A brief meditation on Captain Jack Sparrow (mostly from the first movie):
So, this picture is being posted apropos of nothing other than it's bloody striking and it's bloody Jack Sparrow and it makes one want to jump through computer screens and onto the bounding maine...but it also makes me think a few other (slightly deeper) thoughts. Things that make me go "Hmmm."
When I first saw the "Pirates" movie, it was fine - it was better than some other recent fare (Geena Davis, I'm looking at you) - the costumes were good, the actors were decent, the bit with dropping the sconce was an acceptable meet-cute...and then:
CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW.
The most remarkable thing about his appearance to me (besides the genius of his entrance which showed us pretty much *everything* we needed to know about his character, and which to me is still probably the Best Entrance/Introduction of a Character Evah) was that as soon as I saw him, Captain Jack Sparrow HAD ALWAYS EXISTED.
Cole Porter and Mozart have this quality. One can hear their songs for the first time, and be sure that they've always been singing in your bones. Shakespeare's characters are so indelible that while there are a plurality of people who have played Hamlet, there can never be another Hamlet - not really. It's also fun to be able to say, "Oh, I was playing Ophelia," or "Lady Bracknell" last week and not to have to explain who she is or from what play...the way one must do if one is playing, say, "Betty." And then explain, "From 'Sure Thing.' By David Ives. 'All in the Timing?' It's a really great play. It's about two people meeting at a cafe? And they keep starting over. There's a bell? Nevermind. But you should totally read it."
The opposite of this effect, however, is that the Archetype of Jack Sparrow is so strong that the writers (and to some extent Johnny Depp himself) forgot the most HUMAN part of Captain Jack - which aren't his catchphrases or his quirks - but his real LONGING, LOVING of the freedom of a ship and the open sea. Which this early picture captures.
So it is when we're writing/acting/directing new work: there's the thrill of finding the unexpected human contradictions that make great characters great. And there's the danger of falling into "either/or," archetypical or caricature when we return to that work again and again and again.
For me, I'd love to see Captain Jack Sparrow return with a bit of his secret soulfulness intact. For now, I'm content to watch him here, dreaming forever after of that horizon.
The Work of Emily C. A. Snyder (Official Site)
Monday, April 8, 2013
Thursday, November 29, 2012
When Purple Prosedy Attacks! (And How to Tame It...)
In 2009, I attended a theatre conference in NYC where, naturally, I was drawn to any workshop that breathed the words "Shakespeare"or "verse drama" or "iambic pentameter" in the title. The workshops were all individually excellent, but I did notice one hilarious similarity between them:
You'll notice, though, we didn't delve into the entire speech or its surrounding lines, which actually reads like this:
(Cue dramatic music. In fact, cue this:)
Writing in Verse: Pretty Pitfalls
As a director, I sometimes wondered why Shakespeare would occasionally "just go off" into rhapsodies of verse that stop the action cold. I'm not talking about "To be or not to be," I'm talking precisely about what we see above. But I'll give you a few other examples:
From HAMLET:
From THE TEMPEST:
PROSPERO.
1) Romeo and Juliet: Granted, the "O this, O that" are good poetry, granted too that Romeo is of a poetical disposition, and granted this part isn't easily cut because it's become so well known, regardless it stops the action cold. Romeo was in the middle of finding out why Benvolio's got a cut or a weapon or there's a body lying on the ground or something. The important philosophical idea is: "O brawling love! O loving hate!" The rest of it are just variations of a theme. Variations that the actor has to work hard to convey as varied, interesting, and crucial to be said aloud, but which for the sake of clarity could have been cut.
2) Hamlet: Horatio's lines begin with a cause: he's reminding us that during times of national upheaval, even nature seems to reverse itself. But then he goes on. And on. Poetically. In this case, a director/actor may justify that Horatio is just spinning time out so that the Ghost's reappearance is a sudden shock...but we really don't need "extra bits" in a play that's already four hours long. (See below for Blackadder's thoughts on that!)
3) Midsummer: Many scholars have tried to draw correlations between this speech and the natural goings-on in Shakespeare's day. They may not be wrong. But again, by continuing on and on and on and on, with variations and repetitions and florid example after florid example, the audience gets tired. The actress may be brilliant...the audience is tired. Midsummer doesn't suffer from being overlong, and the speech is fairly well known so that about half the actresses keep the whole intact, but in point of fact, we only need one or two examples of how the world's gone mad, and then cut right to the heart of why she's speaking which is, "This same progeny of evils comes from our debate, from our dissention, we are their parents and original."
4) Tempest: This show is actually chock full of loads of poetry with minimal (seeming) motivation. This comes at the end of the show, and it's gorgeous poetry...but again, repetitious. Especially at the end of a show, the action should be faster, quicker - we want to see all the resolutions fall into place. So while directors may keep some of the list of spirits under Prospero's command, they may not need all of them listed.
Now, there are those folks who are going to bristle that I even criticized Shakespeare's poetry at all, but hear me out. Or rather, hear out Sir Rowan Atkinson and Hugh Laurie:
The Play (Not Your Poetry's) The Thing
So, what can we learn from five hundred years of folks struggling with Shakespeare? Quite a lot, actually. When writing verse drama, we need to keep in mind that while we're going to have a tendency to fly off into dizzying ecstasies of the English language, in fact, the audience just wants to know What Happens Next.
That's not to say that you couldn't or shouldn't go off with the Purple Prosedy Monster every once in a while - after all, what's the point of writing verse drama if you don't get to write verse drama? But that poet-playwrights need to keep first and foremost in mind whether the poetry assists or impedes the forward momentum of the play.
To think of it another way, consider what the Rowan Atkinson character above would cut from your play...and consider cutting it now.
Some Tips to Keep in Mind
Before you cut, consider asking yourself these questions:
1) Does the poetry reveal something about the character?
2) Does it move the plot along?
3) Does it cover up some action (a length of time, etc.)?
4) Does it set a mood?
5) Can the actor and director easily motivate it?
If the answer is "yes," then keep the poetry as is (at least for the space of a reading!). If, however, you find that:
1) The poetry doesn't sound like the character;
2) The forward motion is completely and unnecessarily stopped;
3) The poetry is repetitious and can be summed up in one or two examples;
4) The poetry is at odds with the mood you need to sustain;
5) The actor and/or director are asking you what the hell this means;
Then consider cutting or rewriting your verse. It'll be painful to lose your good lines, but the best lines you can probably fit in somewhere else, or showcase them independent of an entire sonnet.
REMEMBER!
The audience is listening to your play for the first time! They're getting the exciting experience of hearing words as if they've never heard language before.
No one's done thesis upon thesis on your poetry - it's raw, it's new - it needs to keep the drama going.
No one in the audience is reading your play, either. It's one thing to read a line or two of verse, put it down, and consider it before picking up where you left off. The audience doesn't get that leisure. They're listening to fast rich language.
So keep it elegant, but simple! And make friends with the Purple Prosedy Monster...or better yet, tame it.
See also: Writing in Iambic Pentameter and Where Have All The Iambic Pentameter Plays Gone?
Every bloody workshop, independent of each other (!), used the following speech from ROMEO AND JULIET in their presentations:
ROMEO.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!In one workshop, we looked at this from a movement standpoint, from other we really delved into the words and expressing the antitheses, and in the last we explored the punctuation.
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
You'll notice, though, we didn't delve into the entire speech or its surrounding lines, which actually reads like this:
BENVOLIO.Why, you may ask, did each workshop cut off the parts surrounding those six lines? The answer is simple: every other line is motivated. And the parts in italics were the result of:
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,ROMEO.
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,BENVOLIO.
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
No, coz, I rather weep.
Writing in Verse: Pretty Pitfalls
As a director, I sometimes wondered why Shakespeare would occasionally "just go off" into rhapsodies of verse that stop the action cold. I'm not talking about "To be or not to be," I'm talking precisely about what we see above. But I'll give you a few other examples:
From HAMLET:
HORATIO.From A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM:
A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets:
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse:
And even the like precurse of fierce events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen.--
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!
TITANIA.
Titania's ready for ALL THE TALKING!
These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
Have every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
![]() |
| Prospero's got STUFF TO SAY! |
PROSPERO.
Now, as a director, I have to make a choice as to whether to cut out parts (typically, yes) or to leave them in. The bits that I highlighted, while beautiful poetry, tend also to be repetitive poetry for an audience, that is, for those listening. It can also be a little wearying for the actor to justify why s/he keeps speaking. Although there may be better examples, let's keep with the four above.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
1) Romeo and Juliet: Granted, the "O this, O that" are good poetry, granted too that Romeo is of a poetical disposition, and granted this part isn't easily cut because it's become so well known, regardless it stops the action cold. Romeo was in the middle of finding out why Benvolio's got a cut or a weapon or there's a body lying on the ground or something. The important philosophical idea is: "O brawling love! O loving hate!" The rest of it are just variations of a theme. Variations that the actor has to work hard to convey as varied, interesting, and crucial to be said aloud, but which for the sake of clarity could have been cut.
2) Hamlet: Horatio's lines begin with a cause: he's reminding us that during times of national upheaval, even nature seems to reverse itself. But then he goes on. And on. Poetically. In this case, a director/actor may justify that Horatio is just spinning time out so that the Ghost's reappearance is a sudden shock...but we really don't need "extra bits" in a play that's already four hours long. (See below for Blackadder's thoughts on that!)
3) Midsummer: Many scholars have tried to draw correlations between this speech and the natural goings-on in Shakespeare's day. They may not be wrong. But again, by continuing on and on and on and on, with variations and repetitions and florid example after florid example, the audience gets tired. The actress may be brilliant...the audience is tired. Midsummer doesn't suffer from being overlong, and the speech is fairly well known so that about half the actresses keep the whole intact, but in point of fact, we only need one or two examples of how the world's gone mad, and then cut right to the heart of why she's speaking which is, "This same progeny of evils comes from our debate, from our dissention, we are their parents and original."
4) Tempest: This show is actually chock full of loads of poetry with minimal (seeming) motivation. This comes at the end of the show, and it's gorgeous poetry...but again, repetitious. Especially at the end of a show, the action should be faster, quicker - we want to see all the resolutions fall into place. So while directors may keep some of the list of spirits under Prospero's command, they may not need all of them listed.
Now, there are those folks who are going to bristle that I even criticized Shakespeare's poetry at all, but hear me out. Or rather, hear out Sir Rowan Atkinson and Hugh Laurie:
The Play (Not Your Poetry's) The Thing
So, what can we learn from five hundred years of folks struggling with Shakespeare? Quite a lot, actually. When writing verse drama, we need to keep in mind that while we're going to have a tendency to fly off into dizzying ecstasies of the English language, in fact, the audience just wants to know What Happens Next.
That's not to say that you couldn't or shouldn't go off with the Purple Prosedy Monster every once in a while - after all, what's the point of writing verse drama if you don't get to write verse drama? But that poet-playwrights need to keep first and foremost in mind whether the poetry assists or impedes the forward momentum of the play.
To think of it another way, consider what the Rowan Atkinson character above would cut from your play...and consider cutting it now.
Some Tips to Keep in Mind
Before you cut, consider asking yourself these questions:
1) Does the poetry reveal something about the character?
2) Does it move the plot along?
3) Does it cover up some action (a length of time, etc.)?
4) Does it set a mood?
5) Can the actor and director easily motivate it?
If the answer is "yes," then keep the poetry as is (at least for the space of a reading!). If, however, you find that:
1) The poetry doesn't sound like the character;
2) The forward motion is completely and unnecessarily stopped;
3) The poetry is repetitious and can be summed up in one or two examples;
4) The poetry is at odds with the mood you need to sustain;
5) The actor and/or director are asking you what the hell this means;
Then consider cutting or rewriting your verse. It'll be painful to lose your good lines, but the best lines you can probably fit in somewhere else, or showcase them independent of an entire sonnet.
REMEMBER!
The audience is listening to your play for the first time! They're getting the exciting experience of hearing words as if they've never heard language before.
No one's done thesis upon thesis on your poetry - it's raw, it's new - it needs to keep the drama going.
No one in the audience is reading your play, either. It's one thing to read a line or two of verse, put it down, and consider it before picking up where you left off. The audience doesn't get that leisure. They're listening to fast rich language.
So keep it elegant, but simple! And make friends with the Purple Prosedy Monster...or better yet, tame it.
See also: Writing in Iambic Pentameter and Where Have All The Iambic Pentameter Plays Gone?
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Maternity Wardens
So, due to - y'know - moving to New York City, holding down a full-time job before that, and then directing/producing A Midsummer Night's Dream prior to that (phew!) all in the month of August, 31 Plays in 31 Days has gotten less attention from me.
However, I did manage to write a play based on something I saw on the NYC subway a few days ago. There was this real Wall Street guy sitting across from me. Handsome, but with a very stern face, like he was refusing to grant the world a smile.
However, next to him was this adorable little Oriental girl in a stroller. She wasn't doing anything particularly noteworthy, just sitting there being four years old, but she caught the eye of Wall Street man. And he started grinning at her. A little duckling of a grin.
His eyes became softer. One could almost see stars and pink roses and fluffy forest creatures emanating out of his gaze as he looked at her. It was both beautiful and highly amusing how much Wall Street Man melted.
We came to a stop, and Wall Street man immediately put on his sour look again. He caught my eye, and his face become more poker like. Not trying to dissuade him, I glanced away - still keeping the guy in my periphery - and sure enough, as soon as the train started up again and everyone become pointedly anonymous, his gaze went right back to that little girl and his face expressed "Oh! If only!"-ness.
A few stops later, Wall Street Man went off...and was immediately replaced by Wall Street Man #2. This fellow was buffer, cooler looking. He didn't look stern; his poker face read Bored, Now.
But sure enough - one look at that little girl in her stroller, and Buff Wall Street Man melted into daisies and candy canes and wistfulness and yearning as much as Dour Wall Street guy had.
Hence, this play. Enjoy!
![]() |
| Wall and Thisbe from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" 2012 |
However, next to him was this adorable little Oriental girl in a stroller. She wasn't doing anything particularly noteworthy, just sitting there being four years old, but she caught the eye of Wall Street man. And he started grinning at her. A little duckling of a grin.
His eyes became softer. One could almost see stars and pink roses and fluffy forest creatures emanating out of his gaze as he looked at her. It was both beautiful and highly amusing how much Wall Street Man melted.
We came to a stop, and Wall Street man immediately put on his sour look again. He caught my eye, and his face become more poker like. Not trying to dissuade him, I glanced away - still keeping the guy in my periphery - and sure enough, as soon as the train started up again and everyone become pointedly anonymous, his gaze went right back to that little girl and his face expressed "Oh! If only!"-ness.
A few stops later, Wall Street Man went off...and was immediately replaced by Wall Street Man #2. This fellow was buffer, cooler looking. He didn't look stern; his poker face read Bored, Now.
But sure enough - one look at that little girl in her stroller, and Buff Wall Street Man melted into daisies and candy canes and wistfulness and yearning as much as Dour Wall Street guy had.
Hence, this play. Enjoy!
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Directors can be Playwrights, too!
Preach it, Jeffrey Sweet!
There's a saying that never, ever, ever under ANY circumstances should a playwright be allowed to direct their own works. And while it's true that some of the pieces of mine I've directed I need a little bit more time and perhaps another pair of eyes to help out in round two, by and large, I find that I can playwright/revise better when I do it in the rehearsal room. As Mr. Sweet put it:
There's a saying that never, ever, ever under ANY circumstances should a playwright be allowed to direct their own works. And while it's true that some of the pieces of mine I've directed I need a little bit more time and perhaps another pair of eyes to help out in round two, by and large, I find that I can playwright/revise better when I do it in the rehearsal room. As Mr. Sweet put it:
Also it mustn't be forgotten that some people write in rehearsal as they direct. Their writing process is to direct....Writers who are also directors may indeed face the problem of objectivity as they stage their own stuff, but many others have the discipline and professionalism to know how to adjust for this. That's what you have other collaborators for – the actors, the designers, the producer, and the rest of the people in the room who are presumably there because they know something about how to make theatre. Directors with any sense will pay attention to and solicit advice from colleagues.Check out his entire article! And then his blog. Good stuff!
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Write What You Know...But Don't Post It
So, as many of you know, I've joined the 31 Plays in 31 Days group, which is basically NaNoWriMo for playwriting.And as many of you also know, I think I can safely brag that I'm no slouch when it comes to writing new plays.
So imagine my surprise, then, when on the first day of writing...I found myself completely out of ideas.
Ladies and gentlemen, This. Simply. Does. Not. Happen.
Terry Pratchett, one of my favourite authors of All Time, writes several times in his novels (such as in Wyrd Sisters) that he believes the universe is full of ideas that just sleet down through the sky. Most people may only be hit a few times in their lives - while there are some other (un)fortunate few who, like specially tuned magnets, are pummeled with this ideological sleet nearly every moment of their lives.
He then goes on to make fun of William Shakespeare and the musical Cats, which can only be to the good, but the idea of ideas sleeting from the sky has always seemed an apt metaphor.
Most authors lament that the first question anyone wants to ask them is: "How did you come up with that idea?!?" Much like the actor's dreaded, "How did you memorize all those lines?!?!?" this question is both impractical and infuriating to answer. How did I come up with that idea? Why the idea has been there all along. It lodged itself in me, and I've been trying to exorcise it from me ever since! (Actors in this regard have it considerably easier, since they "merely" have to memorize someone else's ideas, which they can then keep or more usually discard as pleases them. Lucky actors.)
So, again, imagine my surprise when on day one of writing, I sit down to my computer...and have nothing to say.
What surprised me, more, is that all the usual suspects bobbed to the surface, only to disappear soon after. They were all too long; too involved for a day's worth of writing. Too much for a page or five.
I stared at the screen.
It stared at me.
I waited for the universe to sleet down ideas.
The universe was silent.
And so I was forced to go to that well within me, and lo and behold, I ended up writing a very personal play. That was followed by a completely useless Mr. Bean-lite, and another David Ivesian pursuit of verbal futility...and then another dangerously personal play. And one more - a musical, this time, naturally.
As a result, I've absolutely nothing I'm going to show anyone right now!
What surprised me about the need to move inward was that I have long been a proponent of "Write What is True and Mask It." Being a fan of fantasy, I enjoy a distancing device - be it poetry, or dance, or another country, or another time. I enjoy style. I find it stylish. Nor do I think that there's dishonesty in those pieces I've written stylistically. As Stephen Sondheim wrote, "Content Dictates Form."
But what style also allows for is presentation. Should I post at least three of the five plays I've written so far, there are those who would recognize themselves (and myself) right away. I was interested to see, as well, how much those three plays were done in silence (always saving the musical, where one can sing what one feels).
I feel like it's been a while since I've really had a good silent scene (a la Hamlet about 6 min in, or Romeo and Juliet about 16 minutes in, or my most recent Macbeth in the silence after we killed all the Macduffs) - and silence is always more revealing.
We'll see what comes in the remainder of the month! But what about you? Do you draw primarily from within or are you pelted from without? Sound off in the comments! And if you have time, make sure you join up for this great playwriting adventure!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Are You Playwright Enough?
There's an exciting NaNoWriMo-like challenge starting tomorrow for all playwrights:
31 Plays in 31 Days is the challenge for playwrights to produce a play a day (one page minimum) during the month of August.
I'm terribly excited by the idea. I've known a few other playwrights who've managed to do a play a day for a year...trying to make a month is about enough for me!
Today's the last day to sign up officially (I think) so make sure you send your info in!
31 Plays in 31 Days is the challenge for playwrights to produce a play a day (one page minimum) during the month of August.
I'm terribly excited by the idea. I've known a few other playwrights who've managed to do a play a day for a year...trying to make a month is about enough for me!
Today's the last day to sign up officially (I think) so make sure you send your info in!
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Nothing's Gonna Change My World
I hate moving.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
I hate packed bags; I hate packing bags.
And yet, curiously enough, I love travel, and adventure, and being on the go.
It's the expectation of movement that's the worst. As Eliot puts it so succinctly in The Hollow Men:
Jersey took four years or so to become home, once I made friends four years later in high school - but soon after it was off to Steubenville, OH for college, which was more home than home because in 1997, mid-college, my family moved from Jersey (where I'd finally felt rooted) back to Massachusetts (which I could barely remember)...the very summer before I went abroad for a semester to do nothing but travel - which was wonderful, and trying, and perilous, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
My body was in MA from summer 1997 on, but home was Ohio - and remained Ohio for a good year after graduating. Hence, I didn't really live in Massachusetts until 2000, after I came back from a stint to England, and began teaching and - much to my surprise - put down tentative roots, fifteen years in the making.
And now, just as my roots are secure, I am moving again.
What makes this particular move more difficult is that I'm not going with family, as I did when a child, or with some particular goal, as I did when I went to college. I'm not going with a set job (I'll be temping); nor roommate; nor even immediate goal. Yet, I am going. I am, to put it frankly, being sent.
I'm walking on water; I'm hoping there's a handy whale with a bad digestive system. I'm speaking with Isaiah and Samuel's words, "Here I am, Lord! Send me!" I'm hoping His parable about the lilies of the field is accurate.
Yet, even as I look at the choppy waves, and the whale's enormous esophogas, and the fall of every sparrow, I'm reminded of a few things:
I'll end with the best pep talk my Dad ever gave me. He's the sort of fellow who'll buy a birthday card and then put speech bubbles and captions all over it. One birthday, he gave me a picture of the companions from the Wizard of Oz, and on the back he wrote this:
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
I hate packed bags; I hate packing bags.
And yet, curiously enough, I love travel, and adventure, and being on the go.
It's the expectation of movement that's the worst. As Eliot puts it so succinctly in The Hollow Men:
Between the ideaI've made quite a few movements in my life. It used to be that when people would ask me where I was from, I'd heave a sigh and explain that I was born in Amherst, Massachusetts - but don't remember it - and then moved to Worcester, MA - which I do remember - and then in Nursery School to Portsmouth, NH - which I loved very much - and then wrenched out of there mid-fourth grade under trying circumstances to the (initially) trying home of Pompton Lakes, NJ.
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
Jersey took four years or so to become home, once I made friends four years later in high school - but soon after it was off to Steubenville, OH for college, which was more home than home because in 1997, mid-college, my family moved from Jersey (where I'd finally felt rooted) back to Massachusetts (which I could barely remember)...the very summer before I went abroad for a semester to do nothing but travel - which was wonderful, and trying, and perilous, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
My body was in MA from summer 1997 on, but home was Ohio - and remained Ohio for a good year after graduating. Hence, I didn't really live in Massachusetts until 2000, after I came back from a stint to England, and began teaching and - much to my surprise - put down tentative roots, fifteen years in the making.
And now, just as my roots are secure, I am moving again.
What makes this particular move more difficult is that I'm not going with family, as I did when a child, or with some particular goal, as I did when I went to college. I'm not going with a set job (I'll be temping); nor roommate; nor even immediate goal. Yet, I am going. I am, to put it frankly, being sent.
I'm walking on water; I'm hoping there's a handy whale with a bad digestive system. I'm speaking with Isaiah and Samuel's words, "Here I am, Lord! Send me!" I'm hoping His parable about the lilies of the field is accurate.
Yet, even as I look at the choppy waves, and the whale's enormous esophogas, and the fall of every sparrow, I'm reminded of a few things:
- I was terrified of little things when I left everything at Hudson Catholic (and it forcibly left me) to pursue my Master's at Emerson College. I remember, I worked up all this gumption to go on the silly train to and from Boston, and nearly freaked myself out over a trial-run a week before classes began to scope out the train, and the campus, and my classrooms and everything. Yet, now these places are my stomping ground. There was nothing frightful about the change, other than the possibility of having to share a seat on a crowded commute. And that little change out of my comfort zone of six years back in Hudson is what first set the groundwork in me to realize I could make a living as an artist. All it took was the gumption to get on a train.
- After I finished Hamlet, our first production of Gaudete Academy and the beginning of the end at HCH (although I didn't know it), I was in a state. I was still deep in the world of Hamlet, I was feeling called to leave HCH, I couldn't believe that we'd actually pulled off Gaudete Academy, I was losing my first "theatrical child" - whom I'd directed in something like fourteen plays - to college, I was exhausted. So naturally, my mother sent my sister and myself for a week to Ireland. I didn't want to go - not that I didn't want to travel to Ireland, but rather we were leaving the day after the show closed, and I wanted time to collapse.
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| A sign we saw in Dublin. |
- However, when in Dublin we went off our itinerary. We saw The Importance of Being Earnest by an all male-cast. We visited the university. We took taxis. And at last we went the "wrong way" on the road, followed the mountains out of Dublin sans map, and found ourselves in perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland I'd ever seen. Which is to say, sometimes going under extreme pressure and choosing right or left by His whim lead one to the bits one ends up loving the best.
- Not all adventures are successful: I shouldn't have gone to Paris alone (or at least, I shouldn't have spoken to strangers in Paris), and tromping off alone and attempting to scale cliffs while upset at the world and in tennis shoes with no traction while the ground is muddy wasn't my best idea.
However, going off alone in London to Hyde Park to practice Rosalind's speeches to a tree and then running into some legitimate Shakespearean actors who inquired of me information (which I was too young and fearful to pursue their friendship) was a good idea (it was also daylight!). And saying, "Bollocks" to pretty much everyone who's ever said, "No," or "We're not sure," or "It can't be done," re: doing some piece of theatre and just doing it instead has nearly always panned out.
Those times when I haven't hidden (such as at Emerson) have always been better than those times I have (such as in Hollywood). Those times I've stuck to my guns have been better than those times I've caved. Those times I've pursued friendship have been better than those times I haven't. Those times I've jumped with God (such as when I grabbed my unpacked bags and ran off after the train to Italy) were better than those times I've fried my brain on TV (too often). Those times I've walked with God are better than those times when I've moped on my own.
- Last, but hardly least, I'll keep in mind my first day of first grade. My mother dropped me off - herself weepy; myself as well. Then, unbeknownst to me, Mum watched through the window to see if I was all right. She saw me muttering to myself, and getting ready for the day. Later that night, she asked me what I had been doing. And I, ever precocious, looked her in the eye and said very gravely, "Well, I was scared. So I thought to myself, 'I need a pep talk.' So I gave one to myself. And then everything was all right."
I'll end with the best pep talk my Dad ever gave me. He's the sort of fellow who'll buy a birthday card and then put speech bubbles and captions all over it. One birthday, he gave me a picture of the companions from the Wizard of Oz, and on the back he wrote this:
And all the people said, "Ahhg! A Lion!"
And the Lion turned around and cried, "Oh No! Where?"
Remember: You are a Lion.
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