An opening, a big move, and life goes on.

Oi. What a summer! Okay, the quick lowdown:

I'm in a show! Come see it, please.

I'm makin' a movie! Well, a short, with Gina Robertson, who is a former teacher of mine and also a lovely friend. A whole bunch of folks from the old Northwest Actors Studio days are involved (Tim Brandt*, for one, who is like family), so it feels like a reunion. We are planning a fundraiser during October with a screening, hopefully, this December. More details on both to come.

I moved into Cooper Artist Housing! I live by myself (James and I are still together, but not living together for the moment) in a live/work artist studio above the Youngstown Cultural Arts Center. I'm a Delridge Girl once again. My cat loves it, I loves it...what a beautiful decision. It was one of the other things that fell together for me this year. Not living in the basement of a Capitol Hill tenement can only be a good for my health.

I also have some (theater, feminist, experimental) stuff in the works with some girlfriends...watch this space. I'm so excited about it that I can barely breathe when I think on it.

I'm pregnant with a play. I can feel it kicking.

30 is a good year so far.


*Tim has become a really lovely actor. He was before, but he is coming into his own now.

And even more #theaterfail.

The Producing AD of American Stage Theater Company, Todd Olson, has issued a challenge to Mike Daisey: we broke it? You fix it.

How did he issue this challenge? In the most recent American Theatre.

Olson: You say the “dream” of theatre “is not quantifiable on any spreadsheet.” I say, “the hell it isn’t.” Artistic Directors have to do it every year.

Daisey: I know it is hard to hear, but if an artistic director has quantified the dream of theatre on a spreadsheet, they are dead already. I am sorry to tell you this, but it is true.

I've written about this a bit before. I've been on both sides here: Administrator and Artist. Olson really is brutal in this letter; according to his bio on the website he directs. Can you imagine being in a show with him? Ew. Well, I'm looking forward to Olson's response, if any is forthcoming. I doubt he expected Daisey to take the bait.

I'd like to point out that American Stage's website and promotional images are, in my professional opinion, terrible. The season's "posters" smack of the awful stereotype of tech-blind theater artists: they look as though someone gave a cheap (free) copy of a Photoshop-like program to an unpaid volunteer* who took a few pictures of actors that may or may not appear in the play (or, more likely, found open-source digital images) and made what any respectable marketing person would call a mock-up but in a "poor theater" is actually a real poster. God, I hope those aren't what go to the printers. And I could go on about the site itself. I want to throw Web Design for Dummies at it. It's ugly, inefficient, and boring: the Trifecta of Suck. One could theoretically find an intern that you don't pay in anything but theater tickets and beer who could do a better job, but I think that's not the point.

Everyone's got an idea on how to make theater better these days and no one agrees with anyone else. Right now I'm thinking of a conversation I had this week of one of the only friends I retained from the Stupid Theater Incident of my life. I told her about getting cast in a show** and her response was excited for me, but also boiled down to, "I'm not knocking it but I'm way too burnt out to even think about theater because theater is right now full of suck for me". And this was from a tough, smart woman who started her own darn theater because she was tired of how it was done. Ironically, the institution that we both survived -- were summarily drummed out of because we did not conform -- suffers from a radical case of just about everything Daisey claims is wrong with theater. The lovely lady in question has since moved to L.A. She is not the only refugee who left the state. Trust me, I've considered it.

For more fun, check out some of the responses on Daisey's blog and elsewhere:

I am becoming increasingly convinced that people in the theatre are not only completely lacking in critical thinking skills, but are barely literate at all.

That's completely true for me as well; said Stupid Theater currently features an AD who, literally, does not read the scripts he directs more than once. In fact, he doesn't always read them before including them in his seasons. The disrespect of that took my breath away. But I think this is an extreme example, though it's indicative of the kind of lazy behavior that certain theater professionals exhibit: to some, even when they work in theater, it's still seen as an "easy A", just like back in high school.*** The cognitive dissonance that this produces in the rest of us is mind-blowing and is the reason why I've been not working, not writing, not producing anything of artistic value for a year. I admit it: I can't handle working so hard as to literally break my health only to see ignorant asshats breezily producing 15-year-old plays that are already startlingly out-of-date to anyone paying attention (and therefore in my mind -- YMMV -- not currently worthy of reviving) because their wealthy, white, septuagenarian benefactors are comfortable with them. And will give them money if sufficiently impressed. And the cycle continues.

And this from a company that made its initial reputation not so long ago as an edgy, fringe-y, fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants company plop in the middle of a major gay/counterculture-ish community. Three years to cultural irrelevance. I don't want to die that way.

I'm going to bed and pulling the covers over my head. Tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day.


(Via.)

*Yes, Olson says that his admin staff are paid and I believe him. But obviously he needs to pay them less (or more) if this is the quality he's getting. You can have simple and inexpensive that looks classy, not cheap.

**Oh, yeah, and I'll be in that weird Macbeth. I'm a witch and I sing. Yeah. Don't ask.

***But not, right? Because they spend long hours building stuff and making money! They are above Reading for Comprehension, no matter how much time we spent studying for it in the WASL.

More on How Theater Failed America.

Remember this post?

Check this shit out.

Via.

Long time no blog.

I know, I've been derelict: mea culpa.

First of all, James is fine. We were both pretty shook by the whole ordeal, but no one is dead, only two parts fell off the bike (which we retrieved, one from a nice homeless guy that James gave all his money* to) which starts. James himself had a badly-sprained hand and some scrapes and a rude** awakening. I had awful anxiety for the next few days and James had his first-ever panic attack. I should bake him a cake or something.

I actually got so anxious that my neck, shoulders, and upper back broke out in hives. No shit. They're fading now. Also, I've been fighting an eye infection. I'm not too worried; I used to get them all the time (stress! graduation!), so I can deal fine.

Since then, I have had a streak of good luck. Who knew?

Go Team Me:

I felt able to audition for the first time since That Whole Thing Where I Got Screwed Over by My Theater***. It was for a Macbeth and I have a callback tomorrow.

I got a commission through Etsy. The client is awesome and will give me dollars. In return I will give her hours of my time spent poring over yarn and button samples. Oh, and knitting. Can't forget the knitting.

I got blogged about re: Etsy and how awesome I am and why haven't you bought something from me? Just kidding. I know that only dudes read my blog. Not that I couldn't make you something nice too, you know.

Kidding!

I actually got a freakin' interview for a day gig. An e-mail interview, but "there's a good chance for a fit". And they wanted writing samples (copy and client communication stuff). This was my first interview, literally, since the last time that I needed to interview for a job that I got, which was...oh...three years ago? And since December I've sent out my resume out dozens of times. Lordy, lordy.

In other creative news that may or may not happen:

I'm thinking of writing a novel. Hm.

[Male friend's name redacted] and I are seriously considering a podcast. Hey, we're both smart, we're both wonks/geeks, we're both kind of cranks (him more than me), and we both think that we could do it better. Some of the topics we're considering: geekery& women (so...much...material...), geekery and knitters (I'm also forming a blog on this!), Israel and the Middle East in general (yeah, we'll narrow that down for you), and fact that BSG is clearly a product of the Bush era while Babylon 5 is clearly a product of the Clinton era****. Oh, and [redacted]'s name is redacted because he doesn't want to use his real name, for various reasons. If you know me well, you probably know him, too, or could at least hazard a guess. He does not, for some reason, read my blog (and/or keeps forgetting that it exists), so it's probably not you.


*A dollar.

**Read: terrifying.

***There may be an satisfying coda to this in the next year or so. That's all I can really say right now. No, I am not going to blow up the theater, even though I have thought about it. Repeatedly.

****This is a real coversation that [redacted] and I have had, which may, in fact, count as the nerdiest thing I have ever in my life considered in this here my brain. Additionally, please do not talk to me about the series finale of BSG. I have not yet seen it for reasons and reasons and don't want it ruined for me any more than it already has been by virtue of spoiler-ish posting on Facebook. Curse you all.

Speaking of arts funding...

...I'm applying for a grant.

I've been a collaborator on grant proposals and non-profit business plans before, but never one for just me. And I've never written a budget all by myself before. I'm feeling a little conflicted about it.

On the one hand, I need just this kind of kick in the pants to get me rolling again, so I see this is an excellent opportunity, even if I do not get awarded.

On the other hand, if I were on a grant panel and I read my biography and resume, I'm not sure that I would think that I could be trusted with the on-average award of 6,000+ American dollars*. But that's probably the currently less-than-stellar self-esteem talking.

Blerg.

*At the moment, this seems like a legendary and unheard of sum to be in my possession. Do these people run a credit check or something? After all, I might foollishly spend it on overdue hospital bills. And it still would not be enough to cover them all.

Yeah, but still.

Not much going on today. I am too lazy or too depressed or too unfocused to upload the picture of the gloves, although I did discover the difficulty inherent in a right-hand-dominant person taking a picture of a glove that in on one's own right hand.

My insomnia seems to peak during one of two times of the year. I think we're in that time now. Twice this week I have laid down to sleep and gotten up 45 minutes or so later. Last night I got to sleep on my second try, around 4:30am.

I have been writing some during these times, though. I've barely been able to put a sentence together in the last year but I've written a few pages of dialogue and notes and such. I have a couple things gestating; it's been too full of a year to be able to process much until now.

I think that I also, for the most part, hate theater people. This might be (probably is) nasty emotional detritus left over from this spring, but still*. Mr. ARS once told me that, in his opinion, I wasn't an actor at all, but a writer. Keep in mind that he never saw me act, although he had a great deal of respect for me as a writer if not as an actor (or a person). Anyway, I have an awful fear that, ultimately, this will prove true, and I am sick with the notion that I will never perform again. However, I have been toying with the idea that, maybe, I'm a solo artist, and that's all it is. I don't play well with others**. Not that I'm an utter social maladroit. Merely a partial one.

Or I could just be in a complete funk (read: depressed) on account of the recent bout with not leaving the house, which in turn is on account of the high winds and flooding rains of the past two days. It's dark all the time.

But I did get paid! I did a nice custom order for a lady in Chicago: an over-elbow pair of fingerless gauntlets (hand-dyed, fair-trade Suri alpaca, vintage buttons and ribbon) for her 22-year-old daughter's Hanukkah and received her check and thank-you note today. She purposefully overpaid me, as well. That made me feel a hell of a lot better; apparently I am not yet completely worthless in the eyes of American capitalism!

Man, I gotta ease up on myself.


*James maintains that "yeah, but still" is the ultimate end to an unwinnable argument, the final, desperate gambit when you know you have been proved wrong but are just too contrary to admit it. It is a common phrase in our household.

**This is an awful pun. I'm sorry. Completely unintentional.

"...not like we thought it was!"

Jinny and I went to American Apparel yesterday.

I sort of hate contemporary fashion. I mean, I love fashion and the expression oneself through what one wears, the sociology of fashion, if you will, but...wow. Gold disco leggings.

It's not that AA (ha!) doesn't have quality basics, but their most fashionable pret-a-porter lines are just atrocious. I do see a few people wearing such things around Capitol Hill, men and women, and they are ugly. And tasteless. Blech.

It was amazingly beautiful out yesterday and it still is today. There is unseasonably warm May weather lately, leading to a "Severe Weather Warning" -- use sunblock! drink water! -- and other tips for the perpetually sun-deprived.

It's 88 out right now. And sticky. Unusual heat even for August, let alone May.

The oppressive heat seems appropriate: Big Love closes tonight, and I feel oppressed, heavy. Otherwise, I've had such a spectacular week.

This week I went to a fundraiser for a show that a friend is involved in and barely got in the door before I saw one of my former castmates inside, clearly involved in the same piece. I dashed away in a panic, quickly walking to the nearest bus stop and trying to get my heart rate back down. On my way through Fremont in the warm dusk, I stopped inside a small bookstore. Books are comfy; I understand them and feel at home with them. If I have an attack in public, frequently I manage to get around books to calm down.

I didn't do much besides skim spines as I walked around until I reached the poetry section, where, on impulse, I grabbed a fat, comprehensive Rumi translation and opened the book at random, reading the first lines that I came upon.

I thought, Yes! It isn't like I thought it was!

And I went back to find old friends, make new ones, and network. I felt powerful for the first time in a month.

When you eventually see through the veils to
how things really are, you will keep saying
again and again, "This is certainly not like
we thought it was!"

Empty rings around your heart.

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

I was fired.

I'm not in the show.

It was hard.

It is hard.

Very, very hard.

And I don't know how to talk about it.

And I'm not far enough away from it not to be angry.

But I think it was wrong.

And now we ride the circus wheel
With your dark brother wrapped in white
Says it was good to be alive
But now he rides a comet's flame
And won't be coming back again
The Earth looks better from a star
That's right above from where you are
He didn't mean to make you cry
With sparks that ring and bullets fly
On empty rings around your heart
The world just screams and falls apart

But now we must pick up every piece
Of the life we used to love
Just to keep ourselves
At least enough to carry on

Why does my latte taste like the ocean?

I have wept in more coffee shops in the last year than the rest of my life combined.

Jake and I met at a Starbucks during lunch and talked about the possibility of me leaving the show. Today, a week before Big Love opens.

There isn't anyone to blame: I can barely function in rehearsal and Jake doesn't know how to tell me what I need to do to perform well. We're both at a loss.

It was strange to think, when I got cast, Oh, well, now I have to live until at least halfway through May. I can't let anyone down. But I'm still letting people down. I've never felt like I was doing a bad job before in a show, but I can't seem to get a handle on this character. And not just any character, the pivotal character of the show, the one on whom the entire spine of the play gently balances. I had a moment last night when I just cried out, sobbing in the stairwell of my theater, What am I doing? I must be such an idiot for thinking I could do this at all! Why am I here? Why don't I function properly inside, like other people? Why can't it make sense? Why, why, why?

It's exhausting, this constant crisis.

I'm meeting with Jake and Lou to work on whatever needs to be worked tonight. If I have to, I'll do it every night until we open.

I think I'd like to sleep a little now.

All this talk of love.

Sorry that I haven't posted more lately.

I'm in a show right now. Big Love.

I'm finding that this is the most difficult rehearsal process I've ever been through. My meds have been adjusted -- a higher dose -- and, after three months, I'm still anxious and rage-filled over nothing, shadows. If it doesn't work, I think they're putting me on Lithium, which scares me.

All I do is argue in rehearsal. Mostly with Jake, who is directing. Arguing with your director is one of the most unprofessional things an actor can do and I would have been fired by now if he wasn't my friend and didn't know what I was going through. Still, I have no answers to make it better and neither does he. Last night I cried because I got so frightened of getting hurt during a physical scene that I help things up for ten minutes. Then Jake and I went in the hall and argued more and I suddenly decided that I should never act again. Finally, Lou, our stage manager came back and held me for a bit and said that she understood everything that I was going through.

And then I got my face on and did a run-through for promo photos.

In the middle of all this, I met someone. I'll tell that story in another installment...

I'm feeling mighty lonesome
Haven't slept a wink
I walk the floor and watch that door
And in between I drink
Black coffee
Love's a hand me down brew
I've never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

I'm talking to the shadows
from 1 o'clock til 4
And lord, how slow the moments go
When all I do is pour
Black coffee
Since the blues caught my eye
I'm hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dreams to dry

Now a man is born to go a lovin'
A woman's born to weep and fret
To stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes

I'm moaning all the morning
and mourning all the night
And in between it's nicotine
And not much heart to fight
Black coffee
Feelin' low as the ground
It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby
To maybe come around... around
I'm waiting for my baby
To maybe come around

My nerves have gone to pieces
My hair is turning gray
All I do is drink black coffee
Since my man's gone away

Chicks before dicks.

Okay, so what I really have to do is spend more time with my girls.

I worked at the theater all this weekend helping Jake get stuff ready for tech week and then I went and hung out with Jinny and her son Storm Saturday night. Jinny and I had drinks in the kitchen and in the morning I came back and made brunch for the three of us. I'm still there right now, just chilling out, Sunday-style.

Life is so much better after having a good long vent with your lady friends. I needed this: I needed to get out of my head, forget about boys, and loosen up a bit. I guess I'm not breaking up with Balagan right now, either. I think we just had a weekend of make-up sex: I made curtains, moved flats, cleaned the Cabaret, put lamps and lumber in storage, stripped wires wearing a hand-knit angora sweater, and got down and dirty and covered in theater filth. And then I had a wonderful night.

The sun has come out today.

I love a good Sunday afternoon.

I went home and did just what he said I'd do.

I now have three all-time favorite unforgettable best pieces of theater art and a second most timely for me as a person work.

Single-moment-in-time-stretching-away-into-the-distance performances, in chronological order of my seeing them:

1. My hero Mary Zimmerman's The Secret In The Wings (Seattle Rep). Simply, it was a bridge between two parts of my life and had everything my girl's heart could dream and everything my woman's soul could need.
   
2. Elevator Repair Service's 6+ hour word-for-word performance of F. Scott Fitzgerald's grim tragedy of undying love, The Great Gatsby: Gatz. Set in a banal office, there is silence, then chaos, then silence again and I was fully entranced for the entire length.
3. How Theater Failed America by Mike Daisey.
   

Most Heartbreaking Reflection Of My Life performances:

1. Rent by Jonathan Larson. I was 20, has just had my first psychiatric hospitalization, and was an acting student living in Manhattan.
2. How Theater Failed America by Mike Daisey.
   

Last night I saw Mike Daisey perform his newest show, How Theater Failed America. If you don't know about him you may still have heard or read him, as he is not only an actor, writer, and fat man who sits at a table, he is also a commentator for NPR and writes for several magazines. I had seen him previously in his break-out 21 Dog Years At Amazon.com ten years ago so I knew what to expect: a sweaty fat man sitting at a table that you cannot take your eyes off of. Talking. Just...talking. And drinking water.

The basic premise of the show is the imminent economic failure of regional theater, which is largely uninteresting to anyone outside of theater and a terrifying white elephant to anyone inside of it. It tells nothing new. Most art does not tell a new story.

However, it struck me, and I had, at the end, one of those tunnel vision moments at the end, where he is speaking only to me, looking only at me, as though hundreds of other people were not present and we were alone together in the dark. He had spoken about his suicide attempts and being saved by work, nothing but work. Art, starvation, nothing but ramen for months, but it gave him life. And then he said, Go. Go do this work. Be as luminous as I know you are, as you know you are, because this is not political commentary or a failing industry but the only thing that will give you life. Go, work, and Godspeed.

I have no money. I have ten dollars to live on until the 15th and I have 2/3 of a large container of plain non-fat yoghurt in my fridge, uncooked soba in my cupboard, two large containers of salt, and a jar of honey. No produce, no fruits or veggies or anything unless my wonderful big sister buys me apples and carrots tomorrow at the farmer's market. I barely work and don't know if I can manage more hours. But I can't, literally, live another day like this.

The part of my brain that understands money is fatally broken. Things appear, or they do not. This simply is and is not connected to any other function. (I am not this way when I run a business, however.) I do understand that I am dying, right now, and if do not do something right this very fucking moment that very soon it may be too late for me. I cannot wait, it is an imperative.

So. So I guess that I am going to quit Balagan. They are doing nothing that I want to do; they are the Boston Pops performing an over-produced Copeland and I am Jimi Hendrix. The current season is full of large, ensemble casts of solid, proven works with moderate production values and not enough rehearsal time lead by an already-bloated, squabbling administrative team that I could come back and save (I would be very good at that) but, since it already sent me to the hospital, I feel that would be inadvisable. I want to see a man hang upside down in leather and spikes playing Moliere by candlelight for nine people. I want to have five people in panda suits eat sushi in a five-star sushi restaurant. I want to produce Hamlet in Space and cast rock stars who wear body glitter. I want to make punk rock theater. I want to be happy, not broken-hearted; free, not bound; alive, not dead. I feel cheated and tired and I have only thiiiiiis much left to live for.

So. To work, then.

OiNK RIP, long live Balagan.

An interesting link to Shane "Lowdown" Regan's MySpace Blog re: the changing face of music distribution.

And a thoughtful link to Misha Berson's Seattle Times article on my theater company, Balagan, and our new performance space at 12th and Pike.

No title.

I am officially on a leave of absence as Managing Director of Balagan Theatre.

Jake took me to dinner and asked me to step back for a while and let myself heal. He's not wrong to ask me to do that, either as my colleague or my friend. I know what he's trying to be most of all is a friend right now.

One one hand, I'm relieved. I do need to rest and get better. If I could possibly afford it, I would leave town for a while, but I can hardly pay my bills right now. My anxiety is still high and I could desperately use a real vacation.

On the other hand, now I have less of a reason to get up in the morning. I also have much less reason to care about my company. I'm already feeling disconnected and used, I don't have an artistic stake and I barely have a financial stake. Now I feel like nothing I do matters and I'm expendable and what the hell am I here for anyway?

Now what?

I've been fantasizing about moving away. With Jinny's move coming up, there's less reason for me to stick around. However, I finally have a good support network here, and I shouldn't throw that away. The only places I would care to move to right now are New York, which seems like a bad idea at the moment even if I keep fantasizing about it, or New Zealand, which is better but requires much more money. Not that I have any money for anything, because if I did I'd just go away for a while and the whole thing would be moot.

Also, I seem to still be doing the same amount of work.

I don't know how this is supposed to function, but I'm pretty sure that's not it.

It's my party.

Playin' my records, keep dancin' all night
But leave me alone for a while
'Till Johnny's dancin' with me
I've got no reason to smile

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to, cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you

After I got out of my bath I tried to get dressed. I did the typical girl thing where one tries on a whole bunch of things in an effort to make sure that one looks gorgeous/skinny/appropriately professional/sexy/enviable. I put on my best red dress, the one I save for Big Dates or events, but decided that it was too sexy and not professional enough.

So I tried to take it off and the zipper broke.

I struggled with the zipper for half an hour. TDI called.

"Hey, my friend that I was bringing tonight canceled on me..."

"...oh, I'm sorry."

"...so I'm going to grab happy hour with some folks and try to convince someone to come with me."

"Uh. Okay. Great. Free wine and chocolate. Tell them that."

"Okay."

"I'm stuck in my dress."

"Really?"

"Uh. Yeah. I gotta go, I'm sorry. Zipper."

I hung up and, after a brief struggle, resigned myself to wearing the red dress. At least if I was going to be stuck in something, I was stuck in something fabulous. I accessorized and started walking to the theater in the light rain with sucking dread in my stomach.

When I got there, I tweaked the set-up of the open space of the lobby where the bar and cabaret will eventually be when we finish construction. Unfortunately, there's art there.

As Managing Director, I am responsible for curating what will eventually be a rotating art gallery in the lobby. I'm excited for when we actually have the means to do this, i.e. proper lighting, etc. However, someone (I don't know who, which is probably good) let a company member who shall remain nameless put their work up on the walls without my permission.

Something I left out of my earlier post about my breakdown is how I walked in, saw the art, stopped, decided that I literally couldn't look at it again without losing my shit, then continued walking. Enter Charles, the hug, and losing my shit anyway, as told in my previous entry.

It's all black paint or thick pen on white butcher paper, except for the sketchbooks (sketchbooks!) propped open. As Sylvia said, the pieces look like a fourteen-year-old goth created them. I've been blocking them out of my head as much as possible, since just looking at them made my breath shorter. Not because it's emotionally affecting art, but because having such humiliating art on our walls for our grand opening makes us look so terrible that I can't deal with how people will perceive us because of it. I had invited Krysztof to the gala but I'm glad he couldn't make it because I was so dreadfully embarrassed by the mind-numbingly bad art.

Anyway. I ignored the art and hung around the theater, talking to various cast and crew floating about. Eventually Kaitie pulled me aside and I told her about the previous day. I had planned on coming to opening night (the Benaroyas were to be there and Jake wanted a full house for Donna, plus it's my fucking theater too, even if I felt depressed and empty over it) but Sylvia kindly told everyone that I wasn't feeling well, thank you, and that I would try to be well enough to make it to the gala. Kaitie called me in the morning to ask how I was and I told her that I'd give her the whole deal later that night, if we could find a few minutes.

That afternoon at the theater, I told her what had happened and my good session with Jaime (she referred me; we have the same therapist). I think we might have been interrupted, because the house opened shortly afterwards.

Ava Fiasco was the first of my people there. I told her to get there early since we were oversold. I got a row of seats by the entrance so I could scurry out if I needed to but the others would still have good seats, and she quickly designated one for Mr. VNRS, one for herself, and one for Devon Rocketship (of Junk Mail fame). A few minutes later, the Intellectual arrived with his friend who I had met yet who didn't remember me. The friend had been drunk at the Rendezvous a couple of weeks back and we had a good-natured argument about Charles' theory of masculine versus feminine dramatic structure. I think I won, but I'm not sure, but it was fun.

We eventually sat everyone that was to be sat and the show started.

Halfway through the first act, TDI, who was sitting in a different wing of the theater from me got up in the middle of a scene, peeked into a backstage exit near his seat, got focused on the proper exit, and simply left, taking his friend with him, leaving me distracted and anxious for the rest of the first act.

The second act of Caryl Churchill's Cloud 9 is meant to be acted naturalistically, as opposed to the farce in the first act. Ryan was cast as Betty/Edward and, as I watched the second half of the play, I felt sad and alone in our concrete bunker theater. His dialect was wretched (Long Island Mick plus middle-class Brit just comes out as a speech impediment) and he was feminine and queer but all of his own mannerisms were there, as intimate to me as they had always been, and all I could think of was that I had lost my best friend and my lover and our baby and it was all blood and I wanted to run away and be sick and I wanted to hurt him very badly and I wanted to stop being so angry. I wanted to tell him that every day I wake up and wish that he was dead, or wish that I was dead, or wish that life was different somehow, and that I'm sorry and I had never missed anyone so much in my life but I hated him. I was aching and raw and I wished that I were anywhere else.

And it was over then, and I could skip the curtain call and go out and work and forget what I had just seen on stage in the bar rush.

Kaitie found me after things had calmed down. I let Shannon spell me at the bar and we took a break in the empty theater. She gave me half of her bouquet of white roses and told me that the party was amazing. I cried in her arms and told her that I missed her and that I loved her and that I wanted to die, and then we sang songs until I had to go back to work.

How could a night so frozen
be so scalding hot?
How can a morning this mild
feel so raw?

Without you
The tides change
The boys run
The oceans crash

The crowd roars
The days soar
The babies cry
Without you

The moon glows
The river flows
But I die
Without you

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

The week had been ramping up for Balagan's "gala": the open house after-party on the Friday after the new theater opened, and I was almost done with everything that I needed to do. My weekend had been good and I felt a little better for it, but weight was building on me. I felt if I could just get through opening weekend, get through the gigantic party that all of our most important donors, patrons, and colleagues were invited to, I would be okay. Sam had given me a couple of comps to Twelfe Night for Wednesday, and Mr. VNRS and I went. It was a beautiful production; it's arguably Shakespeare's most complex and troublesome comedy (it was written just before Hamlet) with a spectacular cast of local actors (including my friend Curtis Eastwood!). I had forgotten how bittersweet the denouement to that one is. Mr. VNRS is quickly becoming one of my favorite people to see a play with; he came to Cloud 9 and the gala, too, but that's getting ahead of myself.

The next day, Thursday, I got up and worked on my last-minute plans for the gala with Sylvia. No matter what I did I couldn't feel right that day, and nothing lifted me out of wherever I was going inside. Syl and I eventually parted ways to get various things done and I dropped by the theater to see if Jake was there, since I had a few questions for him. He was out, but Charles, our Artistic Director and the object of much ambivalence on behalf of the company, was gaffing down runners on the walkways around the seats, and he looked up at me and smiled. I hadn't been expecting to see him; for some reason. I hadn't been expecting to see anyone.

"Hello, darling! It's been so long!" He stopped short. "What's the matter? No smiles?"

I mumbled something about how I'd been "going through some things". I've been practicing that on the recommendation of my therapist. Charles put down the gaff tape and stood up.

"Well, you and I have really got terrible chemistry, haven't we? I must have tried five different cocktails of medication before I got it right; once I thought I got it right until something happened and I went suicidal. And I never know when it's hormones or something real."

He didn't say anything more, just walked over to me and and held me for a long time. I breathed. He let go of me.

"Well, Jake went out shopping, he should be back in a half an hour -- less, actually. You can wait here for him."

I thanked him and said I'd come back later. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. October was squalling outside and I didn't know where to go, so I quickly walked home, my breath getting shorter and shorter. I put on huge dark glasses and tried not to be so obvious about openly weeping while walking down Pine Street. That was as far as my caring went. Let them stare, I thought. Who cares.

I got home and threw my jacket off and collapsed, coughing and crying and lost at home and not able to stop my heart from racing. I don't know how much time went by, but I couldn't find any quiet. Although I don't know when or how I made the decision, but I managed to call Sylvia. I'm pretty sure I was incoherant and I know I kept apologizing, but she got to my place as soon as she could and stayed with me until the worst had passed. She called my therapist and my sister and left messages with them both. I can't typically use the phone when I'm that upset. Syl's stage managing Cloud 9 and had to leave to run errands, but neither of us thought I should be alone. I went with her to Vivace so she could use the internet to e-mail Charles. She didn't want to talk to him.

I couldn't look at anyone as we went. I kept my head low and my eyes down and did not look to either side. My breath was still shallow and my muscles felt frozen. I absently drank hot milk and tried not to think about how loud everything was at the cafe.

There was an explosion outside, and then another, small and bright white and red. The power went out, and people stood up from their chairs, chattering and looking out the windows. A transformer outside had blown, leaving everyone with only the weird yellow Northwest October late afternoon light.

"We should have gone to the library in the first place," grumbled Sylvia, packing up her laptop, "It's quiet there anyway." She watched me carefully. I had jumped when the explosions happened, and I was gently hyperventilating again. She slipped me a milligram of lorazepam before we left.

Lights were out on Broadway for five blocks in either direction and all the print shops that Sylvia needed things from were closed now from the power outage. "I need to take you somewhere. Who can we call?"

I thought about this. My sister still hadn't called back, and I was worried about going there anyway because of my nephew, as though I were convinced that my sadness and fear were somehow contagious or something. Almost everyone else I knew was either building a theater or working hard at their own problems and I didn't want to bring them mine. I finally mentioned my friend, the Dashing Intellectual, as the only person I could think of.

I'd been seeing The Dashing Intellectual for a little less than a month and I found him very interesting. He's very stimulating, intelligent, and exciting and always gets me out of my routine, although we don't always see eye to eye. He was nice enough to let me come over and we watched Fishing With John until the tranquilizer really hit me and I fell asleep for a while.

I dreamed about August Wilson, and when I woke up, the numbness of the lorazepam had worn off and I felt sad and quiet again. TDI was watching a collection of films by Kenneth Anger. I watched with him for a while, but the surreality didn't help my mood. I felt calm enough to use the phone again, so I called my sister and Mr. VNRS and let them know that I was safe and not alone.

Caitlin said I could come over any time if I needed to. I told her that I was worried about Roscoe and exposing him to moody scenes like I had gone through earlier.

"I've lost it in front of him before," she said. "I've collapsed on the floor crying, and he's confused, but he does fine. He's very resilient. I think it's good for him to know that it's okay to feel this way. We weren't taught that."

I thought about that for the rest of the night, and eventually I fell asleep again. In the morning I had an emergency session with Jaime, my therapist. He has a long red ponytail and glasses and wears Tommy Bahama shirts. He also works at Seattle Mental Health with in-patients as an addiction specialist and takes sliding-scale clients like me in his office for "relaxation". He's probably the best therapist I've ever had, though this is only my fourth session. My first session, I walked in, signed my paperwork, and immediately burst into tears. When he didn't stare at me as though I were speaking in tongues -- you'd be surprised how many psychologists do when something like that happens -- I knew that I was safe with him.

I had talked with Jaime briefly on the phone the previous day when we set up my appointment. I was still hyperventilating a little but had gotten to TDI's place so I felt safe and calmer. I had a good session, mostly about grief and holding that inside, and I told Jaime that I wanted to go back to the hospital when I had my attack, but I had no health insurance so I didn't. I also told him about the lorazepam. It's terrible that I love benzos and painkillers so much because they're really quite bad for someone like me, but I'm glad that I had the opportunity to not feel anything for a while. Afterward, Sylvia picked me up and we ran a few more errands for the gala then went to our respective homes to wash up and get dressed.

Jaime keeps telling me to take hot baths. I love baths, but I really hadn't wanted to sit still for long enough to take one. When I got home, it was the first time that I'd been alone for more than a day and I was frightened of the silence. I felt tired and cottony and sad, and I ran a bath.

I have a wonderful bathtub. I read for a few minutes, but eventually I put the book down and just sat. I sat I and wept, and I let myself feel that I had lost something, which is different than just feeling pain. I stayed like that for as long as the feeling lasted, like waiting for a fever to break, then I shaved and washed and got out.

For the rain it raineth every day.

Alienation.

This caused a spontaneous proposal of marriage from me.