Charlie's body beaten up and his arm broken, but that coyotes had pulled him from the river and eaten away most of his face and that's why the casket was closed. The crueler kids had said that it was probably a good thing, that his face was probably better for it. It was true that Charlie had a very bad skin problem, everyone knew that. In fact, it was probably why people even knew who he was by that. The kid with boils on his face. Nancy also told her mother about Mike Barry, and now that he was absent from school, kids said that Mike and Charlie were even lovers, and that's why Mike freaked out. Nancy's mother said she didn't want to hear anymore about the funeral. That was fine with Nancy.

Charlie's death was ruled an accidental drowning, even though there was a short inquiry from a detective assigned to the case. Everyone knew that Mike and Charlie had been wrestling some on the bank of the river, but everyone was pushing each other that day, and that if anyone could be blamed, it had to be everyone. That's what you did at the river, Kyle had said, you pushed each other. Everyone told the police that no one really saw what happened right before Charlie fell into the river. He could have stumbled, or he could have been really drunk. Trish Vander said that Charlie was downing beers like a maniac, and it didn't surprise her at all that he fell into the river. And no, she had said, when the police asked her where he got the beer, she didn't know, he must have had them in the bushes.

'Peter Coyote is Narrating My Life'

2011-10-03T13:27:00.001-07:00

At the beginning of the week I was having one of those nights when I was wide awake thinking back over the years of my life, (I'm pretty sure we all do this) and was imagining what it would be like to have a voiceover telling my story that I could hear. I posted on my Facebook page that I would want Peter Coyote to do the narrative voiceover of my life. (Perhaps there is a voiceover going on that we don't hear, but if we could, Peter Coyote's voice is the one I decided I could listen to.) Imagine my surprise when I went to watch Ken Burn's documentary, Prohibition, on PBS last night and Peter Coyote was the voiceover narration. As I was listening to his voice, and the subject matter of the history of American drinking, it seemed as though I was listening to the perfect analogy of my own life in America. The first part of the documentary was the idea that America from the early 1800's to the time of prohibition we had become a nation of drunkards, progressing from grog and beer to the eventual distillation of spirits, which exacerbated the drinking affect into developing crime, abuse, and general mayhem because everybody was drinking constantly. It was pretty interesting to apply the analogy of one life to this history, from the first drink to the eventual point of prohibition, all narrated by Peter Coyote. I thought it was a rather interesting coincidence, (that I posted this earlier in the week wanting him for my voiceover) but in my mind it was so pronounced that I paid close attention to it.

I don't know why I was so unaware of the state of America at that time, and I remember in school making fun with other kids of Carrie Nation--with her hatchet destroying bars and getting arrested over and over again. It seemed like such an extreme thing to do, but apparently, there were many who felt the same as she did. In Ken Burns fashion, the documentary is filled with tin-type photos, only in these photos, everyone seems to have a glass of whiskey or a bottle in their hand. I remember a history teacher saying once that, "Small pox and whiskey really won the west." I thought it was curious that a teacher would say this, but it got my attention and I listened to him more intently for the remainder of the year. I even remembered it when I began teaching, that a teacher can say something that is another way of perceiving the truth and it quite suddenly arrests his students. (I had also read a book called 'Lies My Teacher Told Me') I tried to never tell lies about history, either America's or my own. (And, yes, it did get me in trouble sometimes, especially since I was really candid about my own history of craziness) I can recall lying in bed as a teenager, imagining soldiers coming into an Indian camp with cases of whiskey instead of guns. I also remember being told to be careful driving across the reservation, (which I've done hundreds of times) because there were lots of accidents and drunken Indians (that's the term I heard).

Growing up, I saw the changes that occurred in adults with the advent of alcohol, even to the point that I noticed the difference between those drinking beer and whiskey, that if it were whisky the adults were drinking, something dramatic was going to happen, and it usually did. I can remember living in Page, Arizona, (on the reservation) and my mother taking us to a motel late at night because my father had been drinking. My mother did not want to subject us to his crazy behavior, as he became violent and abusive. As much as my mother wanted to save us from the drunks, it was all around me from the beginning. By the time I became a teenager, I was adept at handling drunks, and had even mastered the art of the language of drunk talk. My best friend Red's dad, was also a drunk, and a mean one. I spent many a night at Red's going through the paces that a drunk will put you through. I always felt bad when Red would come to school with a black eye or a swollen face from his Dad, who would not have thought of punching him in the eye if he had been sober. I think that was the power of our bonding for so many years, because we had histories that were deeply ensconced in drinking. For many years as a kid, I was called The Little Preacher because I unabashedly spoke out against drinking. However, it was not to much of a surprise when Red and I both discovered what all the fuss was about with drinking, and along with being in high school in the early seventies, we were soon teenage drunks and pot heads, doing the same things we despised as kids. We didn't really need alcohol to be two of the craziest kids in school, but we didn't know that then, and we developed a reputation for dramatic antics right from the beginning. This led to fights, expulsion from school, juvenile detention, care wrecks, (Red's brother Clayton was killed in a firery crash when he was a junior in high school). And I think about now, of the many things we did that never would have happened if not fueled by alcohol. Red was the best shoplifter I ever met, so we always had access to a bottle whenever we wanted it.

From the very beginning, my personality was one that would dramatically change during consumption. However, as I think about it now, I fell in with all the drinkers who were also dramatically changed. Very early on in my drinking career, I never knew what was going to happen or where I was going to end up, and it was the same for many of us who had a history of it in our lives. Like many drinkers, I usually fell in with the most dangerous ones, the ones who had no brakes. And it is also why so many of them died an early death. I also became very aware that this was happening to me, and like America and Carrie Nation, I was continually welding my hatchet. Maybe if I chopped up enough bars, maybe if it were completely removed from my life, things would be different. I knew I had the dreaded gene, and I think through reading books I educated myself to at least become aware that I would die young if I didn't change something. I was twenty when this finally happened the first time, and I was able to find complete sobriety for eight years. It only happened, however, after a brush with death, and a conversion to Christianity. I have been able to survive, (like America) only because my narration included long stints of sobriety. Although I wish I had been able to keep my long runs going, I have to be satisfied with today.

During my twenties, I was able to keep away from it through a rigid form of control. Christianity helped a lot, but I continued to read my way into a very strange place. I almost felt like I read my way out of Christianity. Maybe I shouldn't have, because once philosophy, theatre, and art began to take a more dominant control over my life, I left a beautiful wife, a job that was very demanding, and I left the church. I discovered theatre in a much different way than when I was a kid, and quite suddenly, the controls that I had manifested with my hatchet were disappearing. I was discovering the 'drinking writers' and artists, and rediscovering the heady romance of music. Little by little, I fell headlong into a frenzy of theatre mania. For many years, I was able to maintain my drinking to binges, although the binges would sometimes go on for three or four days. I would be able to stay sober for months at a time, which were then followed by worse binges. I was becoming an alcoholic cliché. Finally in NYC, while doing a play there, I fell headlong into a binge that I couldn't stop. Here's a sample of a monologue I wrote during this time.

It was Spring in New York City

a breeze was blowing down Broadway

we were bewitched

drunk with power high on art and Irish whiskey

we sold the Brooklyn Bridge to Christ himself

on 1^st Street and Tenth at 3:00 am.

the first day we arrived.

Each night we walked to Soho,

spilling coffee on a well worn rehearsal hall floor—

mixing our blood with each other as we put our bodies

minds, and souls through a maze of senses, memories, and illusions—

waking up all the sleeping dogs,

kissing death like a lover in the name of Thespis—

holding tightly to Hamlet’s hand

as we walked through the haunted kingdom.

We opened on a Thursday—

a tiny theatre called Theatre 4S in the East Village,

a cast of six, an audience of old friends, lovers,

wives, girlfriends, dogs, writers,

actors, and two hairdressers.

The play began and someone laughed at the first line—

the second got the same we found a groove in the hardwood floor—

sold our souls to the sound of our words,

the tap of our feet, and the steady rhythym of laughter,

intoxicating, liberating, terrifying sound of laughter.

After the play we all walked up to the roof for some air and New York City skyline.

The chatter was good and alive, the energy was rising, the air was crisp,

stories we had saved for years spilled easily from our lips,

a boozy family circus of stars, drinking drink for drink on drink—

falling sweetly into the arms of art, the most powerful aphrodisiac of all.

At three in the morning I am still standing on the roof—

Dylan Thomas is buzzing in my glass,

John Barrymore is trying to lend me his coat,

Tom Waits is playing ballads recollecting heartaches as love falls

on the early morning end of a four day drunk.

I try to apologize to Jesus for selling him the bridge,

to Buddah for not sitting still and finally

I looked to the East but the light has stopped at the ocean’s edge—

I lift Dylan to toast the edge, beyond the darkness my companion beckons like a siren—

and I know that my romance with ghosts is nearly over—

I’m standing on the top of New York City staring out to the sea,

staring out to the abyss, and the voices

I hear now are speaking their final lines to me

as I slowly closes my eyes to fall from grace.

I never recovered from that night.

I was so afraid of something good happening to me—

When I finally fly home, I’ve lost everything.

I start each morning with a glass of Skye and orange juice.

Slowly, I disintegrate to here—this place—

and then one night I decide to put myself out of my misery—

the same way as all the other times, the same as now—

I take the pills and climb into bed, like this, and I wait for the end—

sessions over, Dr. Bob—thank you for your efforts…

(I so want to rewrite this monologue right now.)

Shortly after this, I began another long period of sobriety. I came home, got a job teaching and stayed sober for almost eight years. I can pinpoint the moment I knew I was in trouble. After a major operation and my father's disappearance. It's always the same pattern, long stints of sobriety followed by violent binges. It's so difficult to explain the way it happens. The chemistry of it is mind blowing. I need another reason to live, I'm looking for that now. When I go through these things, the hatchet does come out. I have to start with prohibition. I have to bust up the bottles of booze. Unfortunately, I often turn that hatchet on myself. I have some ugly scars and some fresh cuts. And who would have thought they can put the same thing in a pill? It takes longer for a pill to manifest craziness, but for someone like me, it eventually does. This is a horrible pattern to have to live through, but, I would rather stay alive and live through it than to die and leave it in crates of writing. Somewhere out there, there is someone who can use a guy like me. I know that sounds like a contradiction, and perhaps we are living in a society where it's not prudent to be honest about our lives, however, the upside is, that it forms a character of authenticity in spite of the many wrecks along the highway. When given the mandate of a road trip, I have lots of experience, and know the highways very well.

I have a play, C&W, the medication of the rural masses…" that I produced once in Phoenix. The critic applauded the play, but said that it was implausible that one of the characters would get drunk and take his friends hostage. It was a funny thing for him to say, especially since I've been taken hostage a number of times by a drunk. I write what I know, but who would have thought a kid like me would grow up and write plays for the theatre. It doesn't make sense. And who would have thought that the plays would be well crafted and entertaining. I can't help it if Eugene O'Neil, William Inge, and Sam Shepard were my teachers. Lately, I've been asking myself, however, if we are a society that can still talk about issues that are destroying us. Prohibition, in some form, is always a good idea. When I was in Texas, there was a world wide AA conference in San Antonio. If my memory serves me, there were about 250,000 people in attendance. Can you imagine the world if these 250,000 people were still out there drinking? Just a thought, but a provocative one.

The next part of my life and the long sober period is here, (Thank God) I'm looking for that opportunity that God always seems to send me. The hardest part is being aware and to be able to see it and act on it when it comes. Where is my philanthropist? I know you are there, please contact me, asap, my best work is ahead of me, and… Peter Coyote is narrating my life.

'Twenty Year Old Songs'

2011-09-29T13:27:00.001-07:00

I happen to turn the television channel to Bravo this morning, and found myself mesmerized by Jewel's show, a show about songwriters competing for the best song. It was the final show, the winner chosen from three songwriters. Although the songs were more hit pop songs, I was amazed at the talent of these three young singer/songwriters. The songs were all built on the typical pop song, hooks, the bridge, soaring melodies, and concept. It was really cool to watch a show utilizing the language of songwriting. I thought the judges were spot on in their responses, and it had me thinking about the dozens of songs that I have written, and the dozens of new songs I have heard from friends and colleagues in the music biz. I couldn't help make the comparison with theatre, new plays, and the ensuing struggle of both to be heard and sung. As I said in the previous post, a song only has to hold for two or three minutes, but a play has to hold for 120 to 140 minutes. However, the concept is similar, each 'beat' or section has to keep the audience's attention, moving the song or play forward.

I do find that some of the same difficulties exist in song writing as it does in theatre. If the audience knows its going to see/hear The Sound of Music, as opposed to 'The Man in the Black Pajamas', (the play I'm directing) the audience will always choose the familiarity of The Sound of Music. When I play cover songs in a bar or restaurant, I'm always going to make more money because the audience is familiar with the songs. However, as I've mentioned on several occasions, John Lahr's book, 'Astonish Me' could also be a standard idea in music as well as theatre. Unless a new song or play can astonish an audience immediately, then it may be able to do so only if it is fully developed. In this regard, a song may take years of development and polish to eventually astonish.

Jackson Browne's song, 'These Days' was written when he was sixteen years old. I can just imagine the astonishment of those who heard that song when he was that age. It's certainly why he became Jackson Browne, as the song is much older and astonishing than he could have been at sixteen. Its evident when you hear him play the song now, it still astonishes. I find most of his songs are amazing in almost every way, but especially musically and lyrically.

This summer, I decided to begin to conceptually guide The Boulder Heritage Festival, which includes eighteen hours of music. First, each of the bands or artists were asked to cover a Hank Williams song. That part of the concept was fairly easy, as Hank is pretty well known, and his songs easy to find and learn. The second part of the concept was much tougher. I asked the artists to cover another singer/songwriter that would be playing at the festival. This was a very different animal, for various reasons. First, most singer/songwriters are generally more interested in either doing an existing cover in a different way, or their own work. It's also easy to assume that in order for that to happen, there has to be communication between the community of artists. Many of the songs are not even recorded, so I think it was difficult in that respect, it was much harder to acquire and learn the song. I think, however, this is a very sound concept that I will keep working on, because I think it's important. I think certain artists given a specific song of someone else, could turn up something astonishing. I do think it's very hard for singer/songwriters to buy into this, however, but if I can eventually convince them, I think the results will be what I thought they could be. I think most singer/songwriters are influenced by their favorite songs and artists as well as the muse, but I also think it would be very powerful to be influenced by each other. We don't often get to have personal relationships with our favorite singers, but we can develop relationships by those we are playing with and know from our communities. I also think that this process could take years to develop, but so does a song. I have songs that I wrote twenty years ago that I'm finally growing into. Its always interesting to listen to some of the great singer songwriters of our time covering the songs that they wrote twenty years ago. Of course, Bob Dylan, who most of us know, was well known for changing the way he sang his songs on a daily basis. I love to listen to Townes Van Zandt in his later years, with the gravitas of experience.

My cousin's songs, (I won't mention her name) are each one astonishing. I really think she understands that each song she writes is not just another song. I'm continually amazed at the songs. It would be equally amazing if she was able to generously give the songs to other artists to cover. I think amongst musicians, especially in rural areas, a song can gain legendary status as other artists are allowed to find and sing it. I don't necessarily think it has to be pushed to gain this kind of momentum, I just think there has to be a generosity and relationship building in order for this to happen. I continually send songs to other people. I have a pretty good understanding of what's in the song. I love to study other musicians and their songs. If I have something that I think is a good fit, I'll send it. I am finding, however, that there is a polite response that I would send, but very little happens. That doesn't stop me, however, I think it’s the same in sending a play. Most theatres have 'literary managers', and if your play does not fit in with their experience or the genre they like, it's really a shot in the dark that your play will get done no matter how good it may be. Many literary managers are also playwrights, so they have a particular play they keep looking for. I can usually tell this by the response, (when they do respond) that this is not the play they are looking for. I've recently begun to ask the question: Why is another singer/songwriter going to stop their own work to do my song? Even though I think it's another 'chop building' experience, I can honestly say that I would rather be working on my own songs than someone else's. However, a good song is a good song. I worked for a full three hours the other day on 'Wish You Were Here' because it is a great song. I think, though, I also worked on it because the music, the lyrics, and the way to play it—was right at my finger-tips. I think it's another discipline that can be acquired, but not easily.

Years ago, I found a cover band in a bar called the Bucking Chute. They did all covers, and no one amongst the group had any aspirations of songwriting. I started to give them songs and little recordings of the melody. After a couple of weeks, I went into the bar and they were playing both of my songs in their set. I should have seized the moment at the time, but perhaps I was just as astonished as they were. As I think back, and have since found the songs in old notebooks, they hold up pretty well, but sound far different now with me singing them than they did when 'Black Mountain' was singing them. My conclusion is that like theatre, getting your songs recorded by someone else is so much about years spent cultivating relationships. Eventually, all the stakes get raised, and hopefully, grace takes the stage with a song that used to be yours…

'New Play Glory'

2011-09-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

We almost have a cast on the show I'm directing, The Man in the Black Pajamas. It's been a two-week process, four different auditions in two different locations, but we are almost there. Tonight, we are starting on the rehearsal process, I'm looking forward to it. Chuck was able to secure a warehouse space for our rehearsals, last night after auditions we taped off the space, 14' X 19', so, here we go. Although we didn't get hundreds of people at the audition, I really think we got what we needed. If you are an actor going into an audition, (or even reading about it) and you walked into a room with Chuck and I sitting at a table, it would be difficult to assess the situation. We are not from an established theatre company here. We are two guys doing a free-lance new play. That means we have to prepare and produce it all. The way I put it to the actors is to look at it like it’s a small, well-written, independent film. Because Phoenix doesn't have an on going and thriving community doing new plays, its difficult to get across the importance of this kind of work. Phoenix has always been a we'll get our plays from NYC or Chicago kind of place, actors are not used to doing something that is new. I have to say that it is always exciting doing a new play. A new play has an energy that has not been lost in history, its untried, always changing, challenging. It doesn't have photos of previous set designs, it doesn't have a record of reviews or media articles. It doesn't have a history of success or failure. The actors will create the characters for the very first time. I think for actors, the intimidation factor rises doing this kind of work. Think of it being a band. There are no cover songs to even warm up with. All the songs are new and fresh, but having said that, the songs may be fresh, but they have never been recorded or played on the radio.

Music has the same issues as a play, however, a song is only two or three minutes, a play is 90 to 130 minutes. I could always tell if I had written a good song if I played it and people would ask, "Whose song is that?" When I would tell them it was mine, they would either look at me like I was lying, or want to talk more about it. There are certain tricks I learned doing new songs. I sometimes would open my set with a strong new song. It's always risky, because it is the establishing song. I would immediately follow with a song that was very familiar, and then switch back and forth. If I really wanted to know the reaction, I would never tell them, "This is a new song," rather, I might tell a short story that related to the song. I'm quite sure that I have a number of songs that could really be popular if I had the machinery to get them spilled onto the American landscape, but until then, as Sammy Kahn said once on the radio, "Sing your songs anywhere you can, as often as possible, for as many people as possible, at some point, there will be someone in the audience that will hear your song and won't be able to forget it…" I'll keep singing those songs, Sammy. Having said that, as much as I don't want to be cynical, the value of a person wanting to help someone either because of their connection to music or knowing someone who does is a value that rarely exists anymore. That value is related to the honor and loyalty amongst artists, which used to suggest that you have a community of artists who stick together through years of work, when one becomes successful or works, they bring the others in the group to the party. Although when I was teaching, I used to teach that principle, I don't see it much anymore. It seems to be that the young, strong, and talented are pushing on a window of time to make it happen through the shear will of the self.

A new play is much the same in regard to what Sammy Kahn said, although it seems a bit old school these days. With this play, we have six performances to convince people that it’s a play they won't forget. That's a very tall order. In the nineties, when I was doing one new play after another, in retrospect I'm convinced that there were shows that could have played well in any city in America, unfortunately, Phoenix does not have the machinery to change a playwright's life or pick up a new play and send it across America. Even amongst its own community, it was rare that a local producer or director would find themselves in a smallish theatre looking at a new play, it just didn't happen and still doesn't. There were journalists I believe who zeroed in on the importance of new work such as Kyle Lawson, who was constantly in the service of getting the word out about a new play, but I never saw a connection between a larger theatre company here and a home grown play. A city that does not cultivate the playwright will never be known for their theatre community, that's just a fact. But there are other reasons for doing a play here. For one thing, even though it's not free, it is a little cheaper to put up a play here. And, even if you are not going to land a big fish here to catapult your play to another level, what you have when you are finished is another polish on your play. It is a polish that you simply cannot get without production. I've been known to go through the arduous process of production several times on a play to get polish. It was part of learning the craft of playwriting. Memorizing that process taught me to get at the polish much quicker in a script, eventually I could bypass at least one of those productions. I did find it possible to build a community that understood this process, and the production of a new play was always exciting, no matter where it was done. I am in the process of building another community that is excited by this process, but I have chosen my home town of Boulder to do this, and have also been building and connecting to people in Los Angeles. Boulder because this is where I want to land with tired bones, and Los Angeles for the challenge and for, okay, I'll say it, for the glory. It’s a grand idea to walk into Los Angeles with a truck and a few clothes and put up a play. And I believe there are still people out there who do see that as a viable challenge. I'm getting to know those people. It is a lot like casting a play, only finding those who will work for the glory of putting up a new play there takes a little longer. Cultivating relationships that will eventually manifest some reality takes years. In the world of theatre, these relationships are also the ones that have an intrinsic meaning other than glory. Like the theatrical process, they are relationships that are built in an old school way, with loyalty, understanding, caring, and truth. Then, you really have something to write about.

'Lessons of Fire'

2011-09-26T22:53:00.001-07:00

I'm feeling better and better with each day. I can feel the hope and my confidence growing, have a much better perspective on the last several months, and feel that I can make the changes that will get me back on a purposeful course. I do feel that this attention to honesty, and what I'm going through is definitely having some impact on my options, however, I don't regret the writing, as I feel it has contributed to a much faster recovery time. I also feel that regardless of what I write about in regard to my personal life and personal strife, it does inform my work in an interesting and honest way. I do think that I can find better ways of handling stress and personal issues without repeating the routes of destruction and insanity, but as always, I will make the best of what has happened, and attempt to turn it into the work. Although I believe that clarity of the mind is a much better state to work than a cloudy one, in the middle of doing the work, no matter my condition, I've always been able to function at a very high level while working. I also believe that the break-down of the body and mind through the circumstances that naturally occur in life, or as Hamlet says as he's contemplating his own life and death, "To die, to sleep;  no more; and by a sleep to say we end  the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation  devoutly to be wish’d." Of course, he was looking at the idea of death, but he's saying that life is filled with shocks and heartaches. Life is filled with the unexpected. Who can judge the heartache of another? Who has the right to assess the damage of someone else? Who can say with certainty the actions and choices of another are wrong or right in specific circumstances? And what constitutes the allowance of judgment to another's struggle? Morality? Money? Law? Love? Perhaps in my thinking as I get better, there most certainly are moments I have of rationalization, (because I'm the only one who knows the details of my own story) but I think its natural to analyze in this way, otherwise there would have to be a continual crushing of one's own soul. I think for most people, when there are low points and humiliation suffered, its natural to look at the reasoning (or unreason) behind the folly to either make amends or call or attempt to make a truthful assessment without a total self assassination. I think that a continued self-infliction for one's folly can then turn back to self-destruction. There are reasons break-downs occur. Whether the assessment is subjective or objective, there is still a part of the equation that no one else knows except the person experiencing the circumstance.

I've been reading about, (and watching) the story of Bridgit Berlin, one of Andy Warhol's film actresses and also an artist at Warhol's factory during the sixties. Warhol was very close to Bridgit, (they used to watch television on the phone together) it’s a remarkable story of the trajectory of an artist from an old money family and how she came to create art, sometimes through self-destruction, radical personal choices, and originality. She was raised in extreme wealth with conservative values, and all the graces that high society had to offer her, until she made the choice to break that mold completely. Her father was one of the men who ran the Hearst Empire. Her mother contends that she had everything growing up, including a mother's devotion, birthday parties, (which her mother uses in every conversation as an assessment criteria) the best schools, the best everything, etc.

Part of Bridgit's artistic process was to record her mother's rants in regard to her art and life, so there is a very extensive and interesting record of the mother's complete and utter shell shock as Bridgit's life and art became more controversial and got more exposure. Because Bridgit had a weight problem, her mother was also preoccupied while Bridgit was growing up with eradicating her obese gene, sending her to the best 'fat farms' in the world, where Bridgit would sometimes lose weight but more often come back even heavier. In the conversations, along with the birthday parties, Bridgit's mother seemed obsessed with Bridgit's weight. As a result, along with the self-destruction of Bridgit with drug and alcohol abuse, was the self-destruction with the use of food, which she says, she still struggles with to the present day. It's an interesting story of rebellion, and a child growing up to completely destroy her family's value system while finding her own creative path. Eventually, her mother and father disown both Bridgit and her brother Ritchie, and didn't see them for many years. I'm not condoning her behavior, as one only has to look at the history of the Warhol factory to see the annihilation of a generation of artists, but there is also a vein of silver throughout that history, and one that has affected the ensuing generation of artists.

As I assess and analyze my own evident break from many in my own family, I am very much aware of the impact, and I'm not so sure it's such a bad thing. In fact, it may be that I've held onto family ties for reasons that are incredibly naïve. These are some of the things I'm learning in my current situation:

Lesson #1. Unconditional love is a rare animal, and it’s a cliché to say, but you learn about your friends and families understanding of it when you are in real trouble. I'm learning that loyalty is rarely understood and mostly fickle in a life and death situation, and mostly has to do with how it benefits the other person. I'm learning that most people judge the extent of their love through the positive or negative actions of the person they are required to love, as long as it fits in with the values of acceptable behavior within their own experience. Money and possessions are a huge criteria for judging whether you are in good standing or fall, and the work must be acceptable, again, in regard to experience. Envy and jealousy are enemies in regard to healthy competition, healthy competition breeds excellence, but envy and jealousy destroys the notion of one knife sharpening another. Further, unusual or deft talent breeds contempt, especially when the talent is developed and powerful. In that same vain of thought, creativity and brilliance is not governed by acceptable and appropriate behavior, in fact, brilliance can emerge and often does in extreme and adverse circumstances.

Lesson #2. Although I think AA is a wonderful program that saves the lives of many people, I also think it can breed a dangerous criteria for the harshest judgment I've ever experienced. Although I continue to use it as a valuable tool, there are pockets of it I feel that is more dangerous and extreme than fundamentalism. Although it suggests, "progress rather than perfection," I've experienced recently, just the opposite, and that many alcoholics in long term sobriety are some of the most judgmental and harshest of critics I've ever known. I think so much of its rhetoric and action destroys relationships before they even have a chance to get started under the guise of 'unhealthiness'. If you are continually looking to find unhealthiness in other people, you will always find it, always. I also learned that for many in this radical thinking order, because perfection is sought, resolution becomes a liability instead of an asset. Note to radicals. Resolution is easier to achieve than you may think, and it just may be that not everybody is unhealthy, although we all are at times, its human. You may want to look through the door of 'what is' healthy, instead of always knocking on the door that leads to the closet.

Lesson #3. I'm learning that I am not in control of my life, but I can make choices that enhance the positive outcome of that entity which is definitely 'in control'. I can't or refuse to regret the past nor will I shut the door on it. What's done is done, move forward and do the next right thing.

Lesson #4. I'm learning that 'being a man' has nothing to do with what I am, rather, it has to do with who I am. I can't stop or control what others think of me. I have to accept the idea that by speaking out against conformity is not going to always win the affection of people who accept conformity and live with in it. I'm very glad that you know what 'being a man' looks like, but remember, in the end, we will be remembered not by how well we were loved, but by how well we loved. Men in my family seem to be the hardest for me to relate to, but I accept that I will never win a membership to that club.

Lesson #5. "What have you done for me lately?" is unfortunately, a necessary evil in the halls of showbiz, capitalism, and competition, but shouldn't be the criteria for love amongst family and friendship. If a large part of your value system relies on money as a criteria for earning acceptance, then I will never belong to that club either. For some reason, ascertaining money has never really been that important to me, I can't help it, it's just my nature. Sometimes, it’s a huge frustration in my life, but I'm learning to just accept it. Poverty is not really as bad as it may seem to you, if you've never experienced it, you really won't know how it works. Sometimes, its sublime. I would rather be poor and have moments of euphoria with a creative rush, than rich, miserable, and angry all the time.

Lesson #6. I'm not really afraid of death. Note: I don't want to die right now, but after many, many brushes of death, I have accepted it as a part of this experience. I cannot live my life as though I'm not going to die. Looking death in the eye, alleviates fear, and either fortunately, or unfortunately, only increases my notion to risk. I have learned I can be smarter about risk, but not concerning my work and the notion of art. If my vision seems irrational to you, remember I have lived a lifetime of irrational behavior then, and I've met with colossal failure, but I've also had moments that can't be touched. Don't always assume that you know those moments, it may be that you've only seen the failure.

In the words of Jackson Browne "Don't confront me with my failures, I have not forgotten them…" From 'These Days'.

Lesson #7. Pain is inevitable. Learning to embrace it is a journey that I'm looking forward to, for it too is a part of living and dying. Don't assume that you know what my pain is or what causes it. It just may be that we process and experience pain in a much different way. Much of the human experience is universal, but much of it is not. What creates and connects our relationship to each other in a powerful way is empathy. Empathy is the door to understanding, its necessary to build strong bridges. Empathy teaches us not to judge suffering, but to understand and embrace it.

These are a just a few of the lessons of fire. Goodnight.

'Lessons From Hamlet'

2011-09-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

I received an email this week from the detective in Cedar City letting me know that the DNA test for the man they think might be my father has still not been processed. The great father mystery continues.

Excerpt from 'Bohemian Cowboy' (Doing Las Vegas With Hamlet)

"It's now about one in the morning, and we decide to get some breakfast at Denny’s where we have a chance to really talk. We mostly talk about our relationships with our fathers. I find out that Hamlet's father was also gone much of his life.

Even though we are divided by time and history, we both come to the conclusion that all of history is pretty much the same when it comes to understanding the nature of a father and a son. No matter how close a son gets to his father, or how far away he might feel, the search for a father never really has an ending.

I tell him that I’m driving to The Valley of Fire for one last look for my father, and I’m excited by the prospect of having some company on my journey, because I’m really a little unstable and also because I think we would make a hell of a search team."

He sadly looks at me, and declines to go, “Not because I don’t want to, but because its something that you need to do alone,” he says, “besides, its time for me to 'go back to the stars…" I'm not sure what he means by this, but I notice he looks more like a ghost than before, he's beginning to fade.

End of excerpt.

One of my favorite but most difficult parts of Bohemian Cowboy is the time I got to spend on stage with Hamlet. It is also a point in the play where I have to make my way into the desert and allow my father to come and explain his disappearance. I remember the first time I saw Hamlet, it was my sophomore year in high school, in an English class with Mrs. Jackson. She played an old English version of it in class, and I remember thinking, "This cat is really struggling with his life…" It was one of the few times in high school when I started paying attention. In college, when I had a monologue to perform, it was usually from Hamlet. I read the play at least twice a year, watched every film version and as I say in the play, "The year my father disappeared I saw three productions of Shakespeare's Hamlet…" That year, I even traveled to NYC to see the Wooster Group do their version. At the opening of the play when the ghost of Hamlet's father began speaking to him in regard to his murder, I had a 'real' anxiety attack for the first time. For hours, I considered the stress it must have caused Hamlet, the ghost of his father speaking to him and asking him to avenge his death. I didn't just see it as a theatrical device, I looked at the play from Hamlet's point of view and the ensuing madness it created in him. It was a spiritual experience for me, and as the play went on, Hamlet's reactions were in keeping with the terrible stress of his situation. In college, I remember writing a monologue about a man who comes home from work and there is an angel sitting on his bed, and the angel says, "Go therefore and prepare the way." I deducted that this break from the laws of the universe was a horrible way for a man to commune with God, through an angel, because his life would forever be harassed and changed by this moment, (perhaps, though, that is the point). I deducted that these extreme circumstances would create in a human, a penchant for insanity. Literal angel visitations were always hard for me, because I deduced that the nature of a man's mind is not prepared to process this kind of 'break in' into the natural laws of the universe. Hamlet allowed me for the first time to consider this kind of idea. That didn't stop me from seeking visitations, however, and although I've never been visited by an actual angel, it did create a series of events that led me to believe that God, the creator was real, even though I also deduced that God did not really have to puncture the natural order of scientific law to reveal his existence.

So, what did I do? I created a theatrical device where I could puncture the natural law of the universe to allow a visitation from Hamlet. I've done this in many of my plays, notably Blue Baby, A Memoir, where Jesus knocks on a man's door which he cannot physically open. This happens several times with different spirits, (Sartre, Hyrum Smith) until at last the door is opened to allow the spirit of a beloved aunt into the room to speak a message. This was also a break-through for me spiritually, because it allowed me to consider different spiritual beings having influence on my life, so as not to have to rely on one specific benevolent God.

Before any of my Bohemian Cowboy shows, I always took the time to call and draw on the spirits of those I thought were close. Perhaps this kind of experience has created a certain madness in the way that I think about things—perhaps I wasn't prepared for the post—part of the process, when the visitations and interactions stopped. For me, I admit that doing the show was a lot about seeing my father again for explanations, but it was also about getting to evoke the spirit of Hamlet, my Grandfather, and many other spirits. This is the power of theatre, and I realized that through Shakespeare's Hamlet.

So, now I come to the apex of these ideas, as I struggle with a seemingly anxiety ridden separation from God. The idea that sin is what separates is difficult for me, because it always seems like in a certain kind of madness I can see God. That moving closer to death is moving closer to God. It does seem, however, that humans seem to want to create an order of ritual, (which I totally understand) so that we can return to God without upsetting or disturbing a group or groups of people. There were days this summer, when I did my best to break the barrier with God, perhaps I did it unto understanding the fragile bridge between life and death. Except my experience has taught me that supposed madness isn't necessarily a bad thing for some people, that getting to God has to be met with extreme circumstances, and not just wisps of wind during a prayer. Much like the declaration of an early patriot, (I forget his name) "Give me liberty or give me death!" If you change liberty to God, it's not a far stretch of the imagination to have this desire. As I think back on all that happened, it makes perfect sense to me that the circumstances were created for me in my insanity at the time, but as some of you know, this is not a new way for me to 'get at God', or even 'get with God'. I've had to go to these extremes for years, because it seems I have to have a real experience in order for me to have this communion. The 'sin' isn't removed from my life because of repentance so much as its removed to stave of a human death. It's getting back to a purpose while I'm here, getting back to what I can do as a human. A certain madness and an extreme effort is required when one is sick, or when one can only find God by punching a hole through the interior of his life.

I'm feeling better today, but not completely back, perhaps just a bit insane, which I think, it a good thing.

Note: My work in theatre has always been in pursuit of punching holes into the interior life to make some connection to God. Its also why my plays are often disturbing. I never sought to write raw plays for merely the shock value. The theatre for me has always been this searching, (sometimes finding) of new ways to look at the questions between God and man. Perhaps its why I have lived the kind of 'edgy' life I've lived, taking chances and challenging the notion that it is not all what we are told it is. As I get older, I notice as the body and mind age, that many of those I've known all my life have chosen to ease into comfortable death. I'm just not made that way, but I can, I suppose, live a little more prudently so that I can keep punching holes into the interior of my life. These are indeed, lessons from Hamlet, who experienced an early death and a life rife with tragedy. However, it is interesting to note that he did have some assurance of another world where he would go from his father, albeit meeting a tragic death. I've lasted this long, with some wind in my sails I think "Its not over, its really just another beginning..."

'Remembrance of Things Past'

2011-09-21T19:58:00.001-07:00

Usually, I come to the keyboard with ready thoughts and ideas of what I will say. Tonight I start with nothing but the impulse to write. Today has been a very strange day. The sleeplessness is finally getting to me, and a deep fatigue is setting in. I'm finding it hard just to walk out side, and little tasks that I have to do seem very difficult. I seem to be running a slight fever, and my bones ache. I have been working hard on getting my body to respond both to my spirit and the spirit of the universe, (I'm afraid to say God today) by doing a full thirty minutes of visualization (also afraid to say prayer) in the mornings. However, this morning when I started, I was so distracted with aches and pains that I would find myself unable to concentrate. I've also noticed that several fingers on my right hand have a feeling of numbness, and it seems to radiate from my entire right side. With everything I've gone through the last eleven days, its discouraging to have today's set-back. I was worried for awhile this afternoon, if something wasn't wrong with another part of my body. The internet is the poor man's doctor, so I kept finding different medical sites to do my own diagnosis, but I didn't really come up with anything I could find as definitive. I do know, however, what energy feels like, and mine is completely gone at the present. If I do fall asleep, it's only briefly and then I am awakened by anxiety, I think arising from a sub-conscious mind that is as confused as my body is. My mind still seems to work, but even it today has fallen apathetic, as if to even think is 'too much'. As I'm writing this, I realize I'm starting to sound like Proust, who absolutely began to drive me crazy with the little details of his feelings, (Remembrance of Things Past) however, as I think of this thought, of reading him, I'm having a moment of hope, as if his suffering and self absorbed thoughts about his feelings and observations I could somehow identify with. His writing and Kafka's reminded me of each other, in thought if not in style. Reading Kafka's letters were intriguing, but very depressing when I think back. Perhaps the reason I was excited when I read them was again, that I could relate to them.

Although I know I have experienced deep depression in my life, I know that I have fought it fairly well, and for years at a time was able to find that passion is what would stave off the bouts, as long as I could generate one project to the next, I could get out of the ensuing depression that was always evident at the end of a project. I can't help feel that the genesis of this developing is in connection with my father, (who I can't seem to let go of) as whenever I went to visit him when I was a child, I would often suffer from a severe bout of flu and fever, and lay in bed in what seemed like a life threatening depression after visits there. In high school, I look back and see the periods of black depression, coupled with extreme use of substance and alcohol, which were those years that no one thought I could possibly live through. I clung to life because in spite of all of it, I had blasts of light and hope. I wanted to live but also felt I was swimming in a drowning pool for reasons that I didn't understand. Its still hard for me to understand, however, having lived beyond those years, and having moments of true happiness give me the view point of experience, that I might once again find my hope and life blast. "Oh, blast of hope engulf me…now!"

I've had lots of time to think of my behavior, and how it relates to my family and friends. Although my family knows my history and my battles with this disease, I think there is a pervasive thinking as to "Why can't he just get over it and get on with it?" Response: "Do you think I don't wonder the same thing? Do you really think I love waking up in a jail or hospital not knowing exactly what I have done with such feelings of loathing?" And then there are long periods where I have been able to function, but it was always there, and as the medical community has finally concluded, it is a disease, just like cancer, or any other life threatening disease, and it gets worse without treatment, it never reverses itself. From my experience, I do believe this is true, and its treatment is complicated, just like many diseases. I do think that the will can be helpful in thwarting bouts of it, but the will can grow tired of fighting it all the time. I understand the notion of AA that advocates, 'Letting go and letting God…" But that has been a difficult road for me. I'm paradoxically extremely willful, although I do love to collaborate, however, a human will, I'm learning, is as fragile as the human body. The will runs itself down with its desire to over ride spiritual dependence, until it lays there like a deflated balloon. I have made many collaborative deals with God through the years, but have refused, I think, to turn it completely over to a caring and benevolent God. When I do that, literally, my mind is thinking just the opposite, as if logic and reason are fighting all the time to keep me on an existential path that relies on my own actions. The resistance to God has hardened with a shear will to live, coupled by instincts that react in dangerous moments. It really is a wonder and a revelation that I am not dead. But, there is hope for me still.

I've noticed that since the fire I am a little nervous around anything that creates fire, which is probably to be expected. I've also been reactive to anything that smacks of a funeral, (I watched a video that had a funeral in it and went a little weepy) but given that I was close to witnessing my own from above, that's also an expectation that doesn't surprise me. There are little bits of information about the fire that are coming back to me, and as soon as I am ready to share that I will, but for now, I need to just keep analyzing things, and let them come when I'm ready. The fire, the fire, the fire… I don't want to die, in a fire. I think I just defied that possibility.

I hate to admit this, but I've also had this overwhelming feeling that I want to just lay down and let someone else take care of me. Just lay there, just be completely taken care of. I think the last two or three years have rendered me officially exhausted, runnin' and gunnin'. I remember reading William Styron's book, 'Darkness Visible', and feeling relieved when he went into the hospital for nine months. Of course, I don't think he enjoyed everything about it, but he emerged a man ready for a third act. He was sixty years old at the time, and because of a health crisis, he had to stop drinking alcohol for the first time in his life. When he stopped, he went into a debilitating depression that he says, "Was like being a walking dead man." There have been plenty of times in the last three years when I thought I would benefit from just going into a treatment program, just get a foundation going, but have always been hampered by costs and responsibilities. I also found that the commitment I made to my little dog when I first brought her home has hampered the notion. I told her from the beginning that I would always take care of her come hell or high water, and that I would never leave her. And, I have been true to this promise. All the love that I was never given a chance to with a family, or the last few years, a relationship, have transferred to this little border collie/Australian shepherd. She is loved and well taken care of. Did I mention that a dog is an amazing thing?

As I have so often in my life, my own treatment has to come in a more generic way, in the form of meetings and picking up therapy where I can. I do wonder, however, if I would have entered into a treatment program several years ago whether I would still be having issues medicating. I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know what it feels like to force myself to move forward after a crisis. This fire has been the worst, because it destroyed what little possessions I had. I've never felt to this extent the loss of so much energy, as if I don't get moving again I'll end up by a dumpster down at the park. I don't think I could survive that scenario for very long. I think that would be the end. And so, I struggle through another day, looking for any sign that my body will respond, looking for the way back to the kind of treatment I need to stay sober and contributing. One last thought on this. When I went to see the movie 'True Grit', I was struck by the dire circumstances that Jeff Bridges, (Rooster Cogburn) found himself in dealing with the bad guys, but I noticed for me it wasn't the bad guys he was dealing with that I was paying attention too, rather, it was the dire circumstances of how he had to deal with the elements, and the world heavy mentality of his demeanor. I was having anxiety at the notion of him having to sleep on the ground, ride a horse for miles and miles, feed himself and that little girl, and get up every day and do it again, through snow, cold, and rain. That's the part that got to me. It was also very informative of his character, that struggle in those circumstances. I was thinking while watching it that this is what my life feels like. Sleeping in strange beds for months at a time, driving across the country on the very edge of running out of gas. Wondering if I was going to have a place to sleep that night. Oh, now I get it. That's why people buy houses that they can live in. Living without security has worn me out. The stress of living hard is not as romantic as I once thought it was. My notion of 'The Bohemian Cowboy' boiled up some very tough meat. As I write this it occurs to me that although I'm tired and sick from living this way, I can't help but be hopeful that it will serve me when the time comes, and I'm not giving up, writing this is evidence that I can still write in spite of any obstacle thrown in front of me, I hope that counts for something… Perhaps someday, these will be my letters. Goodnight.

'If One Works, Two Will Work Better'

2011-09-19T12:50:00.000-07:00

So, I'm starting to feel a little better today even though I still have this excruciating back, hip, neck, and foot pain. I went to the grocery store and bought several bags of frozen peas so I could ice when I get to the point when I can't stand it anymore. So, all the medication is leaving my body, but some of it is still lingering. There is, however, a wonderful thing that is starting to happen, and that is an undeniable clarity of the mind that is beginning to take place. I know it will take some time for my brain to chemically right itself, but it is slowly happening. I notice that there is still a tremendous loss of energy, but when I do open up my mouth to speak or my brain to think I'm making more sense. Even in this malaise, that is an improvement from the general stutter and hesitation that I noticed my mind and mouth were beginning to assume. And there are glimmers of hope returning, (thank God).

I've been reading how painkillers work on the body, how they primarily move up and down the spinal system to release that numbing affect all through out the body. It's really kind of miraculous when you think about it. As I've said before, the problem is when your body and mind are numb, you push your body in a much different way because the pain is lifted. Pain is your body's way of telling you to not push it, painkilling is a way of telling you body that "Everything's alright now, you can lift that easily, see?" I have to admit, I panic to think of how much pain my body is still currently in, and I do know for years before painkillers I was pretty much always in pain. I just pushed my body for to long like a stock car, 'live hard and fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse' was my thinking in those days, and there is some real hell to pay. Fortunately, I learned early how to keep a very steady physical fitness regiment, so at least in my mind, for now, I know where that is. Early on in my 'medicating' I still kept that physical part of me going, but the past two years has been a back and forth tennis match of 'hurt more, medicate more'. So, intellectually, I know that my body has fallen on harder times. This is not going to be an easy fix, it will be slow and painful, but I'm certain today that I can work my way out of this paradox, and believe me when I say paradox, because that's exactly what it is. It's pretty easy to justify a return to medication when you de-tox, because the pain you sought to medicate is even more evident than it was before. But you have to be willing to continue to believe that there are other ways of dealing with the pain. I'm fortunate in that I do know that there are other ways I can deal with it. I have also been reading about the first rule of treatment with painkillers, which was a relief somewhat for me, because I realized that I'm not the only one dealing with the 'if one will work, two will work better' thinking in regard to pain management. And why wouldn't it? The fact is, for physical pain management, two really doesn't work better, but for feeling better mentally and emotionally? Yea, two works much better. Therein lies the awful dilemma for people like me. I've always been a two will work better kind of guy. Oh, well, here we go. Last night, I was laying on the floor thinking, "I really hope, God, that this is the last time I have to go through this kind of agony." I didn't get to the deal making point, (but I've done that plenty) The response from the great doctor was, "Let's just worry about right now, can you move yet?" And, I could. "Can you still walk?" And I could. Be thankful, then, and I am.

I've been chastised recently by someone who doesn't think I should write about all of this, that it will possibly damage my career and my prospects if someone wanted to give me a job and then read this, however, the only way that I really know how to beat this is to be honest about it. I am aware that in today's world that everything can be 'checked'. I'm a writer, and this has to be part of my process. I suppose there is a determination that has to be assessed when it 'goes public', but that's also part of the motivation of doing it. I also know that one out of every five people will experience something similar as what I'm going through during the course of a lifetime. This problem I'm facing is a much bigger problem than we are currently as a society willing to admit. So, I'll take my chances on the honesty and the experience of it, but thank you for your concern.

I will tell you something that is starting to come out of my thinking, and that since being at the mercy of drug companies and western medicine since 2006. There is a not so subtle manipulation of drug costs, availability, and a definite collaboration between drug companies, medicine, and insurance companies. I had very good insurance during the first part of this ordeal, and with a ten dollar co-pay and insurance, doctors would write just about anything. I don't have the energy to write in depth about my experience in this regard, but there are two very definite things I've learned. Drug companies do get people addicted to drugs, (that's their job) and western medicine helps lots of people but just like politics, there is a vast contingency of the medical system that goes way too far. These are just the facts of my experience. I'm not claiming that I am innocent in regard to my current situation, but I had lots of help from the world of medicine and the drug companies, and it cost me dearly.

Tonight is the second audition for the play I'm directing, 'The Man in the Black Pajamas'. Saturday, at the first audition, I was a little shaky going in, but quickly got my legs beneath me. It was great to find that my element was still there, and that I get excited in any theatrical situation. All of the hope, optimism, and clarity comes back to me instantly in a room with a new script and a bunch of actors. I realize that I was lucky that I truly did find my calling early in my life, and the passion is irreversible. Onward.

'Western Interiors'

2011-09-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last week, as I was driving to Phoenix from my Boulder home, I stopped at Marble Canyon for a couple hours of sleep. Marble Canyon, Vermillion Cliffs, and Cedar Ridge are all places on the Navajo Reservation in extreme Northern Arizona. I've been traveling across this reservation since I was about five years old, traversing back and forth from Southern Utah to Phoenix and other places in Arizona and Utah. It's one of my favorite places, a place I feel like time will stop if you have the courage to let it. The giant wall faces of the Vermillion Cliffs create the border to the North of the reservation, majestic and mystical, appearing to be the guardians of the reservation. There is a small motel build out of gray stone there, the halfway point of my trip. To the East of the motel and the cliffs is the great Colorado River, and further North on the river, Lee's Ferry, where I learned in my thirties to be the ferry which my Great-great grandfather once managed until he fell and drowned in the great river, another in my collective ancestory whose body was never found.

For several years, before I knew this story of my grandfather, I used to drive up to Vermillion Cliffs and spend New Year's Eve. At night, I would walk inside the small bar and restaurant, where they would let me play my guitar on a barstool in the corner for tips and dinner. Sometimes, the night would turn very long if I was having a good singing night. The restaurant crew would take me to their dilapidated trailers behind the restaurant, and we would drink whisky straight from the bottle and I would listen to the talk of the long season of winter on the reservation. On New Year's Day, I would make the drive to the ferry, and then down stream by the river and sit on the bank most of the day, sometimes taking a fly rod and fly fishing where some of the world's largest rainbow trout make their home. After one particular New Year's, I was telling my cousin about my trip and she told me the story of my Grandfather's demise near the very spot I would visit. I was amazed that I was drawn to this place all on my own, as if I was somehow caught up in the search, four generations later. As the story goes, after he fell into the river and disappeared, his son, my great grandfather, formed a search party to look for his body. The second night of the search, as my grandfather sat around the fire after crudely dragging sections of the great river, a voice spoke to him and said, "Search no further, you will never find me, I am fine, go home." (This story was told to me by my ninety-year old aunt one day in our many family history conversations).

So, the search for him ended, and his body was never found. Who could have imagined that three generations later, a similar fate would accompany my own father a hundred and fifty miles to the North West? Sitting there on the bank of the river one year after my father disappeared, I made this connection between the two men. I also started thinking about the many who have been swallowed up into the western landscape, never to appear again. Looking at the deep crevices in the great cliffs, and the dark green depth of the Colorado River, it's easy to see how men could walk into its majestic allure, never to be seen or heard from again. Perhaps this is the reason I find great comfort there.

Instead of stopping at the motel of the Vermillion Cliffs, I drove the eight miles to Marble Canyon, where I pulled my truck into a rocky parking spot and laid out my sleeping bag in the front seat of the truck. The monsoon clouds, lightning, thunder, and rain were swirling in front of the giant cliffs, and I opened the windows halfway so as I slept I could experience this great conflict between earth and atmosphere. The red dust of the reservation was kicking violently around in little dust devils, it was almost midnight, and I felt the pull of the collective kinship, comfortable and melancholy.

As I lay there in the front seat, I began listening to the wind, and catch the thunder roaring across the vast landscape of sandstone and desert prairie. Suddenly, across the street, I began to hear two or three men speaking in Navajo in front of the last place that seemed to be open, a restaurant bar amongst the several buildings of Marble Canyon, the small cobbled gateway village leading to the bridge that crosses the Colorado. At first, the men appeared to be laughing and pointing something out, like a wild dog or even a horse. It was only several seconds before I realized the men were extremely drunk, and then I could hear the shrill sound of chairs being dragged across uneven sidewalks, mixed with the ancient language the men were speaking, with bits of anger beginning to rise in the laughter. It was if suddenly sky and cliffs were bound to these men, whose ancestors had probably stood in the same spot, three hundred years before, when there was nothing to explain the way the violent sky moved.

I sat up from the truck's seat and turned my head to look across the street where the anger was turning into a strange staccato of Navajo words spitting out threat, bodies grabbing one another, and chairs and tables crashing together as the men began to fight. Looking across the highway, I could only make out the images, pushing against each other, the great cliffs rising in the background, and then one final crash. Then I could hear another man, beginning to speak in English and Navajo, the English words were cursing the men, the Navajo words urging them to stop with all the nonsense. It was only seconds after that I could hear the shuffling of the men heading off into the night, silent in their native tongue, probably going to a place a lot like mine, the front seat of a pick-up, or perhaps a motel room up against the wall of the cliffs.

I lay back down in the seat as the shuffling of the men's boots disappeared, and then it began to rain, with one thunderous clap of the sky. I kept the window down halfway, letting several of the drops make their way into the cab of the truck and onto my face and arms. I thought about the great river, a couple of hundred yards to the east, and the rain falling down into its canyon, hitting the surface of the water and joining the journey down towards the grand canyon. I thought about the motion of a human body in the river, tumbling over the rocks in the shallower parts after its spirit had returned to the sky. I thought about the way that luck it seemed, had no part of a life on the reservation, that all of it was just an endless repetition of violence between earth and sky. I thought about erosion. I wondered about the Navajo men, their relationship to each other, and how they would appear to each other at the rise of the sun. I thought about my future, the present past, and the thousand times I'd crossed this reservation. I thought about the great expanse of the reservation I'd yet to drive, down the center of Arizona, and the miles and miles of small houses and hogans of the Navajo nation.

It was two o'clock in the morning when I finally started the truck and headed south, the monsoon storms still looming in the distance, their great arms of lightning pointing out the way. I turned on the radio, checked the gauges and began to drive, listening to the radio voices mixed with the wind, the thunder, and the sound of plastic tarps beginning to rip as they attempted to cover the small little pile of possessions I had left after the fire. I was halfway to my destination, but at that moment, it seemed as though I would never arrive there, the night had taken everything from me, even though the sky was attempting to give something back. After I crossed the bridge, I was tempted to drive down one of the many dirt roads leading away from the highway, perhaps, to a trail that led down to the river, or maybe to a slot canyon that looked like it disappeared into the other canyons. I slowed the truck down as I approached one of the roads, and then at the last second, I changed my mind. I had miles to go before I could lay down again, and I couldn't help feeling that there was all something cruel and beautiful in my latest driving purpose, that it would be alright, that I would be alright, even though life seemed a little unfair. I leaned into the pain of leaving, leaned into the anxiety I felt as the wind pushed the truck back and forth on the road and pressed on towards the city, Phoenix, and made my plans to rise again from the ashes. It was at that very second I saw the wolverine in the middle of the road, I swerved gently to miss it. It was my first wolverine sighting, perhaps now, not my last. I pressed down on the accelerator, and started to listen closely to the radio.

'Painful Reminders'

2011-09-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

* You'll have to forgive my self-indulgence at this time as I'm writing about what I'm going through, but I think they are valid issues to write about, and I would welcome your opinion. I've actually been finding different forums online, to talk me through some of this stuff, and would welcome what you know about the main issue I'm writing about today, which is ultimately, PAIN.

Today, I had cramps in my back that felt like they were ripping out my spinal column, and then down through my right hip and into my foot. At one point, I got so anxious and wracked with pain, all I could do was walk around in the back yard like a crazy man. I had to do some breathing just to calm myself down. Stretching helped. I thought, "How am I going to get through the rest of the day? How am I even going to function?"

It was a good thing that Chuck came over and talked me through it. It felt so good to just talk about everything. It felt good to analyze and figure out the evolution of getting myself into this crazy painful place. The funny thing is I'm directing Chuck's play, (which I'm very excited about) but the great thing is he never loses confidence in my ability to launch this project of his, 'The Man in the Black Pajamas'. I just finished reading the draft we are going into auditions with, and I think its pretty brilliant. The other interesting thing about the play is the main character is locked in a room having similar feelings that I'm having. So very interesting that I would have this particular project before me, this man in the black pajamas, whose locked in a room being interrogated for causing the destruction of the world. Anyone else have that nagging feeling that you've just destroyed the world?

I always get excited about a new play, always have, and perhaps this is just the play necessary for me at this particular moment in time. It's daring, dark, and poignant, and I have every confidence in my ability and experience to execute the whole project. Even though I feel very physically drained and with this nagging anxiety and pain, It feels good to look upon the future at some substantial work. It will be great to get into a room with some actors again and push around the yin and the yang. Doing a new play is always different than doing one that already has a history, because it changes and rearranges right before your eyes. A new play is always a daring prospect, and because it hasn't ever been done, its often a wild risk. After awhile, you do get a handle on how to minimize the risk it asks of you, the first is asking yourself through experience if it is a well written play, and this one is, and that's a beautiful thing. There is no question in my mind that a good play is a piece of art, and so the adventure is before me.

It felt so good to talk to another writer and fellow chronic pain recipient about what I've been experiencing, and to get the feedback and some other things I could do to minimize the anxiety, pain, and the fear. We went and got some B vitamin complex, and a few other things that I needed. He also brought me a very fine belt, so at last, I have a belt. I suppose he might have felt he needed a director with a belt, and he's probably right, even though I've lost probably ten or so pounds since the fire. It's a great thing to have someone show that kind of confidence, I've been feeling like there are not many who have any confidence at all in me, (even though I know much of that is self imposed), losing everything makes you feel pretty lost, and losing it the way that I did. I'm sure there are many things I'm just about to learn, and I can at least intellectually understand that, even if I can't feel it. When I was talking about not being able to pull into my being the presence or the feeling of a creator in my last entry, I was struck by the fact that I haven't been able to process or hold in even good news or positive affirmation, which is so unlike what I usually am, able to hold much positive spirit and good fortune and appreciate it, and extend it. However, it is interesting that I'm feeling this pain in my body so intensely right now, unrelenting, and perhaps this is the reason I can't hold onto anything coming into the spiritual side of things.

After Chuck left, I wandered again in the back yard like a deranged crazy man, and then finally jumped in the swimming pool. This helped a lot. Oh, I almost forgot, exercise! Swimming around I remembered how in tune I used to be to my body, and how it connected to the rest of me. It's this intense pain that is actually reminding me of that. Perhaps when you decide that you are going to erase the pain with a substance, you begin to speed up the process of the body towards death, because you are able to deny your body is even there. I started to notice that this past year, that I didn't really even know this body anymore, I just wanted to deaden the pain I was feeling in it. The separation of the spirit from the body is a weird and dangerous thing because in order to stay alive they have to somehow connect to each other. Wow, is there ever a price to pay for trying to deny your body!

It also caused me to think about being in Los Angeles doing Bohemian Cowboy. I was able to maintain a perfect record of sobriety, no substance but aspirin to control pain, but each night after rehearsal or performance, I would feel it intensely in my body. There is not a question that the operation I had several years ago caused a definite decline in ability to function as I used to, with some very definite nerve damage that was never there before. I remember laying on my bed and feeling the pain so intensely it would take me along time to get my mind in a place where I could fall asleep, and that would only be for a couple of hours or so, and then I would go through the process all over again. I've definitely tried to look at pain differently before, but its vigilant work to find ways of dealing with it without the use of a substance to help deaden it. Part of the work before me is to re-think all of it. How can I get by this pain in my body? How can I heal my body to a degree that I can stand it? How can I do it in another way? I do know several of the ways, and several of them involve stretching and exercise. Of course, Its easy for me to go way overboard with exercise, like any addict, as if I can change it all in several days on an exercise binge. Now, that's not completely true, as most of my life I've kept a pretty fit regiment. The irony for me is that the vigilance of exercise must increase with age and yet once I found a way to deaden the pain it seemed a little easier to just deaden it, and let the exercise go. I know now that there is a definite downside to that kind of thinking, because in time, except for exercise, everything else stops working. I've heard these words so many times before. How many meetings I've been to and listened to another drunk or addict say that "When it worked, it worked SO well, and then it stopped working right up until death." This is so very true. But I also know that pain is very definitely human, and that most of us do experience it to some degree. As I've just said, pain is almost like a thermometer, a reminder that we are indeed, human. The fact is, I've been very hard on my body. When I was young, I pushed it always with a full intensity. I remember going to the doctor after a second neck sprain from doing the most insane gymnastics tricks trying to keep up with the ASU diving team off a three-meter diving board, and the doctor saying, "If you do this again, it will cause you lots of misery later in your life." I remember him saying that and thinking, "What? That's crazy!" When you are young and athletic these things seem strange to hear because your body has such recuperative powers. And then, ever so slowly…slowly, the pain starts creeping into your body like a thief. I'm always amazed at people who seemingly feel no pain at all.

I've also had time to think (this time) how the combination of so many factors are in play here. The years of gymnastics, quite a few bull rides, some car accidents, several fights, and tumbles down flights of stairs, the operation on my hip, and always, always trying to do the thing that no one else was physically doing. I remember learning double backs on a tumbling mat before spring floors at Glendale College, and crashing myself into the mat over and over again. I can't tell whether this was part of a self-destructive pattern or if I was just fearless when it came to this kind of physical activity. But as I think back, there were scores of injuries I sustained over the years, and so many of them I ignored even when I knew I had caused some real damage. I think my body healed is some way, but I think the damage is still there. Anyway, most of this is just analytical rhetoric, trying to figure out answers to my dilemma without the use of drugs or alcohol to kill pain. So, I suppose I'll have to embrace my pain, because I think for me its always going to be there. Writing helps a lot, I find when I write I can separate myself from the pain, and I also know after a good writing session, I'm always going to sleep better. I guess that's it. Is it necessary to post this? I don't know, but I will because maybe I can get some help or opinion from you.

*Note to self: Have to look for some new ways to manage my pain. Any ideas?

*There is one more important note to add here. I've been on and off pain killers for several years after my operation, and know doctors who will perscribe to me liberally and powerfully just by looking at ex-rays of different parts of my body. But for me, painkillers are not working anymore, and also are a gateway to alcohol abuse. It's been a descent into madness, trying to juggle it all. I'm the perfect candidate for this kind of abuse. That's the honest truth of it. I don't disparage my doctor, as he was truly trying to help me, but I can never just take one to deaden pain. If one will work, two will work better, and for along time, two did work better. I am now completely off all the medication, and am embarking on a life dealing with pain in another way.

'Fire in the Hole'

2011-09-14T14:17:00.001-07:00

Last night I couldn't sleep for the third night in a row, thank God for Hulu. For the second time in many months, I watched the documentary on Hubert Selby Jr. It is a great documentary, with plenty of in depth interviews and insight. I love the very last sequence, which shows him near the end of his life, going into a pay laundry mat to do his laundry, the narrator says, "Hubert Selby Jr. did not die a rich man as a writer…" It's actually a beautiful tag on an extraordinary life.

A high school drop out, in a sanitarium for four years after contracting tuberculosis at a very young age where he almost dies several times from having his ribs removed, (that's how they treated tuberculosis then) a junkie for many years after spending much time in the hospital on morphine, Hubert Selby writes 'Last Exit to Brooklyn' and becomes a cult hero, but blows all the money from his novel on heroin. Somehow, he survives, moves to LA and finally gets clean and sober in his forties and writes 'Last Requiem For a Dream', a novel about addiction. A teacher, a gifted and determined writer, and a person with a deep moral compass, an inspiring story for a writer, or for anyone. I loved this documentary.

I'm feeling a little hopeless and depressed today, even though I'm excited about finally directing Chuck's play, 'The Man In The Black Pajamas', (which we are auditioning on Saturday and Monday) I suppose some depression will happen when everything you own burns up in a fire, including the little house that was all you really had. As the days go by, there are so many little things I realize I don't have anymore, and because I was actually 'in the fire', I'm probably having some post traumatic stress. For those of you who don't know what happened, the short version is a propane leak caused my trailer to explode, with me in it. I only got out by kicking out the back windows and falling onto the dog house, (now there's a great metaphor for all of this that I hadn't thought of before). I was in the hospital for a couple of days with cuts, bruises, and some smoke inhalation. To put it bluntly, I was acting pretty crazy in the days leading up to it, and I'm very lucky to get out with my life. You miss little things like 'your wallet', and your comfortable boots. Luckily, my computer and guitar were not in the trailer, still, everything else was. Afterwards, as I was raking through the remains I did find one piece of paper that was only burned on the edges, and I suppose it should be a sign to me—the only thing that survived the fire was my birth certificate and a photo of me when I was a little kid. I'm so appreciative of all the help, clothing, and kindness that the community showed me, but still, you are in someone else's clothes. There have been moments when I have thought that I might be on the brink of madness, but then remember that others' have gone through this, and we are a world with the dire rich and the dire poor, and its official, I have become the latter. I hope I can survive and move through this.

Right now, it’s the uncertainty and the anxiety that I fear the most, as these last five years have been the extremity of highs and lows, all indications that something isn't right, plunging disappointments mixed in with great expectations. It's usually during a catastrophe like this one that I get good news, but the good news is overwhelmed by the despair, and it seems that this time I have really lost some ground. And, it seems, I've lost a few of the key figures in my life I always counted on, who I think are disgusted with me and my continuing spiral.

Immediately after the fire, I seemed to have some sort of epiphany about my life, and of course there were many people who came to comfort me. My eighty-nine year old aunt, for example was amazing in this latest tragedy, and as always my ever vigilant mother, who knows me like know one else. But the last several days I've felt this huge separation from God. Last night, I was sitting out on the porch, and I was thinking about God, and a light went on in a house directly across the street, but I found no comfort in this seemingly very direct momentary message. It's like the signs are all around and I can see them but am having difficulty taking comfort in them. Usually, I would say that for a good part of my life I've been a 'glass half full' kind of a person, but today I'm having trouble even finding a glass. Thankfully, there is my very vigilant dog, Baby, who follows me around like a little nurse, peering deeply into my eyes and giving me the sweetest indications that she is here to comfort. And she has been a great comfort, snuggling up to me in the most needed moments, the pure and unconditional love of a dog, it is truly amazing. When I think back to the fire, I think she was one big reason I was able to get out of there, a momentary flash in my brain of, "Who will take care of Baby?"

I do feel like I have been here before, however, the pain and suffering I've experienced most recently are unlike the others, its as if there is a deep longing for the world to all just go away. As if the constant energy to 'reinvent' myself is waning, as if the constant struggle is getting to me. Don't panic. I'm not suicidal, just depressed. And although I'm willing to take responsibility for some of it, I suppose I'm like we all are at times, asking ourselves, "Why didn't that turn out like it was supposed too?" And then the ever present, "If only this had happened…" I'm honestly filled with regret at this moment, as though "If only I had made this happen!" If I had pushed more, if I had pushed just a little harder on the boulder." Several people now have finally reproached me on my choice to quit my job teaching, (ten years) and venture out to ply my trade as a writer and entertainer. I lost any inkling of security, and have been in a free fall ever since with short moments of grandiosity and success. But, I did not want to live the rest of my life with the regret of not making that decision. I was burned out teaching, people, okay? I couldn't do it like you would. My flame burns hard and fast, and it burned that way for the ten years I taught, and believe me, I love to teach, but it too was becoming tragic.

A week after the fire, I got an email from someone who says they will put up the money to do 'Blue Baby, A Memoir', in Los Angeles, which oddly, is about another series of tragic events in my life. For the last three years, however, I've heard all of this before, as if I'm destined to go through this period of glaring disappointment and pain. Will it happen? I don't know. I only know that I'm trying so hard that perhaps I just need to 'let it go' and not worry about it. I've become a pretty grand letter writer, (I get that from my mother who once wrote me a twenty-one page single spaced letter) I've learned that with out communicating that you have these things, plays, pieces of art, etc., that nothing at all will happen with any of it while you are alive if you don't communicate it to someone in a particular way. I keep working the channels, and probably always will until I drop. It is hard work. It's hard to hold the rhetoric of the letter down so it doesn't sound like a scream coming from a deep hole in the earth.

Oh, God, I've written a 'poor me' missive, and its probably not a good time to write publicly about any of this, however, I AM holding onto the words of Hubert Selby Jr. who made a decision he says to, "Say yes to life". I am saying 'yes' to life, but I'm bitching about it every step of the way. Hubert Selby was a writer who was able to honestly let out the scream that he had within him, a scream that we all have, and do it in stories and books. I know I'll recover from this, but its not going to be easy, and its not going to be fast. I've been through this before, it’s a repetitive cycle of behavior that I can only correct for periods of time. Sometimes, however, for long periods, I'll hope for that, on a daily basis and see where that gets me.

I think I've read far to many biographies on my heroes, but I think that they were my heroes because I identified with them. But, I admit, they were the mad ones, the ones who struggled all of their lives. I just keep hoping for that third act, the one of resolution that I keep talking about, the one where the conflicts in acts one and two finally get some real answers. In the meantime, the moments are passing very slowly, the paradox however, is the increasing anxiety that accompanies those moments, and all the while, my little dog keeps looking at me, deeply and lovingly, today I'll hang onto this, and keep writing.

'Interiors'

2011-09-09T12:13:00.000-07:00

As I'm down to my last two days in Boulder, my mind is clear enough to maybe start writing and journaling about what's going on in my head. Last night, I watched 'Michael Clayton' with the commentary on, listening to Tony Kilroy and his editor brother talking about their movie. 'Michael Clayton' is a pretty brilliant movie, and when you listen to the commentary of Kilroy's first time directing, its pretty stunning to hear. It took him six years to finally get the movie made, and I found that in a strange way I could identify with everything he was saying, not only about making the movie, but also knowing and listening to that screenplay five or six times. He's another film maker who throws in commentary about plays, so I'm assuming that was where he got his start, writing plays. So many of the actors he has cast in the movie were also theatre actors, or both film and theatre, and boy does he give them something to chew on. If I was an actor getting in a film like that would be pretty exciting, as the scenes are so compelling and structured so nicely. After years of writing plays, when I'm watching a movie the second or third time, I can listen and watch the words go down on the page, and this guy, you can tell has done it lots.

I've also been thinking lots about my current situation, and the struggle of the interior life, and facing and thinking about how much of my current catastrophe is of my own doing and how much of it I had little or no control of. Of course there is much of the interior that attempts to shield the facts of the matter, that I came close to dying, and in fact having someone tell me that I did die going to the hospital. Although I've been close to death much in my life, I can't wrap my mind around this one yet, as it seems like I had a bad nightmare and woke up in a completely different world, with new friends, new ways of looking at things, and the loss of what little possessions I owned. I had a vision of me walking away, much like the one on my facebook page, with a guitar and a bag with a change of clothes. I didn't know where I was walking to, but the walk was direct and still firm and strong. When I was listening to Tony Kilroy talk about Michael Clayton, my interior came very much alive, and I did realize that the reason I'm still walking and breathing is to keep creating, and to somehow get my mind and body back into a place where I can do these things once again. The word, 'interior' keeps coming to me over and over, and I've come to a realization that one's interior life is so often in conflict with the exterior one, that so often in life they aren't matching at all. I was on the phone with Mato yesterday once again talking about getting a play up in Los Angeles, and he said to me, "Raymond, how is it that you are sitting there in your truck talking about getting a play up in Los Angeles when you've just lost all your possessions and you almost died?!" My response was curious, at least in my own interior, "because that is what I know how to do…" And then another funny thought from the movie The Gladiator, "There was a dream that was once Rome…" I'm finding that in fact, except for short periods of time, my exterior life is so very scant, with a few hours here and there of music and art that sustain me, but, still with a rich interior life that I find that I often can't find outlets to articulate. It has occurred to me the last couple of days that we all have these diverse interior lives that so often don't match up with each other. And for me, right now, the interior life has some really broken edges, especially in how to just manage doing the next right thing to survive. Its as though I've taken my interior life so far into asking the 'big questions', that I can't execute the simply ones. Its as though I have to get to these places of disaster to 'start up' the simple ones again. I was talking to my Aunt Renon about the man who continues to walk in front of the bus, even though that most peoples reason would lead them to believe that walking in front of a moving bus is never a good idea. But my interior life doesn't remember the last bus wreck. There is no logic to it, only confusion. So the man wakes up in the hospital once again having walked in front of the bus. Or is it just that the man can never see the bus coming? My God, the scenarios are endless.

I also had a long talk with my cousin, explaining to her this same scenario, and I did understand how that after awhile, no one wants to watch another bus accident. I said, "You only have to remove yourself from the scene of the accident, but can you imagine being the man? As my Dad would say, "It's a goddamned disaster…" Still, in the same way that watching this occur time after time from those around the accident prone man, the man also has to eventually say, "Well, maybe I better get back to the people who understand bus wrecks…" Or in my case, I keep lighting fires…

I also started reading the biography of Genet, again, as always, the interior life seems to know how to start preparing for another grand adventure, as if it will use everything from the latest wreck to create something from the ashes. Genet, like so many writers, died with one change of clothes, his life's chronology was fairly simple but sorrowfully rendered. It seems like he was only alive when he was creating. I was also trying to explain to my cousin what the last five years of my life has been like. The struggle to rise above and win a battle where the timing is completely wrong, (the exterior) where the expertise is there but not the means, (also exterior), where the interior is crystal clear, firm, and direct, but the vision of walking and breathing and creating, and living, is seemingly all done in the frame of a window of a house no one lives in. You could only see it if you happen to walk by and see movement in the window. Inside the house, there is something terrifically compelling happening, but simple living its not. (interior) I did have one very clear idea that came to me this morning, and that was that my interior life really does know what its doing, and has been doing it along time. If I can prevent the sabotage of the exterior life from destroying it, I do have a third act of resolution, and it is compelling, and it will wrap up my life. I think sometimes the artist at my age is constantly struggling with the idea that "okay, enough is enough…" that even though so much of the work has been done, framed in the window of a house nobody really lives in, to the interior of the man who has witnessed it, it is enough. I often struggle with the exit of my life, another vision of a stack of thirty plays, essays, and poems, on a kitchen table of a furnished room, (none of it mine, exterior) with a note that says, "Here it is, my life's work, and there is a life here…really…" It’s a funny existential thought, that the pages and pages of writing are only momentarily filled with color, and the history of it is hidden in some back room of and endless series of rooms that no one ever walks in…

The last thoughts of the day are in regard to loyalty and respect. It is not necessary for all of us to examine our own lives unless there is sufficient belief in an importance of one life and what it is compelled to do or say. That is the job of the artist, to examine not just his own life but the lives of others. I do believe that an artists life can get so muddied up that he does stop examining the lives of others and commenting, and the life becomes self absorbed in crisis and destruction, but there is a certain protection he must have from those who really do support art and its making. The creator can never give up on the act of creation, and those who participate can never give up on the protection of creation. The participants of the creation have to continually strive to understand the interior life of the artist, or the connection is lost. If we can only participate in the creator's life when his interior and exterior life is sychronistic, then nothing will ever astonish, art becomes a luke warm exercise of the pretentious. I have recently lost many items that I cannot replace, but the impulse to create is never, never lost in me, its how I stay alive. I don't expect everyone I know and love to understand this, but perhaps we have just come to the parting of the road, and I can live with that, and I know that you can too. I'll rise again, and I'll probably fall again, but there is a reason for all of it, or is there?

'Reprieve, or Don't Sell That Cow'

2011-02-03T16:08:00.001-08:00

So, my advisors, responders, and common senses are telling me that I need to continue on writing my blog. After doing this for three years, it seems I have followers that I did not know I even had. However, I'm looking to make a change in format and substance, so rather than go re-invent the wheel, I'll do the reconfiguring right here on this site. I'll give her a makeover, ad some fancy gadgets, and re-focus the story. I want you to know that your comments, emails, and yes, even phone calls, really made my week. So, thus begins the 'Coming Out of Retiring the Blog Tour', fifty cities, fifty stories. See you soon, and thanks for the reprieve, ya'll come back now, ya' hear?

'The Last Entry'

2011-01-31T09:36:00.000-08:00

This will be the final entry I'll post for 'Cowboys and Bohemians'. It has been increasingly apparent that writing this blog has effected my energy resources, and for now, I have to focus on making a living. When I started the blog, it was in keeping with the grant guidelines, that I would write about the theatre adventure I started, wow, three years ago, so that those who chose to read would be able to understand what it was like to do a one person show. The blog for me turned into many things, resurrecting memories of doing theatre, writing about personal memories, and really, at the end of it, getting really personal and revealing what I really thought. It has been very gratifying, but as the blog moved into why and how I think, like a lot of the way I have done things in my life, it became an obsession. Not only an obsession to live by, but one that has become increasingly difficult to put down. But I feel that it has lost focus and direction, lately, for me, its been reading like some self absorbed maniac. If it were all I had to focus on, I can see the validity, but its become more than amusing anecdotes, it's slowly taken over the vortex of my day. I've been very appreciative of the people who have dropped in to check out what's going through my mind, good or bad. I was reading back to the comments in many of the entries and found that there is where the real treasure is. Some of the comments left here have profoundly influenced my thought.

I will not stop writing, I just need to shift my energies to other kinds of writing, and further, when my website is up and running, I'll start another kind of blog there, so you can keep up with the logistics of the continuance of 'Bohemian Cowboy' which I plan to stick with until it does what I believe it will. As for what is going on in my head, you will just have to speculate, even though I've revealed more here than I probably should have, I'll still be around somewhere, somehow. Thank you. I'm not going to close the blog, although I have been gradually saving the entries in a file for an archive, you can perhaps go back if you are a new reader, and find out what it was like to be in LA on an opening night. Or, find out what it felt like to get reviewed in the LA Times. Or, know what it felt like the times things came crashing down.

In the words of Edward Morrow, goodbye and good luck, or better said, goodbye, and break a leg.

'Reason Has No Heart of Its Own'

2011-01-26T13:12:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me this morning that my life is about to change once again, as the need arises for me to work at something that is making me a living and paying off some debt. I've suddenly gone from taking a job that took from me, to having several opportunities where I can actually go to a place, work and bring home a paycheck. Without getting into detail, I'll just say that although I've been proactive at finding a job, I'm glad as I age I have learned some patience, because it seems that I'm working my way into jobs where I can utilize my experience. I'm very happy about that, for in doing so I'll be able to continue on learning something that I want to learn. I'm also excited about taking classes online and finally finishing school, although it seems the people who signed me up are less urgently calling me than they were before I filled out my application and signed on the dotted line. They seem much less interested now.

The other day, I started delving into the definitions and principles behind conflict resolution, as I've mentioned here before, the last third of my life I want to be about resolution. It seems to me that we spend a great deal of our lives creating conflict, consciously or subconsciously, and much of that conflict has taken us to the point we are standing currently. I don't presume to speak for everyone, for I understand that perhaps many have understood and enacted conflict resolution all along, and so for them life has been a serious of smaller plays, or perhaps comedies, I've even seen a farce or two in my travels. It seems to me that like those two or three stories in our lives that have the poignancy to speak allegorically in our own individual lives, also pertain to those two or three issues we may have to deal with all of our lives, and maybe we don't completely get total resolution, but there's no reason why we can't try or find some progress. There are many days I wake up and think, "Wow, I've made some progress here," but there are so many more days were I think, "I haven't a clue of how to resolve this." It makes reasonable sense to me that although all issues are not the same in stature, most of them we work on using the same process. Here's a prototype: 1. Here's the evident problem that I recognize 2. I have no clue as to how to resolve it. 3. I may need some help. 4. And then we generally work a process towards some result with one kind of plan or another in place.

There are many steps and philosophies that point us in the direction of solving our problems, but there are just as many steps and philosophies we employ that cause us to fail. So, we reinvent, we make commitments, we having starting dates, we have resolutions, etc. But what is that magic component that finally allows us to have some success? AA says its letting go and letting God. (It’s a good one if you can do it) Psychology says that therapy can be a vital answer. Religion points to a spiritual life. There is exercise, medication, diet, vacation, meditation, or several combinations of these techniques. Re-inventing yourself, making lists, vegetarianism, gestalt, on and on and on. In my experience, several of these ideas work well if they are used effectively, and several of them I still employ today. However, it seems so often we either wear one out from overuse, or we forget that we made that commitment, or we lose the list.

I suppose my point is that being in shape to have any kind of conflict resolution action going on in our lives is predicated on how good of shape we are in. And I don't mean physical shape, (but it certainly can be part of the whole). I've always taught acting as a four-component process, head, heart, body, and soul. Or, put another way, our intellect, our emotions, our physical being, and our spiritual life. Conflict resolution demands that all of these components need to be working in some capacity before something truthful can be achieved. And so often, we may have one of these in really good shape, or two, or three, and perhaps in rare moments in our lives all of these components may be working in a balanced functioning way. Most of my life, I've always had some form of physical exercise that I've used to stay in good physical shape. For some reason, (I'm trying to resolve) the last couple of years I've fallen short in this area. Physically, I don't think I've ever been in this poor of shape. As a result, I find that my energy is depleted before I can really physically stay with something to get it resolved. I do understand that physical condition is relative, and I'm not saying one has to be in the shape of a super bowl quarterback to function, but what I am saying is that it does help sustain a process.

If I were to ask you which emotion you most easily access, most people would say anger. For many of us, anger seems to be that component that seems to always be in shape, and always ready to create conflict, either within us or with someone else. Asking someone which one that is lacking and they will usually say joy. The human condition suggests that joy is much harder to come by than anger or sorrow are, and therefore its much more difficult to sustain. And I would maintain that joy is a natural emotion to take away the sting of conflict, but how often do we employ it?

The intellects will tell you that all problems can be solved with reason and thought. The irony of this idea is that it really isn't very smart to think that there is not a much higher working order than just the power of the brain to break through into new ideas and conflict resolution. To complicate matters, with intellectuals, there is also a tendency to utilize facts void of any kind of subjective experience, further, to the pure of intellect, experience only works in a controlled environment which is tempered only by objectivity.

And then there are those who refuse to use the brain at all and rely completely on an emotional life that is finely tuned against any kind of reason. Any high school teacher will tell you of the experience in confusion between the brain and the heart that exists in adolescence. Hopefully, you learn early in your teaching career not to take things personally, because not only are the emotional outbursts geared directly towards you, but they are usually without reason at all. A good teacher can recognize this, and can easily avoid the escalation of a difficult conflict when it's met with silent reason, deflected in a non-personal way. This is usually the most common conflict amongst families. Families tend to be locked into each other in a powerfully emotional way that is tied to history and experience. Further, in families it’s the most difficult source of conflict to not take personally. In my own experience, (and most recently) my attempt to remain objective in family conflicts I know eventually becomes clouded. Often, its one of the most confusing sources of conflict, because it can also be so subconscious. My recent experience with family conflict suggests that although I'm in the middle of it, reason will not allow me to accurately analyze how it pertains to me. It's as though I'm a third party in the conflict, being used to displace some sort of personal anger. I can go over every action, every word, and every step, but can only come up with the conclusion that its reason exists in a pattern of some long standing strange psychological experiment. I think often, that is why there are breaks that happen in families that may or may not ever get resolved, because they have their genesis in combinations of experiences that are completely out of the control of any one person. Further, they are the easiest to escalate, because reason, emotion, spirit, all become mitigating circumstances, and serve no purpose.

Then there are the ones who would tell you that all conflict is mediated by spiritual means, and that God, (usually their God) is the only one who can truly mend your conflict. Mix it up with emotion, and you have one of the most violent means of conflict escalation and resolution known to man. Just ask Israel and Palestine. The pursuit of a spiritual life I believe is an important one, but I also think that dogma is one of the ills of global and personal conflict. A dogmatic approach to spirituality may solve some problems, but it certainly increases the possibility of creating a whole plethora of others. Religion against religion is a source of such a wide spread conflict that I'm beginning to think it will never find resolution. On a personal level, I've pursued a dogmatic life in my years, and I had that very experience. I was able to manufacture a real sense of joy, but also found it to be just that, manufactured. It separated me from friends, family, and even whole countries, and more importantly, gave me the belief that the answers to all of my questions were answered in one book. In the end, when I honestly assessed what it was doing to me, I had no choice but to take many of the lessons I learned from it, and leave it, for I began to see the result through the long process of its approach was in fact, violence and murder.

It feels like my brain has turned to mush after that last paragraph, so I will stop for today, I suppose I need to write this to understand my own connection to getting at my conflicts. I repeat one of my favorite Shakespearean quotes that always reminds me the universal ground we all walk on when it comes to conflict and trouble. "When troubles come, they come not as single spies but in battalions." Lately, however, the opportunities are coming as plentiful as the trouble, so perhaps there is balance coming into my life, and I want the universe to know, as I write this down, that you are perfectly welcome to bring this into my life, help me to step away from the creation of my own folly, and watch in wonder.

'Black Swan, Black Criminal'

2011-01-24T09:44:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I started writing about conflict resolution, but then there was the conflict of a busy household, so I couldn't finish. Today my time is limited so I'm going to write about seeing 'Black Swan' last night. When the movie was first released, I bought my ticket early, but found I could not make it through the first twenty minutes. I left, filled with anxiety, and vowed I would never make it back to see this movie. I think its interesting how much my mood and state of mind responds to a movie immediately, especially one like this. There is a moment in the beginning of a movie that influences my decision to be for or against a movie. If I start out against the movie, it really has to do some gymnastics to bring me back. If I'm 'for' a movie, there is little that can dissuade me from turning on it. So, with my brother Dan's urging, I made my second attempt at 'Black Swan'. As dark as the movie was, and as palm sweating tense, I found myself strangely inspired by this movie, and as always the test, I'm still thinking about it this morning.

In the late nineties, I played a part for several months in the play of a friend of mine who'll I'll keep anonymous, but the short version is I played a murderer who was a paranoid schizophrenic, who had murdered two people in an escape attempt. The dark side of his personality was also a character in the play, (I was the only character who could see and speak to the character), and so as I was watching this movie, 'Black Swan', I found myself in the throes of vivid memories of playing this character. If you don't know the story of Swan Lake, it’s the story of a girl who becomes a swan, and her only way to return to being a girl is by falling in love with a handsome prince. She finally finds him, but kills herself after her evil twin, (the black swan) seduces the prince in her stead. Natalie Portman does an amazing job acting the role, and of course, Darrin Aronosky directs and finds so many amazing parallels of life imitating art. It’s a perfect combination of horror, art, and psychological thriller, and I would also ad, its one of those films with an ambiguous ending that works perfectly.

Years ago, playing this murderer, I would have to come into the theatre two or three hours early for each performance. Denise, my girlfriend at the time, would carefully paint all of my prison tattoos, which were extensive. Because the play ended up being one of the most lauded plays we ever did at Playwright's Workshop Theatre, the play was extended and ran for many weeks. There isn't any way of really preparing for this, when you started the journey, there were twelve performances you had to focus on, and then suddenly you find yourself in an open ended run, not knowing how long you will be playing the part. I mention this because although it was one of the most interesting and challenging parts I'll ever play, I dreaded going into the theatre to ready myself for a performance. I would leave home with a heaviness I cannot describe, as I would have to descend into the mind and body of a killer each night. After the initial performance was rendered, I would feel the initial wave of relief and elation that most actors experience after a show, and then at about eleven o'clock, I would fall into a black hole of despair and danger. I never really shared what I experienced after playing this role, during and afterwards. It was a role that also contributed to some very dark drinking, and you would often find me at the end of a Saturday night in some of the most dangerous bars in Phoenix, my tattoos still attached to my skin, playing a killer on the loose in the city. As I was preparing for the role, I would often go out by myself, and improvise my way through a blurry night, playing all of my circumstances to the hilt, pretending and relating to others as if I had just escaped from the Iowa State Penitentiary. (one night, I even pulled off drinking all night with a group of The Dirty Dozen, an Arizona motorcycle gang, many who had been in prison).

It was harrowing preparation, but a necessary one, for I don't think I could have played the role if I hadn't prepared in a realistic way. Although I am very proud of the notice I received from the acclaimed director Marshal Mason, (he was writing reviews for New Times while I was doing the play) it was a role I took dangerously to the edge of insanity. This is the section of Marshal Mason's review that pertained to me in New Times.

"…Best of all is the modulated, layered, four-dimensional characterization by Raymond King Shurtz as the central convict. His performance is so persuasive and detailed that it's hard to remember he's acting. Not since the stunning tour de force by Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs have we had an opportunity to understand the intricacies of so complex a criminal…"

Now, you would think that after getting an acting review from Marshal Mason, and one that compares you with Anthony Hopkins playing Hannibal Lector, that it would be a joyous occasion, but as fate would have it, life and acclaim don't often collaborate with one another. I think the review that I received took me further in to the darkest reaches of the character, and luckily, the play ran for just three more weeks after the review came out. A great review for me has the tendency to create an opposite reaction than a joyous one. There is probably a text book pathology that pertains to my reaction, but getting the acting review of your life playing a psychopathic killer can really mess with your head. It certainly did with mine.

So, I did closely relate to the performance and character of Nina, played by Natalie Portman in 'Black Swan', and although it brought up all the memories of my own battle with my evil twin, I wasn't traumatized by 'Black Swan', but elated by it. In the late nineties, during that period while doing my black swan, I wasn't in a state of mind where I could easily separate myself from my twin either. I think much of this film is about the state of mind a performer often experiences when preparing for a role. Especially if life's circumstances are partially used in its process. When Natalie Portman expresses the difficulty she encountered playing this role in her interviews, I certainly understand it, and after seeing it, I have to give her all the props she deserves.

I think when the general public sees a film like this, although I think many are knowledgeable enough to appreciate it, I don't think that they completely understand the process an actor goes through to perfect this kind of role. Perhaps that's why I walked out of the film the first time around, because of the anxiety I could feel in the beginning of the movie. Some actors get paid large amounts of money to do this kind of work, some of it is not warranted, but some of it is. I respect actors that are brave enough to go through the process it takes to perfect a part such as this, and I'm also respectful of the writer who created the role. In my case, I was very fortunate to come upon this role, and, would probably do it again, just not with the same approach, and don't worry, I didn't kill anyone in my preparation, in case you were wondering, but I did get in touch with an evil part of myself, which I believe, each one of us has...

In addition, there is some Shurtz trivia, which few know. During the fourteen years I spent coaching Women's Gymnastics, I trained three of those years in ballet, and wouldn't wish it upon anyone. It was the single most grueling physical experience I've ever put myself through, but I wanted to understand it and be able to coach it in my gymnasts. I had one of the best ballet teachers, Neela Nelson, to teach me, and whom I worked with for many years in the gym and dance room. Our gymnasts were some of the best dancers in the country, and, I saw and coached many of these swans in my day.

'Swimming in the Water of Subjectivity'

2011-01-21T10:31:00.001-08:00

My last entry seemed to have stirred up opinions that in my estimation were the very point of my statements, which tells me that I would rather get back to expressing myself in a partisan way, if there is one thing I've learned in my own personal journey, its that in this day and age, conflict resolution is more difficult than it was when I was younger. As I get older, the demographic that I come more and more into contact with are less likely to change their opinions on issues, and that peoples' convictions are welded into the cracks of their own experiences. As we listen to each other speak or think, the process by which we express ourselves becomes more complex, but in my opinion, more guarded.

Rational thinking on political issues is very clearly divided into two camps of subjectivity, neither one seems to want to want to swim in water that is filled with objectivity, and since I've not been enough a part of the political process, I'll let the people who are passionate about their opinions on all things political speak on the matter. I was not brought up in a household where political discussions were part of the mix, in fact, most of the discussion I saw seemed to be centered around the crisis management that made me a much better dramatist than a politician. I do seem to have some political opinions on gun control and how it relates to the youth in our country, and as I said, I was particularly moved by the latest shooting in Tucson, but I'm well aware that my experience is grounded in expressing myself through art and a subjective kind of reason that is part of my own personal journey.

As I sit here this morning, and contemplate the forms that are in front of me to fill out, like many people, I would rather do anything but fill out forms, but I'm also aware that there are many people in the world whose job is to fill out forms. I'm aware that form filling out is a part of life. However, like politics, I was never raised in a form filling out environment. Its mind boggling to let myself think about all the things I never learned and all the things I never will. We all are products of a certain kind of environment, we all may have the freedom to choose our paths of pursuit, but we are influenced by what we see and learn at a very young age. When I chose the path of a dramatist or writer, (and I'm calling it that this morning instead of a playwright) I was very definitely influenced by what I saw growing up, gleaning what was around me. Thinking about it now, I now understand that psychologically, I was furiously trying to create some order in the chaos that was my life. And I'm still doing it. I'm still trying to organize chaos in an entertaining way, and that is the craft of the dramatist.

I was also brought up in an environment that was rife with delusions of grandeur, so contrary to what the AA philosophy speaks on the matter, that all alcoholics are delusionists, I would argue the point in stating that not all grandeur is delusional, and if human beings did not strive for some sort of greatness, the world would be a pretty boring place. I often oppose that thinking, because I think in a subtle way it is telling people that their drinking is a result of not being able to achieve greatness. The message seems to me to be, "humble yourself and accept the fact that you are never going to be able to accomplish what your aspirations were". Stop thinking such grand thoughts, stop thinking with any kind of complexity and keep everything simple, for if you don't, you will drink again. Imagine my surprise when the AA book uses the metaphor of the production of a play. The book uses a play to illustrate the idea that 'we' are not in control of things. "Each person is like an actor who wants to run the whole show; is forever trying to arrange the lights, the ballet, the scenery and the rest of the players in his own way. If his arrangements would only stay put, if only people would do as he wished, the show would be great. Everybody, including himself, would be pleased. Life would be wonderful. In trying to make these arrangements our actor may sometimes be quite virtuous. He may be kind, considerate, patient, generous; even modest and self-sacrificing. On the other hand, he may be mean, egotistical, selfish and dishonest. But, as with most humans, he is more likely to have varied traits." Its evident to me when I read this that Bill W never worked in a theatre. I remember when these passages were brought up in a meeting or in a discussion, I usually stayed silent on the matter, and wished another metaphor could have been used to explain the 'control' issue. For many people, the control issue arises because there is no one in their environment that can take on these specialty jobs. For many people, the support does not exist for them to become the best and brightest, so they do have to juggle the complexity of multi-tasking at a very young age. Running the whole show is a result of circumstances, and not necessarily because of alcoholism. Not all individuals who are asked to 'run the show' at a very young age are alcoholic, and alcoholism doesn't have a monopoly on control. The very nature of art, (even when it is collaborative) is a form of self expression that does demand a great deal of control, tempered by skill and talent.

I think when I am met with moments of frustration, it's easy for me to lament on the initial issues that had such a big impact on my life. Usually, in a one-parent home, or a home that is chaotic, you don't learn the simple things like opening a checking account, or like filling out forms, or how to buy your first car, or how to enroll in school. In my growing up period, there was also an anti-academic philosophy, education was stressed only in the reading of books. I was never expected to go to college, nor was it ever discussed. If I were to get an education, it would have to be privately manufactured, and I would have to 'fill out the forms' and figure out how to finance it on my own. I'm not suggesting that I am the only one who has experienced this situation, what I am saying is that I have fallen through the cracks of education, and have fallen through the cracks of many of the institutions that were readily available to help me find my way. Before I went to Austin this last time, a friend of mine who is a well-known professor at a University, took me to the opening of a play performed by a well-known theatre company here in Arizona. Forty-five minutes before the play, I was meeting people from the ghost of theatre past, and being introduced and re-introduced to many of the players and professors of theatre here in the current theatre community. And no one went out of their way to make me feel this way, but I felt less than and inferior in their presence, still an outsider trying to find my way into the herd. They had jobs, and pensions, and benefits, and families, and seemed very happy to be in this environment. Their opinions snapped from their mouths readily and jovially, and I was silent. My education came out of experience and not academia, and I felt embarrassed.

As I sit here in my brother's house typing this, I can't help but be impressed by his accomplishments, maybe for the first time. I'm realizing he is the one person whose history of growing up parallels mine. I know where he came from, and he knows where I came from. I can say to him, "Remember when Uncle Pole wrecked his truck on those ninety degree turns coming home from Pinaccle Peak?" He knows what I am talking about. He knows the Murray Stingray bicycle we had to share for transportation, and he knows the history with our father. He took the ethic of work from my grandfather, and hung onto it for dear life, because he knew the support for any kind of education or delusions of grandeur would be scant. He made the best of it, and he made the best of his life, in a world and a past that some would say were overwhelming odds. I find myself proud of him, and proud of what he does. He seems glad that I am here as well, so that we can share these brief moments of our history, even though we may have interpreted them in a different way. Oh, life…

'A Sliver of Malice'

2011-01-20T07:20:00.000-08:00

There are so many things to write about, but like my life sometimes, there are so many directions and so much to be done that I sometimes get paralyzed, although I would say I'm currently in a good state of mind. There were a couple of days last week that were pretty rocky, mostly because I found out that the job I thought I had was a scam. Although I pride myself in readily being able to detect a con, I was taken in, and by my estimation, he was either one of the best, or I was so determined to have a job that I didn't see the red flags. He had certainly done his homework on me, and appealed to my interest for anything having to do with art. (I was to deliver art supplies) It would take three entries to write about the whole evolution of the scam, but I don't yet feel like writing about it today, but I know I will. Suffice to say I detected the con before too much damage was done, but I'll put it this way. How many times have we heard the phrase, "If it sounds too good to true, it probably is?" I've now learned that through placing my hand directly on the stove, and probably will end up paying at least $800 for my folly. I'll know more once I've filed a police report and talk to the bank.

I'm reminding myself so much of my father right now, who was never in any kind of big trouble, but always managed to be in just a little bit. Further, at seventy five years old, he had no will, very little personal property, and in the five years he's been missing, his irresponsibility has torn the relationship between I and my sisters into something that for now seems irreversible. A missing person cannot be declared dead for seven years without a physical body. His pension and his social security continues to amass, in a bank account in my sister's name, who refuses to communicate about it. As a result, we haven't even been able have a memorial for my father because she will no longer speak to my brother and me. I suppose near the end of his life, he was confused enough to not be able to manifest anything legal, and so the conflict continues, and probably always will. I mention it here, because it's frustrating to be this age in my life and still have to deal with the issue of my father's penchant for irresponsibility, and now the torch has been passed to the son. I've had to face this startling understanding, that the sins of the father, in relationship to the son, can either be expunged or inherited, or perhaps a little of both. That struggle continues in my own life to achieve a level of responsibility that I feel good about. My only reprieve on this issue, however, is the assurance that my father never did anything out of malice. This fact has been so important to me, and I believe, enabled me to forgive my father. In fact, I am convinced that neither my father nor my mother's character included one sliver of the nature of this word, malice. So when I come up against it, and sense it in others, it's very hard for me to understand. One would think as one gets older, that these things would be easier to understand, (some are), but not without consequences when they collaborate with action. As one ages, one can either face these issues with openness or shut the door unto death. I think that the reason my mother continues to retain her sharpness and ability to keep expanding her wisdom is her willingness to continue to grow and face the consequences of her own actions, and to continue to discuss them, the mind and mandate of the writer, in my opinion. And this I say in high praise, as my mother and I continue to deepen our relationship through this process. Honor thy father and mother. I would ad, in doing so, you will reap the rewards of forgiveness, as it turns into the true nature of love.

Martin Luther King said, "We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us." When I read this quote last week, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I know with my father, the disappearing specialist in my life, I had to be able to forgive him at a certain point in my life, or I never would have been able to have the experience with him that I did. Further, I'm convinced that the manner in which I am now telling his story is a result of the forgiveness we experienced. The short span of a life, contains many stories that have no lasting significance, but in the thread of a lifetime, there are perhaps only a few stories that have an eternal quality to them. I believe that those stories are not easily raised, because they only happen when one is willing to fuse waking life with the subconscious. Art is a powerful way to understand them, or to manifest them, but there is also a great risk in doing so. Forgiveness is also a large part of that equation. Forgiveness is the large door at the end of the hall, that separates romantic love from a lasting love.

I listened to Michael Reagan on msnbc the other night. He was chastising his brother, Ron, for disclosing in his book that his father, Ronald Reagan, probably had Alzheimer's disease while he was still in office. Its very interesting to me, that one political party amongst us would rather keep any kind of personal information that seems the least bit 'unpleasant' a private matter. It is reminiscent of the church to me, growing up and reading histories of the saints that were devoid of any scandalous information. The break between the church and my family was partially because members my family were willing to honestly render the truth, warts and all. I grew up in a semi-scandalous life, because members of my family were unafraid of that kind of honesty. I do understand that there are some things that are better left unsaid, but still adhere to a person's right and freedom to honestly share their view of life in its array of full color, instead of the large tableaus of black and white we are mostly fed. There are consequences to this philosophy, and I think I was often the victim of guilt by association, but became able to process this eventually, so that it didn't cause too much damage. I have to honestly admit, that one of the most powerful gestures of this whole shooting in Tucson was the willingness of one of the shooting victims to approach the parents of the evil shooter, and find some element of forgiveness and reconciliation. Dylan Kleebold's father called the school in Columbine during the shooting to let them know that he thought his son might be one of the perpetrators. Can you imagine what was going through this man's mind? The family of Kleebold and Harris were so traumatized by the community that they had to relocate, like the witness protection program. I can't imagine what their lives have been like since.

Late Saturday night, I also watched a show about Ted Haggardy. (the evangelist and preacher who was removed from the pulpit for having sex and buying meth from a gay prostitute) He was starting a new church in the barn near his home. When he was exposed for his crimes against mankind and the body of Christ, he said that everyone he had known for thirty years as a preacher immediately stopped talking to him. I mean, cut him off, and told him so. Immediate excommunication. If this is Christian love amongst the evangelicals, I want none of that kind of love. The deeper levels of love begin when forgiveness has an opportunity to spring into action. What struck me the most was this man's willingness to be honest, and the powerful connection he had with his family. His children and his wife were so authentically powerful in standing by their father. As a result, their sincerity played like Stanislavky actors in the deepest midst of affect memory, truly genuine in everything they said. That's the kind of Christianity that moves me. This was the love that Christ was talking about. If you fall, I will love you. It was plain to see in this man, again, that there was no malice in his actions. I would go to this man's church.

I also had one other significant event happen yesterday, in fact in the middle of much of this writing, I am fully registered for school. Although I taught high school for ten years, I was able to get the job when the charter school movement had just started, and my experience was enough to get me the job. However, I was always bothered by the fact that although I had gone to college for multiple years, I was deep enough into my academic rebellion to lift my nose at anything that smelled like a degree. There is much more to these actions, but as I grow older, I have a much greater perspective on that landscape. In retrospect, my lack of academic ambition, and my distain for it, is probably responsible for my current situation, and my inability to even secure another teaching job. There was an unexpected emotional response to finally enrolling, and I expect there to be more of the same when I finish. So, now I pursue the call of higher education in the midst of everything else that is starting to build. Have a great day, keep malice and bitterness away, for it is the enemy of art and resolution.

'Strap On Your Gun and Be Somebody!'

2011-01-13T09:18:00.000-08:00

Like many of you, I've had my television on in the evenings for the first time in quite awhile, to get an accurate update on the state of the country. I find myself reeling from one emotional extreme to the other, thankfully, culminating to the way I felt after hearing our president speak in Tucson. The most touching moment for me, was listening to the president talk about nine year old Christina Green, who I knew was born on 9/11, but didn't realize she was also born in 2001. It's remarkable in its irony, and so very poignant in its impact, in so many ways, another victim of that day. For me, I don't see a vast difference between the extremist dogma that created terrorism on a grand scale, and the deranged dogma that produced it on a domestic scale. Both forms of terrorism appear to me to be forms of mental illness, one collectively, and one individually. Call it western thinking, but whenever I watch footage of members of terrorist groups or individuals, I get the same chill I do when I see someone who has clearly lost their mind. Further, the differences between a self-imposed brainwashing and a brainwashing that is perpetrated within the confines of religious or political extremist groups, look pretty much the same, although the costumes are a different. It's also what frightens me about the repetitive rhetoric that is springing from the far right, its foundation wrought and wrapped in patriotism. Call me irresponsible, but I was not aware of the tea party penchant for coming to rallies strapped with their weapons, and well, is it farfetched for me to say that it also caused a chill to go up my spine?

There were many facts I heard for the first time connected to this story, one I heard was the fact that the NRA is an organization unlike any other in their diligence and allegiance to their cause, which is to make sure that any legislation fails that in any way disarms or disrupts the laws in this country regarding guns. I'll tell you what I know about guns.

Both my maternal and paternal family lines are LDS, or (Mormons), in fact both sides of my family were folks who came into to Utah in the 1800's during the Mormon migration. If you know anything about Mormon history, you know that for several years after the Mormons settled in Utah, the guns they had were not just used for hunting, but were also ready in the event that the U.S. government might impinge upon their religious freedom, and in fact, the breakout of war between the two came very close. The founder of the church, Joseph Smith, (before the Mormons came to Utah) was also in fact, killed by gunshots in the Carthage jail, in Missouri, as was his brother and my grandfather, Hyrum Smith. There is no shortage of 2nd amendment rights history in my family, and I am well aware the role guns played.

It was normal to have loaded guns right in the closet when I grew up, it was also normal to ride from state to state in the back of pick-ups. It was normal. There were no safes that locked the guns away, in fact, most of the houses I still sometimes frequent in my home town of Boulder, UT, have bullet holes somewhere in the walls or ceilings, and there is always a story behind the bullet holes. I still have two of my father's thirty-thirties in the closet of the trailer I stay in when I go home for the summer, and they are both loaded, it seems normal. Guns were part of the culture. Of course, they were mostly used for hunting, and growing up, it was normal to have a thirty-thirty Winchester as a saddle rifle whenever there was a ride at gathering or moving cattle. Growing up, a gun rack in the window of the truck was normal, and there was usually a gun on full display. You didn't think anything of it. Further, in most homes, it was also common to have a gun right there in the corner of the family room. As a kid, you were taught that until you were old enough to shoot it, (which was very young) you didn't touch it, and that was drilled into you pretty hard. Still, it didn't stop me from finding a loaded thirty-eight in the back of my uncle's car and pointing it straight at my mother when I was probably six years old. (It wasn't out of anger, I was playing cowboy). My point here, is that I think I have a pretty good history of guns and culture. Guess what. Times change. We don't let our kids ride in the back of pick-ups anymore. Statistics show us that riding in the back of a truck in an accident can be dangerous. As the culture evolves, hopefully, we do too.

I'll be honest with you. Up until last year, I always kept a loaded thirty-eight revolver under my seat. (Sorry Mom) It seemed normal. On the road, I have run into some pretty savory characters, and I felt safer having it with me, and, I know how to use it, its normal. One morning last winter, I got up and took it to a pawn shop in Texas and sold it. For about a month, I felt strangely naked, and then I felt much better. That's just my experience. I'm not here to advocate what you do with yours, I'm just telling you what I did with mine. I'm just sharing with you my experience. I am a product of a gun culture. Perhaps I fall into the category of a responsible gun owner, but perhaps I also came to a point in my life where I felt that like riding in the back of a pick up truck was dangerous, I didn't need to do that anymore. In an extremely violent society, perhaps one day I will come across a situation where having it might give me an advantage. But, I'm making a choice here. If I were to have been at that political rally and had that gun in my pick-up would I have been able to make a difference? I don't think so. I don't think anyone at that rally with a gun 'locked and loaded' could have stopped what happened, it happened to fast. I know there is an argument here, and I know there are lots of Wyatt Earps out there who think they could have stopped it if they would have been armed. Remember that Wyatt Earp was an exceptional human being under fire, but it still didn't stop the deaths of many whom he loved. What makes more sense to me is to take the guns out of the hands of those who use them for criminal purposes, or those who use them to kill other people. That makes more sense.

In my opinion, the most dangerous gun advocate folks are the percentage of people who are politically, religiously, and machismoly charged with owning a gun. People who see guns not as tools for protection and hunting, but people who see guns as a means of power. These are the people, in my opinion, who wear their guns to political rallies. You can't tell me that they wear guns to make a point about anything other than one of asserting an arrogant display of power. They want you to know how tough they are, and what patriots they are, and what idiots they are. Yes, I said it, idiots. No one with a thinking brain in their heads has to wear a gun in public but policemen who are hired with that force of power. When I see Sarah Palin advocating her God given right to hunt and bear arms, I think its just plain silly. And that is the accurate word for it. And, from my point of view, there is something less than authentic about the way she talks about it. And I've seen this in many of the gun advocates. Charleton Heston was an early film hero of mine, and Ben Hur is in my top three movies of all time. But when he started swinging his rifle around at NRA rallies, I lost all of my respect for him. When I would hear him talk about his own family history of guns, something always rang as false. You know what? People who have respect for guns and have a deep understanding of the history of guns do not have to ever really talk about it. These people, it seems, have to talk about it all the time. Something is rotten in Denmark.

Oh, there is so much more I want to say, but the day is a busy one and I have to leave you with lots of half thoughts. And I know now its been said a hundred times the last two days, but why do we need clips that hold thirty rounds of ammunition? Something to think about. Another part of the lunacy that was George Bush. I don't think it to far of a stretch to say that this latest massacre is part of his doing. He could have prevented at least, some of the carnage, but he let the law on this clip issue lapse, and don't think it wasn't fashioned ahead of time, the gun lobby is to strong in this country, and well, Mr. Bush could not resist a little more money in his greedy pockets. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know how these things work, and I'm certainly not one, but it's ludicrous to think that an average thinking person doesn't see what goes on. It is lunacy, and there are some days that I become completely cynical about it ever changing, and then something like this latest shooting happens, and we all can't help, to at least think about it.

'Natural Born Assassins'

2011-01-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

From the moment I woke up yesterday morning, I knew it would turn out to be a strange day. Nothing I did or said yesterday seemed to make much sense, and then when I got home from workshop and was writing my entry, I begin to hear the story break on the shooting in Tucson from the television in the other room. As I was writing, I was listening to little bits of information coming over the news, and stopped from time to time to confer with my brother, who always flips from channel to channel, but the news was relatively the same, eighteen people shot in Tucson by a twenty-two year old man who had written rambling essays on the internet.

When I finished my entry for yesterday, I went into my own room and began to listen to the story. The first thing I always notice about news like this, is the choice of words from the media to characterize what happened and what is currently happening. If you remember, when the nine-eleven story broke years ago, the major story of the day before-was the murder of Sandra Levy, the young intern who had been having an affair with a congressman, and that story had been lingering for weeks. When nine eleven broke, suddenly newsrooms were filled with experts, journalists, and members of society that you had never heard of before... So as not to chase a rabbit down into the ground of the twin towers, my point is that when a story breaks of any significance, it is something akin to a feeding frenzy. It's as if everyone in the media has been starving and choking, trying to survive on the little bit of death, mayhem, politics, and drama that they given. And then, suddenly there is so much food that they just can't contain the impulse to gorge themselves, trying to eat it all at once. The language is peppered with all the sympathetic rhetoric in their vocabularies, some doing it much better than others. And now the race will begin between them all, dissecting, gorging and spitting out details until there is nothing left but bones, and then they will make soup.

Of course, politics is the variable that seems to be a part of every news story in modern times, and I noticed that this story was more of the same, from the political pundits to journalists all over the world, quickly taking advantage of the moment, and the idea that this mass murder was politically motivated, expounding on conspiracy theories and political rhetoric, trying to make some immediate sense of it all. All of the media outlets begin the mad scramble to interview anybody having any thing to do with the story, from 'eye witnesses' to friends and neighbors of the wounded and deceased, and, what they love to do, find and create heroes.

Last summer, I found in one of my many boxes of random items, the movie by Michael Moore, 'Bowling for Columbine'. It was the deluxe edition, with interviews, award shows, and parts of the story that didn't make the final cut of the actual film. It is a film that stays with you for days, and although I'd seen it before, now I had the time to think about it. The information that stayed with me the longest, was the irony that on the very day of this horrible shooting, the US had employed a bombing in Bosnia that had produced a vast number of casualties, many of them civilians, calling it 'collateral damage'. There were many ironies to the story, another being that one of the largest weapons manufacturing plants, I believe, Boeing, was right there close to the neighborhood where the shooting had taken place. The publicist of the company, could not make the correlation between the two events happening simultaneously, and it was pretty shocking to watch and hear.

So, last night, not being able to sleep, I found another documentary on Klebold and Harris, the two shooters in the killing at Columbine. It was a compelling documentary, filled with footage of the two making movies, diary entries, drawings, and conversations between them. Four months before that shooting, Klebold was the sound operator for a school play, something I could relate to, having spent ten years in an arts high school where I witnessed many a troubled youth. There was footage of him respectfully listening to the drama teacher, and the film pointed out how knowledgeable he was at all things technical. I always had my 'tech' kids too, and many of them wore trench coats, strange hats, and wore black clothing. (the trench coat is often part of the 'theatre kid's' attire) Many of my students said strange things, listened to speed metal and Marilyn Manson, but none of them killed their high school classmates. The film did point out the gray area in the thinking of these two, that area where fantasy mixed with reality, and the possible inability to distinguish the two. It was also interesting to listen to the FBI profiler, who pointed out that each one of them had personality disorders that independently probably would not have caused an actual killing, but together, the collective disorders created a perfect storm for murder and suicide. As I looked at the footage, and studied the content of the movies they were making, as shocking as they may have been to some, it was fairly typical in theme to me. I've watched many a short film made by high school students whose subject matter was similar. Being misunderstood, bullying, negotiating and navigating a clique mentality, unrequited love, violence, racism, the subjects which many high school students think about. I'm still baffled at what caused them to eventually act out their angst, but I do know that all of these issues mixed with a strong enough penchant for suicide, throw in some extreme narcissism, get some really powerful weapons, and you have the right climate for some possible shocking action. Usually, it's a single suicide or a drug overdose. I was a troubled kid with some similar issues, but I don't believe I had the narcissistic tendencies I could see in studying these two young men. I was a kid who had self-esteem issues, trying to change the equation with alcohol and other substances.

I also hung out with other troubled kids, many of them now dead or in prison. I experienced a lot of extremes, from thinking about suicide to believing I was immortal. (Okay, some narcissism). When I was in elementary and junior high school, I spent many an hour drawing war scenarios, my ships and war scenes peppered with swastikas and bloody wounds. I wrote poems about death and addiction. My best friend had become a master thief before we ever got to high school, so there was always bottles of liquor to fuel my angst. My friend's father was an abusive alcoholic, and often 'my friend' would show up at my house with bruises or black eyes, inflicted by his father. Along with the robberies we meticulously planned out, we also at one time planned his father's demise. I hesitate to use 'murder', only because when we discussed it, we felt justified. That's a fact I'm only revealing because I was willing to do anything to help my friend not have to suffer these beatings. We never carried it out, but we did fantasize about it, and I know he did much more so than I did. He and I were also a perfect storm of eventually ending up dead or in prison. (He did for a several years.) We used drugs and drank to cope with our lack of power. And that really is what a lot of it is, if you are violently captured in a continual cycle of abuse, its not a far step to think you would eventually try to stop it.

These two kids, Klebold and Harris, were not abused by their parents, (if anything they were ignored) but they were certainly abused by their school peers, which is a fairly common occurrence, especially in a large high school. There is footage of them walking down a hall and being pushed out of the way by the jocks of the school, which is a cliché, and not at all uncommon. They also had access to weapons of mass destruction, or guns that can kill very quickly and methodically. My scenario was a bit different, because we fought back in a much different way, and we were pretty tough kids. My friend, was especially tough, you would be too if you had consistently been beaten by your father. He protected me like I was a young mafia boss walking around with a pit bull. If anyone said or did anything to me, they would very quickly be in a confrontation with him. If he was not there, I learned to also fight my own battles. Even the jocks thought better of pushing us out of the way. But it was also a period before guns became a source of power for teenagers. We did have guns, but they were not for killing.

I was watching the news this morning, as they interviewed one of his college teachers. (Fox news called him professor.) It was not a great interview, and I wasn't actually in the class room, but it sounded like Jarod Loughner was speaking out in class, and answering questions with answers that had nothing to do with the question. This is more common than one would think, I had plenty of students who did the same thing. (Remember, I taught at an 'art school' where many of the students were teenagers whose parents did not know what to do with them.) I had students who were anarchists, addicts, (or in recovery) revolutionists, emotionally disturbed, etc. I also had students who were brilliant but troubled, and certainly students who were there because they were really good students and artistically inclined. The point is, there are always those students that you worry about. There is always that student who will speak out in class. They will test you, test themselves, and test their peers. Being a teenager is a really tough age to get through, (for seemingly different reasons now, but let's face it, whatever the day and age, there is a universality of being a teenager, but there are some differences now). We live in a day and an age where many of the kids were from one parent homes, or living with a friend. One of my favorite students lived in a group home because she had been taken out of her home by CPS because she was abused. It's tougher than it has ever been to be a teenager. I'm certainly not condoning the actions of this young man, what I am saying is that how and why teenagers make it into their twenties is partially a mystery, because for many of them, (including myself) there isn't any logic to their survival.

Amongst many revelations in this story, is the idea that it is politically motivated, and this young man was making a political statement. It doesn't seem to me that he was a political genius or a strategist, just someone who was had reached a point of some real mental illness, and someone who began to believe in his own fantasies. Leave it to the politicians and the media to make it totally political. History is littered with assassins whose reason are convoluted, whose reasons don't really make sense at all. One of the most famous assassins in history, John Wilkes Booth, was an actor and an anarchist, and we are not even completely sure whether he said, "Death always with tyrants" or "the south is avenged!" (there is more to this idea but I digress) I agree, however, that because it was a politician who was the main target (if it turns out to be the case) that it stands to reason that the motivation needs exploration, but I'm not convinced in the least that this man is in his right mind. The loss of that mind, who knows? From his writings it does sound like he was pretty bitter over his treatment. Out of control anger to this degree from being treated unfairly is quite often augmented by extreme narcissism, as it was I believe with Klebold and Harris. Perhaps there is a glitch in the idea that as a society we raise our children to think they can and will become anyone or anything they desire in this country. As I'ts often said with war, "the first casualty of war is the truth…" Are we still hyping the American dream to the extent that the hyperbole has become an obvious lie that young people quickly see through? To me, it does seem like we have entered into a cold war in our own country. No one is really listening to anyone else. You can be so caught up in your convictions that you lose the capacity to listen to any other point of view. I'm no political junkie, but I do listen to the war that has broken out in politics, and it has become fairly extreme. And of course, using allegorical references to war is never really a good idea, is it Sarah Palin?

I also think that all forms of leadership in our society are effected and influenced by the leadership that are our elected officials, from the top on down. I really believe that the eight years of George Bush was a demonstration of what Robert Greene's 48 laws of power will get for you. It has radically changed how influence is rendered. As the middle class continues to disappear, you can bet there will be more of these shocking and extreme actions, some will occur in desperation and some will be politically motivated. I wonder what people thought of John Brown in those months before the civil war? Did they see him as mentally ill? He was certainly a radical. Revolution in a society has been a hard truth from the beginning of our being able to make fire, why would we believe that it's going to be any different now? When the gap between rich and poor becomes to extreme, revolution is imminent.

I don't think Klebold and Harris were revolutionaries anymore than I think this latest killer is, but I do think the change in our values are sending messages throughout society, and the disenfranchised youth are the most vulnerable and reactive to it. When you are of that age, your thinking can be so raw and reactive. I think as a society, we are creating these kind of killers, but I don't think the answer as to why is an easy one. And I do know that when you take away the middle class, and a possible secure place within the middle class when you are young, you take away the dreams of people who are able to keep balance in our society, and when you take away that balance, you do have the climate for revolution and all kinds of radical thinking. I don't think it's an immediate danger, but it's not far off, and I'm not sure that those in power don't really care if its stopped, for they can certainly protect themselves.

I do feel at a loss of what to say to about this congresswoman and her family, and all of those wounded or killed in this tragedy, it has changed their lives forever. It will be interesting and very sad to watch it all unfold, as the media frenzy is on, and well, politics, as usual…

'Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?"

2011-01-08T12:22:00.000-08:00

As the second week of the new-year has started, I've noticed that already peoples' radical commitments for the new-year have begun to subside. It makes sense if you think about it, it usually takes at least a week for the born again feelings to subside, and then human nature is faced with the daunting task of actually fulfilling the bold commitments they have made, without the elevation of feelings, without the collective bargaining, without the new and better day. Perhaps I'm harping on this because I had my writers workshop today, and there were just three of us, the experienced writers who know what it is to write against all odds. Not that it was not a lively discussion we had, it was, but several were missing, and it gave me a pause in my own commitment to fulfilling my own initial enthusiasm, even though I know the ebb and tide of such groups.

I also went on the First Friday art walk last night, and was shocked to see how the whole art scene here in Phoenix has changed. I checked myself to see if I was being cynical, but alas, I had been given a great and optimistic day, so I was ready to maintain my heightened sense of positive notion, but I'm sorry to say I was brought down to a prosaic reality by walking around the galleries and observing the crowd. Finally, I was reduced to admitting that the First Friday Art Walk had become a scene, and not a positive one, as the crowd had been reduced to mostly junior high school students, and the art looked like it came from bargain bins from the dollar store. I'm not an art snob, in fact I would say that I'm one of those people who really want your art to succeed, but I felt last night the way I felt this morning when all my young writers failed to show. To young writers and artists: Wanting and talking about being an artist or a writer is one thing, doing it is something else entirely, the conditions will never be exactly like you want them to be, so get off your ass and get to work! Oh, I am used to the coffeed up or liquored up rhetoric of all the things one is going to do, I've certainly listened and participated in my fair share of it, but I still maintain the philosophy I've kept with me from Genet, that "we are defined by what we do and not by what we say we will do..." Sound familiar? With all my optimism I take to each place I land, I once again came to the realization as to why I left this city in the first place, because the art scene has no skeleton, or perhaps I haven't been back long enough to find where it has buried itself. Is there a skull out there that someone can lead me to? The other cliché that comes to mind, however, is that if you are not part of the solution you are part of the problem. So, I will write about it, think about it, and then take what action I can to create any kind of scene I can, and I do know that sometimes where there is an absence of art there is a very definite need, (even when people don't know what they need) and so I will seek to fulfill what little of it that I can.

The discussion I did have this morning with Chuck and Gerry was interesting if not a bit of a downer. Many real conversations I've noticed these days, start out with the state of the economy, and then we proceeded on to talking about the smaller audiences that are still participating in the blood sport that is theatre. As I was driving home, I was thinking about the period in the seventies when I was contemplating pursuing a life in the theatre and the writing life, when there was still a certain magic and movement there, as the seventies gave way to a certain golden age of all things artistic and idealistic. I think particularly this movement took place in film and music, still, there was also a vibrant theatre scene happening, and one could still write a good working class or protest play and have an impact. And then, in the late eighties and early nineties, with the advent of the AIDS crisis, there was a definite spike in all things being said in the arts community. The last decade however, in my observation, the theatre community and its audience have become a little lost, and has become more of an elite art form, as ticket prices have soared, and attention spans have dispersed.

After the evening of looking for art, my brother and I ended up at a movie theatre at The Tempe Marketplace, its obvious where the universal audiences can be found. Film or better said, movies, is where you find the mixture of the young and old, lower classes, upper classes, and what is left of the middle class, looking for something out there to find some escape from the day to day act of living. Then there was the movie we saw, 'Country Strong', which I wanted to be good, but it was filled with the same story I've seen a thousand times, the demise of the country western singer. It was entertaining, the acting was first rate, but the screenplay was nothing more than a good outline to start with, the screenplay was far from finished, and so in the end it was disappointing. I've seen so much lately, both in song and film, of this genre, that is so disconnected. How can there be so much money spent on something that departs so much from anything authentic? Are there any real cowboys left? Has the music and film world lost complete contact with what is authentically rural and country? I really believe it has. Perhaps it’s the disappearance of the age and generation where there was still a reason to have a romance with things from the country. I can tell you, none of the boots in this movie had any cow shit on them, and the cowboy hats where stained, I'm afraid, with artificial sweat. There was a great ford truck in the film, but it kept popping up in places it never should have been. (There was a very obvious illogical mistake with the truck showing up in different cities during a tour with no driver) In my estimation, the truck unknowingly, however, became a symbol of what, yes, I'm going to say it, with "how it used to be…" Film does not lie, but Hollywood does, and so often doesn't do it well.

All was not lost, I went to sleep believing in what I do, and believing that what I am trying to say has some authenticity to it. I realized watching this movie that I am fortunate to have had a grandfather who was one of the great American cowboys, and a father who could sing country music because he had lived it. As poorly as these men sometimes lived their lives, they were still role models that left me remnants of things that were powerfully poetic and romantic, and I am grateful to have watched and to have been a part of these two generations of men. That is why I'm excited about the rural tours of 'Bohemian Cowboy', because this is my audience, and they are an audience that will know how to give something back. I went to sleep re-memorizing lines from the show, and I went to sleep on this exact line, "There are few things in this life that can hold you like a good sleeping bag can, my friend…"

There is also good news in that I am finding that I'm always excited to get to the writing, wherever I am. If I'm driving, working, running errands, or even sleeping, I'm finding that I can't wait to get to the writing, and well, this is a part of that writing. Don't let the second week of the new year sway you from your convictions, remember, "endurance is the ability to remain…" Even though less of the human race seems to be enduring, my hope is that what is remaining can still be reworked and re-created. Talk is cheap. When the day begins, the only way to dig a garden row or a ditch is to grab a shovel. And believe me, people will know you and recognize you from your shovel, and bullshit may be a great fertilizer, but you have to get the seed into the dirt, and you have to water it, constantly, to grow something that you can really eat...

'A Good Day'

2011-01-07T11:49:00.001-08:00

After signing up for every job site and writing several ads on Craig's list, I finally got a job! I've been working for a couple of weeks now, and it has to be one of the most amazing jobs for a writer I've ever had. I'm a dispatcher and an assistant for a man that owns an art gallery in Australia. I know, strange. This is what I do. I take packages of art supplies that are sent to me and I mail them to customers, I wire money, and I shop! My instructions come via e-mail and the U.S. mail. It usually takes me two or three hours and I'm done! I do have to keep meticulous records, but most of that is done through receipts and e-mail correspondence. So, I'm making a living, can start paying off my debt, and can still feed my theatre and music habit. Although I plan on staying in Phoenix for awhile, this job can be done from any city in the U.S., so I'm once again mobile.

More news. My spring, summer, and fall plans include small rural tours in the state of Utah and possibly some other western states. I'll move back to Boulder in the Spring, and do weekends throughout the state. I'm working with a management company (and Julie) to help me do this, and I'm really excited about it. With this job, by the spring, I should be able to buy a van to help facilitate this tour, and get back some of the other items I had to sell during the dark poor days of last winter in Austin. I've started to create an inventory of everything I need to take on the road. This includes some minimal furniture pieces, lighting and sound equipment, a projector, props, furniture, etc. The evolution of the show is becoming clearer. If this job continues to work out, I'll be able to keep it throughout the year, even if I need to drive to Cedar City each week.

Last night, I did my 'gig' at The Paisley Violin, (I play every Thursday from 4 – 6 for a happy hour) and next Friday night, I'm performing my show, 'Bohemian Cowboy' at The Paisley so that I can once again get it video-taped. So, it's back to rehearsals for me. I've already started doing my nighttime process of re-memorizing, although I've noticed that this time going through the lines is much easier, the repetition of doing the show so many times is starting to pay off. In addition to all of this, I have the playwriting workshop on Saturdays, and this Sunday, I've organized a jam session with five musicians, to explore the possibilities of creating a band. I know, this sounds like a lot going on, but believe it or not, I feel like the pace is a really easy one. Think of it as a forty or fifty hour work week, only it's doing everything I love to do.

I'm also working with someone in Utah, (I'll keep her name anonymously unless she doesn't mind that I use it) to do direct marketing of my script, 'Charlie Foster, a play about theatre and swimming'. Charlie Foster is a script that is published with Anchorage Press and now Dramatic Publishing, and is fast paced one act play about high school. Because the publishing company doesn't do any direct marketing, I've written a letter to educators and Cheryl helped me create a PDF file of the script, and Julie takes the letter and the script and is systematically sending out the script to high schools across America, starting with Utah. This way, they can read the script without having to pay for ordering it, and can send off for the books and royalty from the publishing company if they decide they want to produce it. We've already received a great comment back from a high school in Southern Utah, a very good sign. It will take some time to see the results of this endeavor, but I think it's going to really pay off.

What else. I'm having a great time living here with my brother, Gary, and we are getting to know each other in a way we haven't done before. Gary has been more than generous, giving me a room and making me laugh each night. We both love to cook, so we have been having a great time inventing things to eat, (we had borscht for Christmas dinner). As things are beginning to 'shape up' I'm finding the heaviness I felt when I first came back to Phoenix lifting, and am excited and comfortable being here. Tonight, Gary and I are going out on the First Friday Art Walk, the first one I've been to here in over three years. It's also been great to be around my mother, and the great conversations that she is always able to ignite. I'm still estranged with all my sisters, but I'm finding myself completely open to resolving our conflicts, (if they are).

I also miss Diana, but I'm at a loss at how to fix it, even though I've explored several possibilities of doing so. I wish things had gone differently, but I have to keep moving forward. I suppose I'm not an easy man to be in a relationship with, I think much of it is because I'm still ensconced in a bohemian lifestyle that doesn't really make a girl feel to secure. If she does ever read this, however, I want her to know what a wonderful person she is, and how very fortunate I was to have the time with her that I did. Perhaps in the future, our hostilities will subside, and we can be friends again. One of the most exciting things about Diana was her writing talent, and I thought it was something that could have been powerfully binding in our relationship, but we didn't get that far. Keep writing, Diana, you are really good at it. I think eventually, things will make more sense for both of us. Passion can sometimes be blinding, and as it is with most things, as time passes things make more sense. The irony is that so often when they do make sense, it's too late to recover what was lost.

One of the important things I'm learning as I get older, as cliché as it sounds, is that there will always be good days and bad days, and that if one can seize the good ones and savor them, one can get through the bad ones much easier. Further, if one can get a string of good days going, the rotten ones seem fewer, and the pain doesn't seem as intense. Today is a very good day, so much like that day in elementary school, when I was taking that rock collection of my Grandfather's to 'show and tell', I couldn't sleep the night before because I was so excited. I'm excited today, and so very hopeful…

'The Sandwich Rule'

2011-01-03T11:46:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! Like many of you, I'm of the belief that this year will be a very good year, and I believe it with good reason, for the glass looks like there's plenty of water in it, even though it tastes a little like tap water. How's that for an honest assessment? Even though the year does look a little unfiltered right now, I feel like there is sufficient motivation to fill up the glass, and find a filtering system. I hope your glass has some water in it as well!

Now, on with the journey. Saturday night I found myself in Border's Bookstore trying to reinvigorate my love of reading. (in recent years, my reading has slowed) As I was going from section to section, I found the book by Robert Greene, 'The Forty Eight Laws of Power'. I took the book upstairs to the coffee shop, ordered a cup and started reading through the rules. At last, in a city in America, with it's history, with it's freedom, with it's grandeur, I came to the very definite conclusion as to why I am in the condition I am. Robert Greene's rules! As the rules read on and on, I found myself filled with some general horror and anger, for I realized that I just flat out disagreed with the majority of these rules. There are several of them that are common sense, but I found myself thinking, "these rules are all about deception, manipulation, condescension, arrogance, intellectual violence, and emotional blackmail…" I was appalled. I was confused. I was… not surprised. I also found myself thinking that this is a very clear way of understanding the polarization of America, and why there is such a gap in thinking between the rich and the poor, and the loss of the middle class, who seemed to have had at least a foot in each world. I'm not going to form a grand thesis about this theory, it would make a great paper, though, but I so want to point out that there are human beings in the world who do not think in terms of living a life to ascertain power. It also is helping me inform myself of the confusion I have often felt at reaction I have often received, and my own personal polarization. I can reduce Robert Greene's rules of power to one. It's called the sandwich rule. It may sound silly, but there is such a truth within it. If you make and share a sandwich with someone, when you cut it in half, do you take the larger half or the smaller half for yourself? I know, one rule against forty-eight. I suppose there are many ways to understand it. I distinctly remember the first time I was confronted with the sandwich rule. I must have been about fourteen or so. I made a conscious decision to always take the smaller half of the sandwich, and it would always be my secret. Further, I decided that it didn't matter who I was sharing the sandwich with, or how I was feeling about the person, it would be a rule that I would live by. And so goes the story of my life. Theatre, career, teaching, money, etc., all of it in my life was subconsciously defined by the sandwich rule. So now, sitting here thinking about these rules it occurs to me, would my life have been different if I had always taken the larger half of the sandwich? You bet it would have. I believe there are some very distinct convictions that we form early for many reasons, and I'm not trying to say that this is the loftier way, I'm only trying to say that I may not be able to reverse my adherence to the sandwich. All of Robert Green's rules are variations on taking the larger half of the sandwich for yourself, even from those who have been your mentors, friends, family, or enemies. (By the way, using the sandwich rule, if you can get that larger half to your enemy, its doubly fulfilling!)

Okay, I was going to begin a break down of his rules, but I would be hiking all over slippery slopes, and would have to write much more than I have time for today, so I suppose I'll just have to keep thinking about it. I did go online and paste them to my computer, so that I can mull. It might be interesting, readers, for you to do the same. I would love to hear your comments on the subject.

I've also been told by several people that perhaps its not such a good idea to write and post such personal thoughts and feelings on my blog, that perhaps individuals who may consider hiring me would hesitate because of such a personal view point. That I may be unreliable, unstable, and too much of a risk. There is an element of truth to what they are advising me, however, I have to believe that there is a possible virtue in sharing some of these deep truths about myself. My belief is that in doing so someone may read something that they can truly identify with, that perhaps they could not articulate as I find I can, and that in some way it helps. I believe that. As for my stability, first of all, when it comes to my work I believe I fall into the top percentage of people that can be relied upon. If you are one of those individuals who may doubt my possibility because of my words on my feelings, be advised that I have that pioneer full sandwich work ethic, and I will always give you more than you have asked of me. I think its true that there have certainly been periods in my life when I could have given you more, but I assure you, that I can give to you now in unexpected ways. Hire me, you won't regret it.

Like many of you, with the things in my mind and heart I hope I can change in the coming year, I'm facing some smaller decisions that add up to some bigger ones. Can you relate? This morning I received a text message from someone who heard I was looking for a job. I answered the message to this person's voicemail, still not knowing who this person is or what the job entails. Once again, I feel the pressure to get a day job again to help fill the coffers, and of this I am in agreement. But I also have to consider whether there is wisdom in working with a certain kind of energy, that in the end will take away from the 'master' plan that still moves me forward. For now, however, I'm willing to take just about any job, just to stave off all of Bob Greene's rules, staring me in the face.

Several people have written to me and ask for my physical address, so this is where you can send that late Christmas card, or, come on over, I'll make us a sandwich.

Raymond Shurtz

5425 E. Verde Lane

Phoenix, AZ 85018

'Rearranging Energy'

2010-12-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

So, I spend the better part of an hour last night on the phone with the student I talked about yesterday, who had gone on to pursue an education and a career in theatre and the arts. He had been just been 'let go' from a directorial job in an unnamed Midwestern city, and needed to talk about it. As we were talking, he told me that I was the major reason he decided to pursue this career, and now he had been fired from a major assignment. I didn't exactly panic, but I did momentarily have that thought of "Oh my God, I've helped propel this young man into a world of madness…" Of course, ultimately, he made the decision of pursuit not I, but I did wonder what exactly it was that took him there. Of course we reminisced about those theatre adventures so many years ago, and he said several things that struck me. The first, he said, was that I was the first person who took his dream seriously, and that I told him he had talent and his instincts were very good. (motivation) Then, I suppose, it was the collective makings of theatre adventures, all difficult, but ultimately fulfilling. (experience) Now, I'm talking about this because it's both heady and disturbing at the same time. As a teacher, I know that there are certain moments that are as powerful as anything life has to offer, and if the circumstances are right, that moment, those words spoken, that action taken, can change the trajectory of a life forever. It doesn't mean that your circumstances in life will always be met with the same addition of words and actions. Although I was invigorated by his words, in my present condition especially, I wondered if my advice was sound and were my own instincts good in assessing this young man's dream? I don't know. More questions. Obviously, he had the desire before he ever walked through the doors, and I remember him as very talented if not a little stubborn and cocky, not a bad combination for an actor. He did have the ingredients to possibly go the distance, but for any of us in the profession of entertainment, talent is never enough. Bette Davis said to survive and be successful in show business was more about ambition than talent. She obviously had both. There is, of course, timing, location, history, economics, likeability, genetics, and all these things that are somewhat essential for a successful career. I recently watched a documentary on Joan Baez, who happened to be living in Cambridge at the exact time that the folk movement in the late fifties was getting started. For so many reasons, she was there to electrify her audience with her talent, of course, but more importantly, she found her fate and calling at the perfect moment, at that pre-tipping point. She was the right age, had the right look, and amazing parental support, etc. This is not to take away from the also very important aspect of her ambition and discipline, but she was and is, an amazing success story in so many ways. Who can say what it is that constitutes these variables lining up so finely? Watching my World War II documentaries by Ken Burns, so many of the interviews by these elderly veterans are keyed in on the 'why did I live' component, when my brother did not? It seems a simple allegory, but its really not, two men running up a hill, one is shot and is killed and the other lives to return and live out his life, the other is buried. I don't know why this happens, but I do know its part of living life on life's terms, that a purpose driven life is never what you expect it to be. Life's energy, no matter how great it exists in any person, is never enough in itself for a successful life. But it's also why there is comfort in the relative term of success. Living a life of purpose, or fulfilling a dream will never be what you expected it to be, I reiterate. I'll also add, that even if you know and understand these things, you could chase the elusiveness of the perfect vortex for the whole of your life, much like a dog chases its tale. How seemingly sad it sometimes feels, to answer your calling but never find your flock. Each time you arrive at the designated place, they have left hours ago, or maybe days, or maybe…years.

He distinctly remembered when I told him that all of directing is a dispersing of energy. A good director has to immediately read people as they come into rehearsal and take the energy they are bringing in and to rearrange it, and multiply it. Yes, I said, that is correct, especially if your actors have not given up their day jobs. Theatre is an interesting art form I might add here, because no matter the discipline, no matter the repetition, you are never going to have the same performance twice. A painting when it is finished will be exactly the same when you see it next time. You might see it differently, but the physical properties of the painting will remain the same. In theatre, the physical properties of the same play on the same canvas will never be the same, its impossible. It is magical, however, for this very reason. But yes, "you read the energy and you rearrange it." You watch behavior, you listen, you change things physically in your performers, and, you find the opening for encouragement. If a director can do this, then each rehearsal will be a transformational experience, and you will gain the trust of your performers. The dispersing of this energy will give the play its movement, its style, its form, and ultimately, its power. Great performers know the value of opening themselves up to this rearrangement of energy, others will simply resist it. Sounds simple, doesn't it?

He also told me that one day he came in early for workshop and I was in the theatre playing my guitar. I was alone in the theatre, playing songs that I had written, and he said, that as the other actors showed up for class, I didn't stop playing, but continued as they sat in the seats of the theatre. He said that he has never forgotten that moment, because, he said, I was teaching that a great performance can come at any moment. The truth is I don't remember the exact moment he was talking about. I did often prepare for teaching a workshop with a half hour session singing with the guitar, but had no idea it was having that impact. It did, however, strike me last night as he said this was that I was having some impact that I had no idea I was having, rearranging my own energy. This is what performers become addicted to. And if you experience enough of it, nothing you can find in your life can compare to it, and therefore nothing can take you away from it. And if you do it consistently enough, it will create a pattern in your brain that will cause you to pursue it until you cannot even stand, or live. In my own experience, I see and understand people who do it occasionally, who do not succumb to its addictive nature, but I also see people who choose not to pursue it because of the great fear it can also induce. For most performers, security is something that only comes to a small percentage of them, and I do mean a very small percentage.

Listen, I can only change my circumstances, or rearrange my energy right now in very small ways, but I do work on those small things every day, even when I'm low. I write because when I'm not performing or getting ready to perform, I know that it can give me the magical feeling of performance sitting at a kitchen table at my brother's house, without gas money to even get down the street. There are two sayings in this business, "You are only as good as the last thing you did, and, what have you done for me lately…" They are clichés, and are somewhat the same, but are so for a reason. As we age, the energy level of life's force begins to dissipate, and so we are met with the reality of a more complicated rearranging, but its still possible, but not without support, and not without creating a collective energy that is not relegated to having to be a singular force of nature. I really think that trying to be a force of nature without sufficient variables to accompany my actions caused some damage to my mind and body, and this is what I'm looking at, this is what I'm pondering. I realize that no one is going to swoop in on a white thoroughbred racehorse and carry me off to a house of retreat to let me heal. Physician, heal thyself. I also know, however, that a message will come, a phone call will sound, a letter will arrive, that will take me back to the stage, and until then, I survive any way I can. What have I done for you lately? Sometimes, in these low moments, it seems that I have done nothing but take from you. I cannot explain the angst I often feel because I can find no movement in the rudder of my ship. I cannot explain to you the angst I feel when I have asked you to supply me with oil and sustenance for my journey. How often I've said, "just a little bit longer, I'm close, I know I am…" Close to what? Being able to support myself? Being able to have those things that have eluded me? I can assure you, the things that elude me are not the things that elude you. That is not meant to be critical of your aspirations, or that mine are of a higher mind than yours. I just know that there is such a great pressure, and at times, shame. "Just a little while longer, I will not fail you, I will not fail the aspirations that you also have for me, just a little while longer..."

To my student. I've always said that this life is not an easy one, but it is one that will educate you about life in a way that cannot be obtained by another. It will flatten your dreams, kick your ass, and create all kinds of confusion. But, after the confusion is processed, after the obligation has been met, even though you may spend your days in a furnished room waiting, your day will come, your day will come. And you will lose, perhaps, the magic of a thousand of these days, but what you do will not be in vain…for in it, you will find purpose, even when others will not see it, you will, and that may be enough… it may be enough…to get you through the hard times.

'Fixing the Train and Gathering Coal'

2010-12-28T12:42:00.000-08:00

I've been having a rough time the last couple of days. I know some of it has to still do with this time of year, but I'm having to force myself to get out of bed and function. Two nights ago, I wrote a long entry on depression, but decided to forego posting it as it seemed 'to' depressing. Imagine that, a post on depression that seems depressing! At least I was writing, which is always good, and always important for me.

I also thought I had a job, but now I don't know as I haven't heard back from the man since Sunday night. It seemed like a perfect job for me, taking care of someone's personal business, sending out packages, etc., while he is out of the country. I thought it was a great possibility for me, but alas, I haven't started and haven't heard from him.

About an hour ago, I got a call from a former student of mine from the Playwright's Theatre days. He continued on with the pursuit of theatre, eventually getting his Masters degree in Acting and Directing from USC. Although he usually calls when he needs advice, I'm always glad to get his calls. Today was in regard to a show he is directing in Iowa, and his production team were all on a mutinous tear, and he didn't know if he would be able to continue directing the production. We talked it through, and I don't know if he will stay with the production, but I do know that it did make me feel that I had something to offer him, as I'd been through the drill so many times in my career. It made me feel as though I still had value, and I needed that today. Theatre is a world with so many strong personalities, so many different variables that can create conflict. It's impossible not to be confronted with them. As Shakespeare said, "When troubles come, they come not as single spies but in battalions…" I know that he must have been speaking about the production of a play.

I also received an email from a management company, (I will keep him anonymous) but was very happy to get it. The man who has the company I met while in Seattle at a booking conference. He was the one manager I met there that I seemed to click with, and the artists on his roster are impressive. As I talked to him about my project, he seemed at once to understand what I was doing. I do have to mention that he wrote that my blog was amazing, (his words not mine) so here is a clear cut reason for doing the blog along with the show, for those who are still reading, it does have value, it has impact. He asked me to sent all of my press materials, and he would see what he could do. This is a great affirmation of the work I've been doing for these past three years, but he also said that I must have a website for him to be able to promote me. So, I'll need to reinvigorate the motivation to get that done. All of the footage I shot of the show in Los Angeles came out a dark gray. Kurt shot the show three times, and now it seems, it was all for nothing. My friend in Utah shot the show as well, but he tells me he doesn't know where it is and to extract the footage would be lots of work. I could pay him to do it, but alas, I have nothing to pay him with. So, I'll have to find someone who will shoot the show here, so my plan is to do it, (possibly at The Paisley Violin) and make sure that I walk away with some footage. Still, I have lots of photos, press, posters, etc. from the production, enough to get something up. So, it all comes down again to survival and pushing the boulder again up the mountain.

Not being able to sleep last night, I watched a movie I found called 'The Sicilian Girl', which was a true story of a young girl from a village in Sicily who became a witness against the mafia from her village who had killed her brother and father. The reason I bring it up as something relevant, was that all the evidence against these thugs, were from diaries she had kept from the age of twelve. Although it had a sad ending, as she lost everyone in her life that she could trust, her writings proved to be a turning point in putting several of the most ruthless criminals in prison. It was great proof of the power of writing, and the power of writing memories while they are fresh and clear.

In my position, there are so many ways in which to turn I find myself paralyzed in the immensity of 'things I can do'. I run this way for a little while, then this way, and am having a hard time getting follow through on any of the things I've started. Some of it may do to the rises and falls in my moods, when I'm in a manic phase I tear into most things with a fervor, only to be defeated when my mood drops below the threshold of even functioning.

These are excerpts from my writings on depression:

(Sunday night, once again I turn to writing to console the restlessness I feel tonight. I'm beginning to notice that as I get older, the temptation to reminisce on happier times happens more frequently, and with an intensity that seems to increase with each passing day. For me, it happens in the evening, when the day is winding down, when families are gathered in there kitchens, that place between dusk and darkness, when all things are in flux. In retrospect, I remember at the worst of my depression, I dreaded the rising of the sun. During that awful black period, the sun was met with such an anxious reluctance, I would sometimes sob uncontrollably at its rising. As though I was diametrically opposed to all that was so very hopeful of that light coming over the horizon, as though I could not bear to have it to cover the earth with its light, as though it would uncover some awful nightmare that had occurred during the night, as if the subconscious had somehow bound with the waking life. William Styron writes in his book, 'Darkness Visible', that all depression is caused by an inability to grieve. And, it seemed at that time, I was grieving for the world in its entirety. I was grieving for all that had been taken from me, from all that I wanted to forgive and to change, for all that I had regretted, for all that I could not bear to believe. For all that I could believe. For all that I wanted to believe. Try as I might, I wanted to turn my mind to other things, to more pleasant things, I wanted to meditate on things that I knew would change those moments, things that I had been taught, turning to God, asking for help and guidance, but I could not. I could not turn to that light, even though through my sobbing I wanted to. And so I would rise with the sun and dress myself. I would walk through the park, I would walk to the coffee shop, I would read the paper to try and distract myself from this awful dread. That is depression, that is a cruel and misunderstood state, and like most of us, when something dreadful this way comes we think, "How could this happen to me?" I was the sunshine child, I was the hopeful one, I was the one who saved a feather because it was send to me on the wind. I was the one who spoke with youthful anointing of the virtue of art, of its perilous but wonderful journey. I was the one who taught that, "Endurance was the ability to remain…" that with persistence a mind wrapped with that which is pure in spirit would be anointed to prevail against any odds, against any opposition. And now, I had suddenly been slain. I suddenly found myself to heavy to rise, to wake, to teach, to…breathe.

In this state, all the proceeding energy of life is taken from you. As if the brain itself has been suddenly put on indefinite suspension, as if to rise from your bed was an impossible task. I can only say that many years conditioning myself in the art of gymnastics was the only thing that saved me, because I knew the toil of what it meant to do one more pull up, one more sit up, one more round-off back handspring, one more chest to the floor. I knew what that felt like. I knew what my gymnasts felt to do the last bit of training at the end of the night, the last mind bending set of hand stand push-ups, the last breath from ending the day. I knew because I had also put myself through the same punishment. Memory recall is what trainers call it. It's why my muscles can recondition themselves quickly, because they have done it so many times before. This was the training that kept me from a certain death, because I knew this kind of suffering. I suddenly found myself in a room in Boulder, Utah, where I did not sleep for seven days and nights. Not a wink. I knew that I was close to succumbing to death. I knew this. In this final state, I made a call to a psychiatrist who had diagnosed me with severe depression. She wrote a prescription for seroquel, (an anti-psychotic and now an anti-depressant). After seven days in this state, I drove forty miles to get the prescription. I drove back to my room and took a tablet, and fell asleep for sixteen hours. During that sleep, I experienced what I can only describe as a reprogramming of my brain. I was often at times aware of what I had just gone through, but in a sleep, and in my brain there was a continual ticking, like the ticking of the morse code across a prairie. I felt as though I was being reprogrammed. Two days later, a friend of mine, (I'll call him Tom) came to me and told me that I must walk a few hundred feet each day. I understood what that meant. I somehow revived. The only thing that I can ad to this nightmare, is that during these days, I vividly recall my suicide, because in this state, I promise you, you cannot bear to live. I saw myself in the living room of my grandparents home, a mile from where this occurred, shooting myself in the head in the living room where I spent the first five Christmas's of my life, and in doing so, I recall myself finally killing all the demons that had haunted my family for the whole of my life. This ending of my life was vivid, and it was as premeditated in its thinking as anything I've ever thought. For, still today, I do not fear the death of my mortal body. As I told this premonition to my cousin, she very shrewdly took away all of my guns in the lucid moment I told her my vision, and for that, I am grateful. In a month's time, I was walking four miles, with a renewed vision of what my life might look like…living. With some medication and some understanding, I took one step at a time. I might ad, that during this time, I would call my mother frequently, and she would take me into a therapy that only she knew how to do, with a grace and an understanding that still baffles me. The Kings, (my family) probably all suffered as much from depression as they did from addiction, and none of the men lived beyond the age I was experiencing.)

I know the preceding writing is a bit harrowing, but after reading William Styron's book, I could at least identify with what he was saying, and had the revelation that these lapses in my personality have been with me the whole of my life. I can vividly remember being at my father's house in Mesa as a child, and feeling these same thoughts, at nine or ten years old, and not being able to articulate them. They would eventually manifest themselves through physical sickness, where I could not get out of bed for days. I can remember many a bus ride going home from my father's house, still sick and thinking, thinking, thinking… I believe for years, theatre did keep me at least somehow working manically, with short depressions in between the work. It was the work that could accompany the extreme manic episodes I've always experienced, which is why its difficult to find 'ordinariness' in simple things. I kept the train running for along time. My earlier life in gymnastics did condition me to the athletic nature of 'putting up a show', and it did serve me well to complete the task of doing play after play for the better part of twenty years. Right before the breakdown that I just talked about, I was still working as a teacher and staged the final production that would carry me over the edge to this abyss, and ironically, it was called 'Dreaming in Color', a full musical. Once that production wrapped, I knew something in me was broken, and that could no longer keep the fires in the engine room stoked. I have to say, it was a production that is quite memorable for many reasons, these years hence, when I take it out to read it, I am amazed that such a document was recorded and produced, it was the opus of a career that had to change into something else.

The last three years since that 'brokeness', I've struggled to understand what happened, how to fix it, and how to somehow moderate my mania so that I don't suddenly drop dead. Medication helps, but I also find it sometimes confining, as a life of 'going manic' is more difficult to come by. I think that is part of my confusion as to what to do, old habits die hard, even though age has taught me a little about patience. I find myself thinking about getting back into good physical shape, (which I always had a fair handle on) but so far, with the up and down episodes, I find it difficult to get anything consistent accomplished. So, its very clear in retrospect today, what did happen to me, and I do know that life is not always filled with great productions where the senses are in full motion, for me, that is where that depression lies, in that place that has no production value, that place where the climatic moment has yet to come, that place where daring is part of the work. There are many thoughts I have that are hopeful, and many of them I get reading biographies, mostly artists and writers who have also experienced these great lapses in faith and vigor. Horton Foote wrote his masterpieces after the age of fifty five, and he lived into his nineties. I'm no Horton Foote, but I still believe my best work is before me, and I still believe that my 'stage life' as a performer is just getting warmed up. I need to 'buck up', and do those push ups again, start collecting the coal for the fire, and fully examine the train that isn't currently running.

My final thoughts for the day are hopeful, even though these last two days I've struggled again with thoughts of 'darkness visible', but I know that on a given day, ships are coming, hopefully not to Omaha Beach. As you read these words, or if you read them, please understand that my obsession with my thoughts are to understand how I can change them into something that will have a ripple effect once again, as a teacher I know the power of giving my experience away, but I do have to get my engine working again, and it has worked sporadically since my seven days and nights of wakefulness, but the real problem still isn't solved, but I am working on it. Don't judge me to harshly, and don't judge a train until you have spend several days in an open box car, with the world whizzing by…