Animals Out Of Paper…In The Hallway

1050x420_Animals-Out-of-Paper_quote_aIt’s been a busy few days at my condo building. We have a closed loop water cooling AC system in our 15 story building. I had always thought that we were responsible for our personal cooling units in our apartments, and in fact we are, but I hadn’t realized until last Monday that we are all inextricably linked by an umbilical cord to the roof of our building. There, there sits a large tank, from which circulates the water that our units rely on for AC. Sometime last Monday, the AC stopped cooling and eventually, the AC Service company figured out that the tank had no water in it. We had notices taped to our doors to turn off the AC until they resolved the issue. On Friday, they realized that one of the commercial tenants, Starbucks, not to name names, had left a valve on which had drained the tank.

I’m not sure how I feel about Starbucks having the control over such an important valve. Hmmm. 200 units x two thirsty, hot residents x $4.00 for a frappuchino x 5 days= $8,000.00. Not chump change. Hit that valve, again will ya, Freddy?

Anyway, it has been a rough few days, with temperatures in the high 90s downtown. Made me glad I lived next to a Starbucks. Hey, wait a minute.

Friday night, we attended a new play called “Animals Out of Paper”, by playwright Rajiv Joseph, at East West Players. I came straight from work. We dined in Japan Town, at the Green Bamboo Cafe, incongruously called a sports bar, where a table of rowdy young men and women were drinking beers and laughing at regular  and spasmodic intervals. One of the men had a laugh like a tommy gun, the metallic scattershot ringing throughout the bar and out onto the street where we sat. The air was cooling – the week’s terrible heat finally seemed to have broken, and meandering between the tables and the storefronts were a parade of yuppies and hardcore homeless men, without shirts or shoes, some of them without their wits, conversing animatedly with themselves while meandering through the traffic on the street.

The play was great; the three characters’  relationships folded, unfolded, refolded, like the paper figures made by the origami master and her protegé in the play. The young man in the play, Kapil Taliwalker, a current student at USC, gave a  performance that was  bold and expressive. Tess Lina and C.S. Lee were strong performers as well, Tess Lina angry and self-protective, C.S. Lee funny and vulnerable. Jennifer Chang, the director, orchestrated one of the best scene transitions I have ever seen in a play, using music and choreography and the character of the boy to bring it to life. The scenic design by Naomi Kasahara, employed folding walls to create the three diverse sets, which surprised us in their versatile and unexpected openings in Act II. Striated by light, the sets were lit with depth and texture by Tom Ontiveros. Melanie Chen’s sound design was vibrant and infused the evening with energy.

We always have a great experience at the David Henry Hwang Theatre. The house manager, Danny, takes care to usher us upstairs to the theatre in the lift. Last night it was broken, so he took us up in the rear elevator, and we came through from the back stage door, through the darkened backstage, the house and into the upstairs lobby. The inside of the theatre was draped with elaborate origami creations made by audience members, I think. Because we missed the lobby, we missed the table where people could fold creations of their own.  We returned to our sweltering apartment, grateful for the time away and the edification and thought-provoking evening out.

Back in our own building, yesterday,  the AC issue was resolved. Carlos, a custodian, came to our apartment and reset the fuse for the AC unit, allowing us to turn it back on. After five days, it was a joy to feel the little arctic gust coming from the vent. Crisis averted.

Our next door neighbors were moving down to one of the garden apartments on the first floor. They had been moving themselves for two days, and with no AC in the building, were exhausted. I ran over to Ralph’s to get them some fruit and muffins for breakfast  so that they could sleep in, and had just delivered them and come back upstairs when I heard an enthusiastic ringing of the doorbell. Hearing jovial voices outside, and thinking they were coming to say thank you, I swung open the door, instead greeted by a tall young man in a gray T-shirt and shorts, and a short dark-haired girl with a striped shirt and braces. The boy thrust out his sweaty palm and introduced himself as John, and his friend, Daisy.

“We’re in a competition to earn points for a trip to Italy!” He pushed the familiar laminated ID card of sales identification  into my reluctant hand. He instructed me to flip it over to see on the back that they could in fact go to Italy. If you have ever been assaulted at your door by these sales animals,  you know the drill. Whatever you are looking at is printed with such small type that there is no way you would ever be able to read it. Meanwhile, the steady barrage of enthusiasm and guilt-inducing sales pitch came at a relentless pace. I raised my eyes from the card and tuned back into his spiel.  “And here, you are supposed to ask us how do you earn your points?!”

Since we have lived in our 24-hour secure apartment building, it’s been a very long time since I have had to say no to someone soliciting at the door, and so  I was still trying to figure our how they even got upstairs.

” I am pretty sure this building doesn’t allow people to go door to door, so what are you doing here? Do you live in the building?”

The young woman piped up, “We have just been visiting our friend Mr. Donald, who lives down the hall. Do you know Mr. Donald?” I nodded weakly. ‘Mr. Donald’ is the president of our Homeowners Association and a very savvy man. I was sure he had not encouraged these sweaty, enthusiastic teens to meander through the halls of our condo building ringing the door bells and interrupting our Saturday evening.

What is wrong with me? Why was I unable to say, “I’m not interested. Go away. I will report you to the guards downstairs.” I must have said something about the guards, because now ‘John’ was saying “I am dating the sister of one of the guards downstairs and so he let us up.” Now I knew that was patently untrue. Such an act would ensure the loss of a guard’s job. Now John was saying “They allow up to 8 of us at a time into the building.”

While he blathered, John was scribbling out  a receipt and reassuring me that I didn’t have to buy magazines, “NO! This is just about picking out a book for some children to receive,” his tone of voice implying that should I not pick out the books, one for the girls, a second for the boys, I would fall into the class of heartless miscreant. The paper he pushed toward me was filled with small writing and pictures of books. While he filled it out, he was peppering me with insanely stupid questions like “What is your favorite color? And don’t say pink or purple, all the ladies say that. What’s your favorite football team? We are supposed to ask as much information as we can to report back to win our trip to Italy. I want to be a football television announcer!”

My un-air-conditioned brain, the hallway still uncooled by the recent reactivation of the air; my Mom muscle which wanted to support hard-working teens to gain points to go to Italy;  my sadness that this pimply teen would  never reach his goal of television football announcer, these things swam in my skull as I watched them fill out their papers and thrust them toward me expectantly.  I struggled to do the math and came up with the fact that they were now asking me for $120.00 to buy two books for the girls and the boys in the hospital and they would accept a credit card or a check or cash….. WTF?

I backed into the apartment, and from the couch where Jimmie was watching the game, I heard, “Who was that?” And I mumbled, ashamed, now enslaved by their sales pitch and my middle class guilt as I reached for my wallet. “Some kids who are trying to raise money for a trip to Italy,” and then, yes, I’m mortified to tell you this, I handed them three crisp $20.00 bills and took their sweat stained receipts, one for my taxes, and one for my records. I watched numbly as they affixed a small sticker that read “Don’t bug me” on my doorbell plate, so that the 6 other teens marauding through my building would not also ring my bell. As I closed the door, I thought that sticker really says “A complete fucking moron lives in this apartment,” and I reached my hand outside and peeled it off the bell.

I closed the door,  my heart engorged with buyer’s remorse. I told my husband what happened, and then as quickly as I could, I grabbed my keys and headed out into the hallway, down to the guard’s desk, sputtering about how they told me the guards had let them upstairs because one was dating the guy’s sister, and there, at the desk,  a middle-aged Korean man who lives on the 5th floor and who’s wife had just talked with them, too, was sputtering in equal outrage. One of the guards jumped up, grabbed his walkie-talkie and ran to the elevators. I waited at the desk, and in a few minutes, saw him escorting them out. Feebly, I cried out – “That’s them!” And they turned, looking back over their shoulders at me  with disgust, as if to say “You are the reason we will not go to Italy.”

Now, as I examine the yellow and pink receipts, the language on the side mocks me, “You, the BUYER, may cancel this transaction IN WRITING at anytime prior to midnight of the third business day after the date of sale. See the notice of cancellation form on the reverse of this receipt for an explanation. NO REFUNDS AFTER THE CANCELLATION PERIOD EXPIRES.

IMG_2801I remembered that after I paid the cash to them, John had torn off my receipt without marking how I had paid, so probably I will be unable to recoup my losses, but I will go through the motions anyway. Just to regain some dignity against these animals out of paper in the hallway. 

A Classic Teacher’s Nightmare – Vacation Must be over

Last night I had a classic teacher’s nightmare. I dreamt that we were at the theater and we were having orientation for new students and we had some tables set up in the lobby of the bing. We were doing some practicum games,whatever that is, and our students were performing in teams. Sitting with me at my table I had two students whose first language was French. One’s name was Quatre-vingt-dix-neuf  and the others ones name was Trente-huit.  I had one of those moments where they each told me their names twice and I leaned in to listen carefully, before I realized that they were saying large French numbers.

“Isn’t it interesting that you both have large French numbers for names?”

In addition they were both so eager to tell me how much they preferred French 18th-century drama to anything else, that by the end of the two minute conversation I was practically weeping with intimidation.

One of my colleagues and I were on our way out of the theatre at the end of the evening because the next morning we had class with all of these students at Eight AM.

Before turning away from the students for the evening, I said to the group, “Well, did you learn anything tonight?”

Two of the six students turned to me with bored expressions and said “No.”

My colleague and I were both rushing because I had not apparently finished the syllabus.

He went to turn off the lights, but there were still about 45 people in the theater. I had to say him, “Don’t you think we should leave those lights on?” This was very uncharacteristic of my colleague.

Right then one of the returning students walked in in a hospital gown, carrying a newborn baby in her arms. More accurately, the baby was kind of strapped to her chest. I remember being much more interested in seeing who the boy’s face with her was, presumably the dad, wearing a name tag which read Jose, then taking in the fact that this student of mine had a baby strapped to her chest. Human interest I guess.

“Ellen,” I said, “when did you have the baby?”

“Oh, I just came from the hospital,” she said brightly.

“Ellen, I don’t think you’re supposed to take the baby out for the first 10 days.” (What do I know?)

“No, it’s fine,” she said in her ever present upbeat attitude. Very Ellen.

Then I woke up. Can you tell I am going back to work on Monday after three weeks off? Hmmm.

“Giving Up Is Hard To Do”

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Annie Abbott’s “Giving Up Is Hard To Do” at the Santa Monica Playhouse is a play about taking intimacy risks.

Now that I think about it, attending a play at the Santa Monica Playhouse always feels a little risky. The lobby is jammed with dusty props left over from other shows- books stacked on a shelf high above the box office window seem perilously close to falling. Glasses on another high shelf seem ready to cascade off.  A gilded violin lies on it’s back at the bottom of the stairs like a stranded beetle with legs- oh no, those are artificial flowers splayed around its body. A dress form with a red T-shirt, adorned in pearls, it’s neck topped with a discarded crown, jauntily greets us as we enter. Two tiny crystal chandeliers adorn the ceiling. The lobby is a veritable cornucopia of discarded theatrical props.

Once inside, the theatre is surprisingly intimate- only about 8 rows of 10-12 seats, with two side sections of seats that look woefully divorced from the main house. It is crowned with the most derelict of lighting equipment.  Safety chains  are unnecessary because the yokes of the antique fresnels and lekos are bolted right into the tracks, their white cords and white plugs plugged into the ceiling. Here and there are 25 foot long extension cords snaking their way amidst the lights. The picture below I took just as the pre-show announcement excoriated the audience to not  record or photograph any thing.

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Surely my illicit photo does nothing to threaten the intellectual property of the lighting designer; the inventory of any other theatre has so eclipsed this one that an equivalent design would be impossible.

“Giving it Up” begins with Annie Abbott, the writer and solo performer, entering from the back of the auditorium as though she were the next speaker for a self-help meeting geared to nonagenarians, a clever device as she refers to the previous speaker whose topic I will not spoil for you.

Her energy high, her cadence quick, she blurts out a rush of personal observations, describing the prospect of online dating for the over 70 set. She is funny, truthful, unflinching throughout. She switches easily to her recent attendance at friends’ wedding, a couple who met online and have included in their ceremony’s notes their original postings that led them to each other. Annie is stunned by the candor of the woman’s post, her frank description of her sexual and sensual preferences. Her attitude seems to be  “I have felt these things as well but didn’t know it was okay to say it.”

And therein lies the success and universality of Ms. Abbott’s material.

For the hour and ten minute performance she candidly discusses her marriage and children. She challenges the privacy usually afforded breast cancer  with humor and wades through the pathos of the sudden and unexpected loss of her husband. My husband and I had known Annie’s husband, Ron,  with whom she had shared an eventful and rich life, and whose loss left a chasm in hers and her children’s lives.  The evening feels a bit longer than its 70 minutes. Occasionally, Annie could stand to project a tad more strenuously. A few patrons were overheard to say “What did she say?”

 In spite of these insignificant shortcomings, this solo performance is obviously just one of the ways Annie Abbott has found to fill the chasm and to resume her life. Her journey includes the formative voices of both her grandmother and her grandchildren; we can see her grandmother’s spirit in Annie, as well as Annie’s spirit in her daughter’s children. She provides us all a service here, through her generosity and depth, her wit and candid intimacy and by showing us the path that led her to this quirky venue.

 

The Attraction of Cults

 

Tonight, I attended Jesse Mu-En Shao’s play, “The End Times,” a play about  an extremely cultish Christian community. The play had  great resonance for me.

When I was a junior in college in Spring 1981, and still fancied myself destined to be a great actress, I had a friend in acting class named Wendy.

Wendy and I were doing a scene for  our acting class about these two little old ladies who sold lemonade on the side of the road. In the scene  it is eventually revealed that the lemonade is spiked, and the two become hammered during the scene. Wendy and I had the brilliant idea that if we made some pot brownies and ate one before rehearsing the scene, we would achieve the effect of getting high like the little old ladies in the scene. Smart, right? Sounds like a couple of dopey college students – no pun intended.

I had been given some extremely strong pot butter by one of my older brothers, and I brought the green jar over to Wendy’s dorm room, where we made a pan of brownies while discussing our “approach” to the scene.  I had also wanted to talk with Wendy was because I was taking a GE Religion class, the topic of which was Religion or Cult, and I had elected to write a paper about the  E.S.T. movement, by “infiltrating” a training and outing it as a cult. I knew that Wendy had already taken the training.

From Wikipedia:
“The Erhard Seminars Training (est), an organization founded by Werner H. Erhard, offered a two-weekend (60-hour) course known officially as “The est Standard Training”. The purpose of est was “to transform one’s ability to experience living so that the situations one had been trying to change or had been putting up with, clear up just in the process of life itself.” The est training was offered from late 1971 to late 1984.”

So, as the brownies baked,  Wendy proceeded to reel me in, and I prepared to  test my hypothesis that est was a cult, not a religion.

The brownies finished, cooled, and we cut the pan’s contents into 12 squares. We each ate one, and then rehearsed the scene. 15 minutes later, we looked at each other, and shrugged. Nothing. No high. We each ate another brownie. After another 20 minutes, nothing, so we ate a third each. After finishing a third pass at the scene and still feeling no ill or good  effects from the brownies, I left Wendy’s room, having decided that I would attend an est training in a few weeks, and went back to my room, where I proceeded to have a nightmarish  and hallucinogenic reaction to the brownies. Wasn’t pretty, and it was pretty much my last exposure to pot.

In a few weeks, Wendy drove us to the est training, located in a non-descrip industrial park in New Jersey, in a conference room  filled with about 200 chairs. Est ground rules dictated that the trainings were each 12 hours long, and there was one lunch break in the day, and very infrequent bathroom breaks. The philosophy was that difficult emotional discoveries  could not be avoided by a sudden urge to go to the bathroom if you were not allowed to leave the room. As a result, in addition to “getting it,” I have a bladder of steel and can sit through 6 hour meetings without breaking a sweat.

The thing about infiltrating a cult is that you need to do more than one visit to get the full 360 on it, and the thing about doing more than one visit is that you are in danger of getting sucked into the cult. There is intimacy in sharing a spiritual quest with others that binds you to the group.  It makes you enthusiastic about the work and about sharing the experience. That is what cults count on – that the people who come seeking spiritual sustenance are hungry for intimacy, for fellowship, and will gladly share their experiences with others.

When I had taken two trainings, and several workshops with the Werner Erhard and Associates group, I invited my Mom to come to Princeton for a workshop. She was, at the time, getting her Master’s Degree in Journalism at Columbia University, and she drove down to Princeton at the end of a long day of classes. All the poor woman wanted was a Manhattan and dinner with her daughter. But  I had an alternative agenda -to share with her this transformative experience. We went to the meeting, and there, I watched my intelligent, journalist mother look into the hollow and haunted eyes of one of the est participants. Only then as I watched her asking logical questions of them was I able to see the folly of my search for a spiritual identity. It was not going to happen in the bosom of est. Getting away from the group was not easy, again, as Jesse’s play described. I eventually left college and changed my address, even moved to Europe for a year, effectively breaking the bond with the denizens of the “human potential movement.”

The “getting away” was painted in dark hues in Jesse’s play tonight.  Listening,  we felt exhilarated by the religious fervor of the characters, then claustrophobic , stifled by the constraints of the group’s irrational rules; what was the most devastating thing was the limited  alternatives for the  characters who sought to escape the group, and the abysmal success rate of doing so. Kudos to you, Jesse Mu-En Shao. Thank you for sharing your powerful play with all of us.

New plantings in the garden

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Having passed through the festive Commencement arch a few weeks ago, I was beginning to feel the summer months approaching. I guess the 95+ temperatures in the week before Commencement should have clued me in, but with the grading and final committee meetings, portfolio reviews, awards banquets, and final exams, there just wasn’t time to get over to Home Despot to buy the plants to fill the planters on our balcony, which have sat empty of color and filled only with dessicated and dead soil.

That weekend marked the first time in a while that I didn’t have something else on my plate that I should have been doing, and so I jumped in the car and drove over to see what they had in the nursery at Home Depot.

I’m always looking for Hummingbird-compatible flowers for the boxes, but that seems less important since the feeders have satisfied them of late. I have always relied on the sales birds at Home Despot to guide me to the flowers that will interest  them. The real sales people are probably made nervous by my quiet observation of the nursery both inside and outside. That day, the birds were not in evidence, so I selected four small containers of Fuschia flowers, four small containers of lavender plants, and some lovely white daisies with blue centers for borders.

Came home and launched into the reno of the patio, tossing old dried up pots and augmenting the existing soil with a new layer of fresh potting soil. The flowers look great, and I am waiting for the birds to discover them.

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Intentional Life Depicted then Jumbled

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The date function on my camera recently stopped functioning. I think it had something to do with the changing of the batteries from Duracell batteries to Ultimate Lithium batteries, at the suggestion of Walter from Walter’s Camera shop, a decrepit little shop where I took my camera to try to determine why it wasn’t quick enough for me to capture pictures.

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I know little to nothing about photography. I don’t know an F stop from the F Dash stop where I catch the bus each morning, but I do know something about impatience. I know quite a bit about impatience. Ask my son.  No, on second thought, don’t – he will not get back to you because he’s out fishing for a week or so. That will be frustrating for you and you will become impatient. Like me.

Anyway, so back to Walter. I went there with my Canon PC1431 camera, prepared to drop a few bucks to have him tune it up for me so that I could take better pictures with the camera that my son had given to me a few years ago.  Walter (or the man who runs Walter’s Camera shop, who, according to my friend/colleague Hannah, is not Walter), told me that I just needed new batteries. Nothing wrong with the camera.

So I went to CVS and bought the new batteries, which were expensive enough to make me feel like I had actually done something to repair my camera. Alas, all that happened was the date mechanism zeroed back out so that the camera now thinks all the shots are being taken in January of 1980. Why January of 1980? Is that when my little camera was born?  Of course, the camera was a gift which came without any manual. So I have consulted with very intelligent people to try to reset the date without success. And, due  to it’s natal confusion, the photos it now takes are no longer able to be sorted by “event” but are in a jumble. This means that the pictures I took last Friday of the Senior Designers’ Portfolio displays are now mixed willy nilly with the pictures I took in Los Osos of our great niece’s baby shower over the subsequent weekend. Try it sometime. Take the dating mechanism off your camera and shoot for a weekend then go back in and try to sort them out. Which ones are the local critters?

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What happened to me was this slightly nauseating sensation of confusion – seeing pictures of students and work colleagues/friends/family (we spend enough time together that I consider them family) interspersed with beautiful central coast scenery and real family (with whom we do not spend enough time to be as well acquainted as the colleagues at work). That’s a whole other topic.  Not at all clearly defined, but sort of fun, at the same time. You should try it sometime.

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Truly Intentional Living

My best friend is having surgery on Tuesday to remove both her breasts. This is her response to a small node of cancer in her right breast from which unfurled the discovery of a dramatic family history of breast cancer. Rather than face later invasive lobular or ductile cancer, surgery, chemo and radiation, she opted to stop it now, by removing the offending breasts. She seems remarkably calm about it, as much as can be determined via a long distance call. She lives half way around the world from me, and never have I felt farther away or less useful.

It is natural to think “How would I deal with something like that? Would I have the courage to lop off my breasts to avoid possible future ailments?”

But I did make a similar decision when I had a total hysterectomy at 35. Or rather, it was made for me when greedy tendrils of endometrium choked both my ureters,  until I became literally toxic.

In retrospect, my life had turned itself upside down over a period of about six months. I had felt restless, no doubt due to the renal poisoning going on inside me. I declared to my husband and son that I wanted us to move to San Francisco, so that I could take a job at ACT as an Assistant Stage Manager, hired locally, no less, which engendered housing costs far beyond the modest salary I was promised.  Jimmie and I flew up to SF, leaving Chris with friends while I interviewed at ACT with the Artistic Director. She assured us that I could work at ACT and there might be work there for Jimmie as well.

I ignored the signs that this was a bad move for us. My husband was working  in Los Angeles, doing occasional TV guest roles, and acting on the stage with his theatre company. Our son was growing up – age 6 then, and attending a school where he was  happy.

The half-baked plan was for me to move up to SF, live in corporate housing near the theatre for the month or so of rehearsals, and while rehearsing 48-50 hours a week,  find housing for us and a school for Chris.  The housing I found was sterile, but close to the theatre.  What I hadn’t counted on was the implosion of my body during rehearsals.

The rehearsals were great – the cast, extremely talented. The play, Tom Stoppard’s “Arcadia,” weaves back and forth through the time and space continuum in an elegant puzzle which is challenging and gratifying to solve in production. The director, Carey Perloff, had impressive energy of intellect and rigor. The PSM, Kimberly Webb, was skilled and inclusive, embracing me as a new colleague. He trained me how to do ACT production notes, which were publishable -so detailed, coming in Issues and Volumes. I spent a lot of time out of the rehearsal room typing up these production notes, which was a good thing, because I was running to the bathroom to vomit at alarmingly frequent  and shortening intervals.

Finally, about five weeks into my stay in SF, I told Kimberly that I needed to see a doctor. They called Dr. Martin Terplan, a physician whose office was up the hill from Union Square and to whom I trudged that afternoon. Dr. Terplan’s office was, for lack of a better term, antique. The dark mahogany panelling in the waiting area glowed through the frosted ripple glass of the entry door. The brown leather benches I waited on were echoed in the exam room. His elderly and kind receptionist, got me in to see him quickly. Dr. T. was rather antique himself, probably in his late 60s or early 70s. I was skeptical but desperately nauseous.

He instructed me to provide a urine sample which he  spun in a centrifuge, then examined on a glass slide in a microscope. Right there, about three feet from where I lay on the wax paper on the table. Now I was really skeptical.

“You are very ill. Your kidneys are not functioning. Take a cab to the hospital and see Dr. Spaulding, who will be waiting for you.” And so, he saved my life.

I did take a cab, not even having time to call my husband in Los Angeles to tell him what was happening There were no cell phones at the time, so I had to wait until I had already had a procedure at the hospital to call him with the news.

The rest, the subsequent return to Los Angeles, surgery to remove my uterus and reattach my ureters, did not happen for some time due to my advanced anemia. The decision to remove my uterus was not automatic, but I had become so enraged at my body by then that I spent little time making the decision. The options, discussed with my gynecologist were only cursorily considered by me. I had come close to death and I was not going to let it happen again.

So I know a bit how my dear friend feels – the betrayal of your body, your history (my grandmother and aunt both had hysterectomies at 35, a fact no one had bothered to tell me until after this episode), and how it feels to come to grips with the decision to avoid medical catastrophe.

But she is braver than I because she has no overt symptoms – beyond a small pea-sized potential cancerous lump.  She has gone to the experts, researched her genetic predisposition to cancer and made the decision to live a future clear of breast cancer. So much more intentional and courageous than my own journey was.  She makes me so proud.

 

KEYS TO THE KINGDOM

 

This morning I negotiated an extra hour and fifteen minutes to my arrival at tech, eschewing the hair and makeup portion of the tech.

I grabbed this time to dash to the Ralph’s to buy essentials. Because every stage manager in tech  knows the pain of the empty larder, the defeat of raising the laundry detergent bottle at midnight as you stand at the overstuffed machine, the guilt when you flip open the trash bin to throw out the coffee grounds and you can’t get them in because you literally haven’t had the energy to walk the garbage down the hall to throw it away. It is universal.

Oh, oh, poor me.  LOL. Anyway, so I slid my debit  card into my back pocket, picked up the house keys, shoving  them into my front pocket, grabbed the Shopping bag and dashed out the door. As I walked briskly to the store, it occurred to me how unshackled I felt.

Thats because for 90% of my time I am usually carrying these keys:

1) House key ring occasionally with the car key attached

2)Maui key fob attached to my office key, office bathroom key, keys to the copier area in my building, key to the theatre building where I am in tech.

3) What I affectionately call the jailer ring- 10-12 inches of chain holding  22 keys to every lock in my realm, including theatre keys,  keys to the props cage, etc.

4) A cart key with a clicker and a cute fob of international relevance.

I’ve already told you about my “little” rolling bag that follows me everywhere. Half of the purpose for this bag is to hold this  vast wealth of tools of access.

It is trite to mention that the people with the real power are the ones with no keys. I have yet to gain access to that echelon. My unfettered jaunt to the grocery store reminded me of a time early in my stage management career, where I worked on a musical review at the Coast Playhouse.

The producer of the show, manager of the box office, lead in the show and sweetheart, B.H., had the habit of running around the theatre preshow in his tighty whities.  He had a gorgeous physique, and of course none of us had a problem with his state of deshabille, but he had the habit of putting down his keys in random places- he had even fewer pockets in that state of undress than I do on a day when I wear a pair of dress pants with no pockets and set my universe into chaos.

One day when he had lost his keys for the third time that week, I said, “B, it might be wise for you to look at the reason you keep losing your keys. It seems like you might be trying to psychologically shed some of the responsibility of being the one who has to have them?”

The good news, gentle reader, is that I have not started to lose my keys. But pay close attention, because  when that begins to happen, I can’t pretend to not know what it means!

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Classic Stage Manager Nightmare

So last night I was trapped in what felt like an 8 hour stage manager nightmare. I apologize for using real people’s names, but that was what made it so horrifying. These names are people whom I really respect and have worked with successfully in the past, so my epic professional collapse in the dream made me wake in a sweat. And like truly great nightmares, that are detailed and fascinating, I repeatedly went back to sleep hoping it would continue, which it did.

I had been hired by Dan Ionazzi, the Production Manager of the Geffen Playhouse and a renowned Lighting Designer in his own right,  to stage manage a large opera production in an outdoor arena called the “Alhambra.” I have never been to the Alhambra in Granada, but my cursory search this morning on Wikipedia led me to a castle on a hill.

This was not at all what the theatre I had been hired to stage manage in was like. This was some multi-chambered outdoor arenas  grouped in a cluster of adjacent canyons, each requiring sure footing to make your way through them. Once inside, the tech table was perched in the middle of the “theatre” on a naturally formed table shaped stone. I arrived at dusk and made my way to the table. There were many people running around in headsets and I chatted with them, and eventually walked down to the table when Dan said they were ready to begin. My tech table was completely clean of anything. No headsets, no book, no pencils, which was when I realized I had not brought anything with me. 

I said, “Do you think I could get a headset at the tech table, please?” And one of the many headset clad people came over and said, “This isn’t the tech table. The tech table is down here,” guiding me further down into the center of the canyon, where, sure enough, there was a headset and a large contraption that looked like a boom mic on a goose lamp contraption – sort of what you would see clamped to the side of a drafting table, but with a microphone on it, not a lamp. I sat at the table (still horrified that I didn’t see my script there) and the assistant gently guided what I realized was their version of the “God” mic over my head so that it captured everything I said and broadcast it, booming, out into the canyon for all to hear. They all heard something like this: “Where is my fucking script?”

Meanwhile, I looked around and there were large tourist groups being led into the canyon at regular intervals by nun guides. Yes, nun guides. And groups of children in uniforms. I know, I should be lying down on the therapist’s couch to recount this tale.

So, without a script, not much was going to happen. I explained (over the god mic which I didn’t know how to turn off) that I would need a script to begin the tech. This flummoxed everyone as you might imagine. So, in order to save face, I said I needed to return to my car to get my script. Next thing, I was walking around for the next 2 hours or so through the similar but creepy adjacent canyons. I was hopelessly lost and had no idea how to get back to the “theatre”.

They all looked remarkably similar, but were devoid of actors carrying spears and children in uniforms being led by nuns. I could not for the life of me, find my tech.

Suddenly I stumbled across a headset clad assistant, who had clearly been sent out to look for me and who led me back to the theatre, which was literally at least a mile away through a tortured route of knee straining steps.

Additional nightmare factors to this tech – I didn’t know the play.  I never made the tech happen. When I returned to the table lo those two hours later, some of my students from SC were sitting there teching the show quite satisfactorily without me. As I climbed back up to my table, I saw Paulie Jenkins sitting in the front row of the theatre removing her headset for the night. When I got to the table, there were three copies of the script on the table – no, unfortunately, in my dream I couldn’t read or remember the title of the play – and inside each script was a note from the following people – Bryan Gale – hope you feel better soon, Els, along with a cue list of the light cues. (There were a lot of LDs on this show apparently). One from Dan Ionazzi with equally supportive language. The message I woke up with was “this is your last show.”

Like I said, classic stage manager nightmare…..Glad to be awake this morning sharing the horror with you.

Falling

It was  December of 1999, and as we stood on the crust of a new pie, a new century, a new millenium. I remembered when I was in my pre-teens and I had forecast that in the year 2000, I would be forty years old. Of course, at that point, I never imagined that anything so heartrendingly literal would happen. Like the shortsighted computer engineers of the sixties, I imagined that I would remain forever 19 something, with nary a wrinkle on my brow, nary a love handle on my hip.

And here I was staring forty in the face, reconstructing myself as an adult, trying to redefine myself in my own terms, rather than by the recipe my mother left scratched into me. It’s hard cooking from scratch.

I tiptoed through the hotspots that I faced as a child with my son, who made me so proud with his accomplishments that I couldn’t imagine my ‘little’ criticisms would carry nearly the weight my parents’ did.

Chris and I had been fighting that day over whether he should do the extra credit math problems – six problems, true/false tagged onto the fifty that he was required to do. I tried to explain that if he did the extra six, it would raise his average on the rest of the page, and ultimately, his grade. Try explaining that to a ten year old who hasn’t covered averages yet in school. He did not want to do it. I unsheathed my tools of negotiation: first I cajoled him. He responded by nastily copying my cajoling in a sing-song, head swaggering thrust. I bribed – he called me on it. And ultimately, I threatened.

“Go to your room, then.”

“That’s blackmail,” he parried.

“No, that’s called parenting.”

“I’m not doing it,” Chris parried back again. “And that’s called kidding.”

Touché!  Ultimately, he did the math extra credit work. And the literature extra credit. The whole exercise took exactly 30 minutes, during which we saw the whole array of pre-tantrum warm ups. The banging on the table with the pencil. The whining, the falling out of the chair, the imagined injury and retreat to his bedroom to “recover.” The whole thing left me so exercised and tired that I considered canceling my gym membership.

Then we spent the rest of the evening in the living room, classical music playing, Chris playing his game boy, and me reading the New York Times.  At one point, he asked if he could come sit on my lap and I watched over his shoulder as he mastered this mind-numbing feat of dexterity his generation can do without batting an eye. If you’d told me when I was twelve that this is what I’d be doing on the eve of my fortieth birthday, I’d have called you a big fat liar. Isn’t it swell?
Another morning that week, we had been sitting in the dentist’s office, waiting for Chris to have his retainer removed. Popcorn stuck in the gum had caused swelling. His best friend, Mikey, was with us, and the conversation moved to braces.

“Are you going to get them?” Mikey asked Chris.

“Yeah. In about five months.” Chris said.

“What color braces are you going to get?” Mikey asked. “Silver or clear?”

“Red.”

“But Chris, if you get red, you’ll look like a vampire with blood in your mouth,” I said.

“Cool. Okay, how about blue?”

I wondered that morning if my parents had asked me about the color of my caps. Whether I’d elected to have the silver because of the way the question was phrased? Or had the question been phrased at all? I think not. But there’s a wonderful innocence about Chris’ desire to stand out with his blue or red grin. It was so untarnished, so replete of hurtful memories. Kids are such a miracle. Such a clean slate. You can fuck up so badly if you make the wrong decisions under pressure.

House guests, dentist whose golf game was interrupted, your daughter screaming and crying in front of you. Sunday afternoon, and the dentist’s lab is closed. Dr. Bailey was there all by himself, of course.  Make a decision quickly. You have to get home to make dinner for your husband’s Yale roommate and his family.

“I think silver. It won’t show up under the braces. You can get white caps after the braces come off.”

Did Mom ever regret that decision? Did she ever have a discussion with Dad about the wisdom of having a girl entering puberty with chrome fenders in her mouth? Was it to protect me from being attractive? It certainly stopped me from becoming vain. I could barely stand to look at myself in the mirror. To this day I have trouble looking in the mirror.

That long ago day, December 14, 1999, I had housekeeping issues to discuss with my therapist.

“I can’t make it Friday, because I’m the room Mom and Chris’s class is having their party. ”
“You’re excused,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“And I’m anxious about going back to work and still being able to come.”

“We’ll work it out so that you can still come, but without hours and specifics, we can’t schedule.” (That sounds much more patronizing on paper than it did in person.)

What I was really worried about, more than scheduling and going back to work, as if that isn’t enough, was that I was stalled in therapy. I told Jimmie on the phone that I felt that I wasn’t “going anywhere.” Which of course is exactly what we’re working on in the analysis. That you don’t always have to be going somewhere. That just where you are is enough for the moment.

“I’m afraid, too, that I won’t have the memories to help me do this work.”

That I’m not interesting enough.

The previous Sunday, when we were walking into the Iceoplex rink, I was following Chris, carrying his hockey bag when my foot slipped off an uneven place in the pavement and I fell to my knees, scraping my left knee. Chris was in front of me, hitting his tape ball ahead of him like a puck with his stick, and didn’t see me fall. When I exclaimed, “Ouch,” he turned around and looked a little embarrassed by my clumsiness. Someone passing to my left put a hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you alright?” I didn’t meet their eyes (too embarrassed to have fallen) but said, “Yes, thanks. I’m fine.” I told Chris I needed to go get a bandaid – I could feel that I’d broken the skin on my left knee and didn’t want to bleed all over my new suit.

“Go ahead and put your skates on, sweetie. I’ll be right in,” He shouldered the hockey bag and started off, looking back over shoulder.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Yes, sweetie. I’m fine. I just scraped my knee.”

It wasn’t until the next morning when I was getting dressed in stockings and a dress that I remembered an incident from when we still lived in Pittsburgh that had been unburied by my fall on Sunday.

We were walking home from the church in North Hills, Don, Larry and I. I must have been five years old, and Larry would have been about seven, Don nine. We had to walk through a little patch of trees which separated the back yards of the houses across the street from ours. We were running, me in my black patent leather shoes, which were  slippery to begin with. I stumbled over a tree root and fell forward, my exposed knee landing hard on the ground. Blood immediately glistened on my knee, and began to spill down my white knee socks onto my black patent leather shoes. I began to cry, both from the pain of cracking my knee and from fear that Mom would scold me for messing up my dress. (Blue with a white Peter Pan collar – how’s that for memory?)

Either my cries or my absence made my brothers turn around and come back to me. They helped me home (or as I said to my therapist, “I had them help me get cleaned up.”-important narration, as she pointed out, because it made me responsible for getting help, rather than being helped automatically by my brothers.) and I limped home, blood coursing down my shin.

I don’t have any memory of Mom or Dad in this event. Again, an environment where children are on their own a lot of the time. Coming home from church. Where were Mom and Dad that we didn’t all go together? Probably in the car driving around the long way. They’d probably made us promise to walk home.

“Take care of your little sister, Donny.”

I have a memory of this overwhelming fear of being scolded or punished for getting hurt – I was running in the woods. I should have known better than to run in the slippery shoes. My brothers would have been just about the age that Chris is now, and turned and looked at me with a feeling of helplessness and responsibility for my welfare and disgust at my clumsiness.

So, with regard to this process of analysis, my therapist asked, “Do you think I can help you if you’re bleeding?”

“It’s so complicated,” I said. “I’ve told you so much about myself over the past two years (I said three – Freudian slip) and I know so little about you. It begins to seem unbalanced. It’s not that I want to know details of your personal life, but it is just such a strange relationship.”

“It is a strange relationship,” she conceded. “It’s like no other relationship. I’m happy to answer your questions about me. When patients come, this process that we’re in  is always a surprise. We won’t solve your problems in your life, but we look at the sources of them. We go back and forth between the interior and exterior worlds. As you get deeper into the analysis, we find ourselves more involved in the interior world. And you find that while you have gotten to know me better, it’s really doesn’t matter.”

I’m also worried that I’m not interesting enough.

“What other times didn’t you feel interesting enough?” she asked kindly.

“At the dinner table.”

“At whose dinner table?”

“At my parents’ dinner table.”

“For example? What would have made you interesting enough?”

“There’s really nothing I could have said that would have made me interesting enough. Maybe if I could have said something adult.”

“If you said something adult you would have been interesting to your parents?”

“When else don’t you feel interesting enough?”
“At parties.”

Back to the alcohol. As Joye pointed out, the alcohol helped to erase my responsibility, gave me an excuse to act outside of myself. “To be more interesting.”

I acknowledged that my fear of not being interesting enough was a direct echo of my mom’s own sentiment about herself. She’d come out and visit us and we’d go to a party and she’d be so quiet. Coming home, I’d say, “Mom, you were so quiet. Why didn’t you talk more? She’d say, ‘Oh, I don’t have anything interesting to say.’”
Stalled you say? No, you’re in it, kiddo.

“Can you tell me if you think I’m stalled? If I’m “doing this right?”
“That’s certainly a legitimate question. You aren’t stalled, and you’re doing just fine. The most important thing is that you say whatever is on your mind. If you are feeling stalled, then you tell me. If you can’t tell me, because you don’t think I’m interested, that you tell me that. If you are ever uncomfortable and don’t want to come any more, that you tell me that.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you are interested, because I think you are. It’s that I’m not interesting enough.” (does she see the difference? Yes, I think she does.)

                  The coda was that this particular evening, when I was walking the dogs for the final walk of the day, the sky streaked with pink, I fell again. I had rounded the corner of our street and had begun walking west when my right foot gave way under me. Almost as if in slow motion, I saw myself falling, my hands outstretched to break my fall, my right knee landing with a dull thud on the ground as it had thirty five years before on my way home from the Lutheran church. I heard the air expel from my mouth, “ooufff” like the sound you might hear from a football player going down after a hard tackle. I felt my charms from my childhood charm bracelet under my palm as I landed on the pavement.

I scrambled to my feet, maintaining my hold on the dogs’ leashes and started off briskly down the sidewalk, whispering to myself aloud, “I can’t believe I fell again today. And landed on that knee.” As I rounded the next corner, I looked down to note that my stockings were torn on my right knee, and blood was beginning to come forth through the scrape on my knee. As my eyes raised up, I had a moment of clarity- I heard a dog bark in the distance, a bird flew across my path and the sky was resplendent in its colors. I took a deep breath and found that my chest was free and my breathing relaxed. I padded along happily behind the dogs, not stalled anymore, but alive.