March Madness

The rain had stopped and the palm trees swayed against the bright, four o'clock day- light savings March sky. The combination of sky, palm tree, and depression weighed heavily on me. The brightness of the afternoon sky cast a shadow of sadness across everything. I watched the palm trees bend in the wind and thought," I hate palm trees." There is something so removed about them - I felt mocked by their dance. Towering above me against that bright sky, the gloom engulfed me.
I didn't know why. Lack of sleep? Exhaustion? Migraine medication hang over? Lent?

This month, four years ago, I waited for my mother to be cremated on a day much like this one. On that day, I wanted a cave not an expansive sky.
She died on the first day of spring.
Five years before, my friend Ellen's fifteen-year-old son, Ian, was hit by a car. He died on St. Patrick's Day. Corned Beef and Cabbage has never tasted the same.

This year, a tsunami hit Japan leaving a landscape of loss. One story I read about in the paper, told of two parents who returned to the flattened remains of the school where over one hundred children were swept away as they followed earthquake preparedness procedures, standing on the athletic field for forty-five minutes until the giant wall of water washed over them. The parents returned to search for the bodies of their two children. When they found them, they wrapped them in blankets and put them into the back of their car.

The playwright, Lanford Wilson died this month. I never knew him. But I knew his work. I read his plays, performed in The Rimers of Eldridge in college, and directed The Fifth of July. Wilson founded Circle Rep and mined the depths of human relationship through a style of writing that is often compared to Chekhov's. He is now silenced and what remains is a body of work that will likely be rediscovered, re-appreciated, and revived. Because he's dead. I wish I'd met him.

Last night when I returned home, my son's car was parked out front of our house. My heart leaped when I saw it. This month, just before Mardi Gras, he moved out. This time, the emptiness of the house felt more permanent.
I dashed inside, called out, but got no response. I fixed dinner, and in the back of my mind, waited for him to come through the front door. He never did. He drove off after having dinner at a local restaurant without stopping in to say hello.
I was caught off guard by this - my gloom heavier than it had been in the afternoon as I'd cursed the palm trees. I felt discarded and a little like a fool. I'd waited for him. Anticipated seeing him. My heart was ready for him. But he didn't come.

When I realized what had happened, I flew into a fury - the depression erupting like Vesuvius into rage. I fired off a text message ending with a half dozen question marks. Why??????? Why would you not stop in?????? Why????? I sobbed my eyes out alternating between hurt and anger. The lyrics from a song in the show I am currently directing taunted me. "Like an arc on uncharted seas, our lives will be tossed. And the deeper is your love for them, the crueler is the cost. The hardest part of love, is the letting go."

Don't need so much. Don't want so much. Don't cling so much. Don't love so much. Let go.
But the tears kept coming.
Do not discard me. I am your mother, I thought. You are my son. You are my son. You are my son. I cannot bear to be hurt by you.
And then I thought of my mother, who lost two of her sons.
And I though of my friend Ellen, who lost her only son.
And I thought of those parents in Japan, wrapping their children in blankets and loading them into the backseat of their car like cargo.

I cannot bear the grief.

The text message came back - it had been a thoughtless misstep. "I'm sorry" he wrote, "I'm really sorry" - the urgency of his regret palpable even through the cell phone. I knew he was.

Our emotions get all jumbled up sometimes. None of this is connected and yet it is all connected.

I still feel flat - still feel depressed. Likely a result of the adrenaline surge that I've endured the past few weeks working to get this show up. I'm glad I go to New York next week to see my daughter. I need to see her. I need a change of pace. I need some solitude. I need the anonymity of the city. I need to mother.

I need it to be April.

The Blessed Unrest

Haven't written much lately. No - lately my life has been about that other art form. The one that relies on the multi-faceted elements of live storytelling. The one that begins with text. Layers in music and lyrics. The one that is interpreted and translated through actors, dancers, and singers in order to become something off of the page - living, breathing, moving. The one that needs space not a desk. The one that comes into being moment by moment, piece by piece. The one that uses costume and light. The one that is best expressed through gesture and pause. The one that cannot simply come together with the final punctuation point, stroke of the pen, or tap of the keyboard of the solitary artist. This one involves a lot of people. It is a collaboration. The sum of its parts greater than any one part and those parts can't come together until the very end which is then, the beginning. As Stephen Sondheim wrote "Everything depends on execution. The art of making art is putting it together bit by bit." It is a process.

I've been at this art form for a long time. And every time I find myself nearly brought to my knees by the shear magnitude of details involved in mounting a musical. Ask Julie Taymor. I'm sure she would agree that executing one's creative vision takes a kind of courage and boldness. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Better or worse. Richer or Poorer - the marriage between director and musical is a commitment of one's life for a certain period of time.

Should the snake head puppet turn this way or that on the lyric, "no pain, no gain?" Should Cain clench his fists, drop to his knees, plie or stand in a wide second on the lyric "lost, slowly dying in the wilderness?" " What is wrong with that transition? Hold one more second, then walk away. No another second. " These directions, only after digging deeply into story, subtext, and character to understand exactly what story is being told.

In educational theatre, there is the added responsibility of teaching. Teaching the craft. Teaching discipline. Teaching commitment. Teaching technique. Teaching them to dance. Teaching them to sing. Teaching them not to play with the props. Teaching them what it means to be a team. And hopefully, inspiring them along the way. Instilling in them a love for the theatre.

This path is not for the faint of heart. It takes enormous stamina. And then the dreams begin. Whole numbers running through your mind at night when rest eludes and sleeping becomes found work time. I have staged entire numbers in my sleep.

It has been six years since last I directed a musical. Surprising to me, who for two decades marked the years not by dates, but by shows. '94 Into the Woods. '95 Carousel. '96 Fiddler. '97 Secret Garden. '04 King & I and so on. My six year hiatus from musical theatre was not a hiatus from the theatre. I directed plays, cabarets, dramatic collages - all in alternative, challenging, non-theatrical spaces. Expanding my imagination, sharpening skills that simply had not been developed having had the luxury of working in a fully-equipped theatre in my early years as a director. But most importantly, during this time, I saw a lot of theatre. I continued to hone my craft as a spectator.

Years of experience, a certain aesthetic, a propensity to zero in on minute details, the right collaborators, and an obsessive compulsive scheduling gene have brought me now to this point. Three more rehearsals until we come back for "tech." As I look out onto the vast set-less, costume-less, light-less stage, I see the makings of a show. I see it in its barest state before color, texture, and dimension are added. I see the work of the actors on their own telling a story with every ounce of their beings. The beauty of the theatre is that when all of the other production elements come together, something magical happens. There is transcendence.

In her famous quote, Martha Graham says,

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others"

I never tire of this quote. It inspires me every day. And so I keep on marching.

Why I Don't Do Facebook (a rant)

It's Oscar day so last night I broke down and watched The Social Network. My daughter and son both told me I should see it. They both also told me I'd hate it.
They were right.

When the movie ended, I stood in the middle of my den and pontificated for at least fifteen minutes. In many ways, seeing the movie validated my choice not to do Facebook.

In my relatively conventional and uncontroversial life, I have waged very few rebellions. The last time was when I cancelled our season tickets for USC football games - an act of retaliation for a deferred college admission decision - that single act of rebellion cost us one entire tunnel section when we returned to the fold the following year and cost me relentless teasing by my family at every home game as they eyed Tunnel 6 recalling that once upon a time we were just that much closer to the 50 yard line. Arguably my rebellion cost USC nothing. But still, I stood my ground!

My other rebellion is against Mel Gibson movies. I refused to see Passion of the Christ and much to my dismay, now will no longer show his version of Hamlet in my drama class because of his anti-semitic views. Mel Gibson is a jerk.

In the sea of rebellion taking place in the Middle East, my paltry little fights seems a tad absurd. But with so much attention being given to Facebook these days and the revolutionary way it has transformed society, I believe my stand is an important one. Here's why (and it's not because Mark Zuckerberg is a jerk):

My husband said he believes Facebook has not taken anything away from society but has in fact added something. I completely disagree. While Facebook portends to connect people and allows for instant "communication" - a point I do not argue as it is amply evidenced by the revolution in Egypt and now the rest of the Middle East - I, however, believe it is actually diminishing communication. Real communication. Interpersonal communication. Authentic, deep communication. One on one communication. Grant it, the days of family gatherings in the parlor, sing alongs, and musical recitals died out long ago thanks to radio and later, television and letter writing died out thanks to email, I believe Facbook is and will continue to radically alter humanity.

Let's face it. I'm a theatre educator so my profession and art is inextricably tied to human interaction - a raise of the eyebrow, a touch of the hand, the subtext communicated "behind the eyes" communicates from the heart. On Facebook one can poke, like, and write on someone's "wall" granting the illusion of connection - surface, superficial, and meaningless. How much thought or time goes into to these empty gestures? None. How many of those so called friends will show up at your funeral? No, they will instead, write on your wall. It's faster. Easier. And these days, as acceptable an expression of sympathy as sending flowers. Not to mention, cheaper.

Today there are still adults - young and old - who remember life before social networking. One day, there wont' be. The generations pre-Facebook will be like pre-historic cave dwellers whose primary means of storytelling were the pictures they scratched on the sides of their caves.
Words, reading, language, art, culture, will continue to diminish. And some day, no one will remember. The theatre, will be irrelevant if not non-existent. Its would-be audience deluded by the illusion that they are engaged in real inter-personal communication with real friends .

Is it any wonder that an anti-social, spineless, opportunistic, duplicitous, friendless, judas invented this thing?

I've Got a lot of Livin' to Do

There's music to play,
Places to go, people to see!
Everything for you and me!
Oh, Life's a ball
if only you know it
And it's all just waiting for you
You're alive,
So come on and show it
We got a lot of livin'
Such a lot of livin'
Got a lot of livin' to do!

From Bye Bye Birdie

Last night, I sat in Disney Hall, and watched and listened to Michael Feinstein perform songs from The Great American Songbook. When he sang this song, I found myself moved and energized. An unlikely source of inspiration - and yet the lyrics hit me right in the gut.
I like it when clarity strikes. But when it comes whirling at you from the likes of a charismatic, piano playing crooner, it's simply thrilling. Michael Feinstein's enthusiasm is contagious. I might just as well have been at a tent revival meeting as Disney Hall.

As I sat in Michael Fenstein's audience, I was grateful that I knew the lyrics to most of the songs he sang. I knew the composers. I shared his passion for the music and appreciated his style. He brings together many of the elements of my life.

It seemed that growing up, I lived straddling generations - my parents were of the generation that lived through the depression and WWII. I came of age in the 70's. They were living the quintessential American Dream. They came from humble roots in Kentucky and Ohio and built their lives, their business, and their family on optimism and hard work. The songs that now are billed as The Great American Songbook provided the score for my parent's lives. And mine. While my friends listened to rock and roll, I listened to Frank Sinatra and musical theatre. The contrast between the music of my generation and my parent's separated me from my peers. I was older than my years because of the music I listened to. I was never completely sure in what world I belonged.

I belonged in the audience last night at Disney Hall. It brings me comfort to know that Michael Feinstein straddles those worlds. Somehow, I understand myself better watching him perform. I grew up around piano bars. My parents danced to those romantic melodies and said things like "They're playing our song."
My father had me singing Begin the Beguine, Summertime, and How are Things in Glocca Mora before I ever even heard of the Rolling Stones.

Maybe one of the reasons, A lot of Livin' to Do struck me last night is because it straddles those worlds too. Birdie was the first "rock and roll" Broadway musical. Tame as it may be, the very story line confronts the clash of generations through music. That song, coming out of Michael Feinstein brought it all home to me.

I'm finally old enough to be singing those songs.

Thirty years have passed since grief first came to reside in my heart. I was twenty-two. As I approach my fifty-second birthday, I've decided to adopt "A lot of Livin' to Do" from the musical Bye Bye Birdie, as my theme song for the next thirty (or for however many years I have left.)

"Life's a ball if only you know it...."

If only you know it....
A good reminder to "show up" to your life.

I am keenly aware of the passage of time. Every day I look in the mirror and see my hair graying more and more. My upper arms are starting to remind me of my mother's.

There are things I want to do. Places to go. People to see.
Just like the lyrics say.

You're alive so come on and show it. We've got a lot of livin' to do.

Musical Notes

I pull the red scrap book from the shelf in the garage. The silver fish that have made it their home scatter. I open the yellowed pages. There, tucked into programs, flyers, rehearsal schedules, dried flowers, and telegrams are the little cards that come in floral bouquets scrawled with pre-show messages in familiar handwriting.

I turn the pages. There - written in large, bold handwriting, are instructions from my father turned drama coach: Amy! Discipline!!! (underlined three times) and the schedule of our practices for The Unsinkable Molly Brown, thirty-five years ago.

Amy Darling We love you reads one in my mother's hand.
With you on every word and note tonight reads another.

But the one I seek is deeper into the pages.

To Amy who will make them forget Bernhardt, Duse, and Modjeska - Love, Bob. I was eleven.

Clever.

Yesterday would have been my brother's 70th birthday. I was prompted to dig in my garage to find some remembrance of him from my early days on the stage because I was imagining the card he would have written this month to his eldest granddaughter, Hannah who stars in her first musical as Anna in The King & I. I remembered that card and hoped it could somehow be re-cycled. It is, however, glued tight onto the page.
But it won't stop me from re-cycling the message.

My brother was always in my audience. And he will be in Hannah's. I will look up to the stage and see her through his eyes just as he watched me when I was her age.

As I turned the pages of my tattered scrapbook, memories of my family came flooding back to me. My brother's wit and keen insight. My father's direction. My mother's support. We may not have been the Barrymores but the theatre pulsed through our veins.

I need only open my scrap books for evidence of why I became a drama teacher.

Greater, still, to find evidence of a happy life.

A Baby Boomer Comes of Age Again and Again

I remember when I got my own phone line in my bedroom.
A pink, princess phone with a cord just long enough to reach my pillow.
An ancient right of passage.

Busy signals, party lines, and parent's bellowing, "get off the phone" eventually were replaced by the beep of call waiting.

In the movie, The King's Speech, the impediment that might have remained a behind the castle -gate secret is broadcast live over the air waves thanks to radio.

Silent film actors, whose flickering, expressive faces
in black and white close ups
are catulpulted to stardom
then rendered speechless in talkies.

TV sets replaced radios.
Now my kids don't even own one.
They watch the computer.
DVD's replaced VHS tapes, TIVO replaced VCR's, On Demand replaced Netflix, Netflix replaced Blockbuster.

Why go to a reunion to catch up with old classmates when you can log on to Facebook?

Remember turning pages of a book?

Remember the feel of a glossy magazine in your hands?

Scrolling has replaced flipping.

Texting has replaced calling.

The wall has replaced email.

Twitter has replaced the AP wire.

Google has replaced the encyclopedia.

Spell-check has replaced the dictionary.

An e-card has replaced the Valentine.

I am convinced that I am the last generation to wash the black ink off of my hands after reading a broadsheet.

Gone is the blue ink stain on the inside of the middle finger.
I wonder if grammar will go the way of the palmer method? Who uses cursive anymore?

Phone calls to and from Europe were once considered an extravagance. My cedar chest is full of letters written on thin, onion skin stationary in envelopes stamped with Par Avion in red, white, and blue.

My scrap books are full of telegrams sent to me on the opening night of my plays. Break-A-Leg typed out on yellow paper with Western Union across the top.

My students now rehearse their scenes holding their droids.
I asked them to write down their notes.
Instead of a pen, they pulled out their cell phones.

I paused in wonderment.

Paper almost seems silly.

Remember when lap tops were considered portable?

Who needs one when you can pull out your ipod on the plane?

I remember growing up in Anaheim where Disneyland was just down the street.
The "Carousel of Progress" previewed the wave of the future - sleek, stainless steel kitchens with washing machines and dish washers.

Even Disney couldn't keep up with the rapid changes of this communication merry-go-round!

I'm still a Facebook hold-out. One of three I think.
But, like my parents who surrendered to the separate phone line for me,
I have embraced some of the new modes of communication.
Blogging has replaced journaling. It's easier on my pre-arthritic fingers.
Texting has become my communication mode of choice with my kids. An instant, in the moment connection.

But nothing will replace a good, long, deep, conversation, eye to eye, heart to heart, with old friends around a table where we can debate whether the tie will go the way of the hat.

Ode to Ambra

Her name is musical
Her laugh is melodic
Her life is song

From beneath the stage
she emerges
this goddess of the night
holding a cup of coffee
poured from her thermos - a constant companion
clip board in hand
pins, labels, and tags
and she, herself, the cushion
next to me
in the darkness
with eyes to see
what needs fixing.

With big, broad strokes
she writes the words of the wardrobe world
hem
spats
vest
fedora
belt
sash
cravat

OK she will say
and return to her labor
buttons, elastic, velcro, and lace
cut from the same cloth as her mother
generations of generosity
the hum of her sewing machine late into the night

Schlepping loads of costumes
Hauling mounds of laundry
Serving
always
Serving
without complaint
this good woman of the theatre
whose hands have
pulled
tugged
tagged
tied
till the job is done
ready for tomorrow's run.

Patient saint of the pit
this leading lady
has no understudy.

For Ambra
the show must go on.