I posted the first part of this on my Myspace blog, but because my children read things over there, they don't get the entire story... LOL.

So, here it is... the complete unedited version... mwwwahhhhhhh!!!!!

It was just another Friday night in the Jordan-Scott household. What made it a unique Friday night was the fact none of us have theatre performances to attend to so we were all pretty darn excited about the prospect at hand, especially since it was also homecoming for EBHS.

First we had to get Katherine from BCT where she is AD for "Sideways Stories with my friend, Kevin Lively.  Adam Jackson ran up to me, wanting to see the ghost picture. I want to see it, too, so I inform both he and his Mom that I will upload it as soon as I see it.

Yes, I know. I am now posing with Ghosts. I didn't mean to, he just likes to let me know he is around so I don't get lonely. I am used to it by now, but this is the first time he actually has shown up on film with me in... well, almost two years.

Back to football.

One little known fact about me is I love high school football. I mean, LOVE IT.  I even went to all the games at my California Alma Matre, Dana Hills High School, where our Surfing team was SOOOOO much better than our Football players. I went though. Usually made it through half time, too.

Plus Katherine wanted me there. How long will this be so? My high school child WANTS me at a football game. I remember those days with Bianca. I still treasure the memories of schlepping her color guard buddies in my Astrovan to the away games.  Loved it then. They thought I was cool. The other girls, I mean.

I was ten years younger, so I was pretty cool... but actually less cool.

Anyway.

We were excited to be there. We got the requisite EBHS hot dogs, drinks, found a spot on the hillside on the College Ave. side of the Stadium, we were set. I got to sing along to the Fight Song (Notre Dame, also the fight song of my first alma matre, Glen Ridge High School in New Jersey, before I moved to Dana Hills.)  I got to sing the "Go, go, go, go ye mighty Dolphins, Fight, fight, fight, fight"... well, you know it. I just always have to sing it as Dolphins. I know I am supposed to say "Bladesmen" but it just doesn't role off the tongue as well, plus it always strikes me as amusing because I never really thought of Dolphins as being all that Mighty.

What I didn't realize was how the "go go go FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT" would haunt me.

You may have guessed that from attending a high school with an excellent surfing team and attending a high school in the Northeast that I am fairly... ummmm.. WASPy.

I hold tight to some of my WASPy traditions. Things like, "Don't air your dirty laundry. Don't use bad words out loud in public, especially not out loud" and "Don't call people too early or too late." 

It is so ridiculous that a couple years ago when I found my niece - the one my sister relinquished for adoption more than twenty years earlier in the wee hours of a Sunday
morning through God-I-love-you-Google, I went to bed and then woke up and waited until 9 AM!!! to call her and tell her the news.

So imagine my shock and dismay to see two young women who were sitting out on the lawn near me and my family start to yell at each other, use the "F" word
and begin to escalate. I was frozen in my seat. This doesn't happen in my world.

Now imagine my dismay when one of the girl starts hitting the other, and the other hits back, and then a third friend leaps in, apparently to "have her friend's back" or something.

Another little known fact? When I see violence, I can't stand back and watch.  I have a compulsion to stop it. I didn't see "GIRL FIGHT" as much as I saw "VIOLENCE UPON HUMANITY!" so I leaped up and put myself into the middle of it all.  I ended up pulling up the third girl, getting her on her feet and letting her know she had to deal with the consequences, all with this Buddha-esque expression.  "I have to get my shoes!" she yelled at me.

Meanwhile burly guard comes over and grabs girl, who I already have a hold of... I have not let go, and would not let go, but I would let her get her shoes.

I looked at burly security guard and said firmly (without anger), "She has to get her SHOES."

She gets her shoes, slides them on, and I find myself massaging her shoulders.  "You are going to be ok. Everything will be ok. You just go with the man, and
know YOU ARE OK."

The girl was amazingly calm at this point. I swear she mouthed silently to herself, "I am ok" almost like a prayer.

The security guard looked at me and said, "Are you her mother?" I thought about the absurdity of the question. She and I were of different ethnicities. How could I be her mother? I wondered as I looked into his face, concerned and caring more than angry - and of another ethnicity.

I shook my head and said, "No," and let her go.

I wish I had said "Yes," because in that moment, I felt like her mother. It was like this universal force thing happening in my blood. This was a child who made a split second choice, just like I had made a split second choice to get into the frenzy to stop it, and then made a split second choice to show her some compassion.

I wondered where her mother was, and I kept feeling how it felt to ease her nerves. Her muscles felt so receptive to my caring touch.  Her shoulders felt so relieved to have me smooth out the wrinkled anger and tell her she was OK. How long had it been since someone had told her that.

"You are ok. Everything will be ok. You can take responsibility and get through this."

Am I her mother?

Yes.

I turned around, realized I was gasping for breath, and saw the children I carried in my womb. Two of them were crying, afraid for me.  Katherine was busy mothering them.  I hugged them all.

I thought it was a good life lesson. I told Emma, "You need to know if there is ever a fight and I am there, I can't stand by and watch. I have to stop it. I can't not stop it."

Katherine said, "Emma, I will be there, you stick with me and just back up, move away from it, and know everything will be ok."

Am I her mother?

Yes. I am hers, and hers, and his.

I am mother.

Oh, and EB won their game. Katherine enjoyed her time with her friends and one boy who I know has a crush on her showed his crush-dom as we walked past him and he called her his pet name.  Ahhh, high school.

Just another Friday night.

= + = + = + = +

So I survived getting back to the car, although I did have to race Sam a little bit on the back streets there by EB, it worked. We even made it home without a hitch and I prayed for Emma, who was exhausted and all of a sudden Sam was sobbing because his "blue chips" were gone.  It was nearing 11:00. If the kid wants Cooler Ranch Doritos, lets go get him some.

Off he and I go, Katherine and Emma safely tucked in.

I call Jen Barber, who talks to me about "Control Freaks" auditions and is really excited. I broke another WASP rule in calling her late, but I knew she would be awake. This was Jen, after all.

Sam gets chips and I decide I better call Matilda Kay and let her know I am done with the Football Game thing.  No answer. I am betting after the Chicana Book Group she must have gone out to hear some great bands play, so I leave her a quick voice mail. I text Althea, to see if there are any parties. I had peered down my neighbor's street a few moments earlier... my neighbor who is the host with the most and oftentimes has parties.

It looked as if there were many cars on the street, so I thought I just might possibly wrangle an invitation if one was to be had. Remember the WASPy rules from Part 1? Another rule is, "Don't go anyplace where you are not invited."

Althea texts back, "Nothing's going on."

Hmmm. I sit back in the seat and Sam munches his chips, happy as happy can be.

I am holding the phone in my hand when a text comes through. I wonder who? It is Craig, who has an uncanny knack for messaging me at the exact moment I wonder what I can do to occupy my wide-awake moments on an evening when I should be going to sleep to prepare for a busy day. No, that person wouldn't be me.  He did the same thing a week ago, I was holding my phone in my hand, thinking "I'll call Craig. No, I won't. I don't want to bug him" when a text came in. Craig. "What's up?"

I text Craig back, "Give me 15" and I take Sam home. He is exhausted. He falls asleep quickly. I pack my bag of tricks... no, not that. Mostly a single serving of wine and a wine glass. My friends who see me late at night know my purse carries all sorts of goodies, but mostly alcohol in single servings. I take responsibility for many things, including satisfying my own thirst... and in moderate amounts.... usually.

I check in with Katherine and off I go to see Craig. I don't know what is up with this friendship, but whenever I think I am going to label it as "This is what this friendship is about" something else happens to surprise me and knock me off balance.  On this odd Friday, I don't know why I expected anything different.

I also learned there are benefits to receiving massages from a student intern at Bakersfield Body Works and Massage. You get to learn different techniques and styles. I owe a lot to Kristina, who is moving to the Bay Area. Now why would she want to do that when I just found her?! Ahhhh, well, such is life.

It is well after midnight when I hear my phone announce the arrival of a text message.

That was embarassing. "Ummm, sorry. Just my phone."

About fifteen minutes later, I rested, staring at the ceiling with my eyes wide open. I could hear Craig's even breathing, I figured he was being the smart one of the two of us and was sleeping. My phone rang. Gently, but I could hear it. He stirred. "Its ok, just my phone..."

I waited for what felt like an eternity before whispering, "It might be my children, I need to check."

I looked. Mark had texted me, "Goodnight, Rosemary" (apparently I am not the only one grieving "Picnic") and Matilda Kay had called me back.

I managed to find all my things which had been scattered and strewn about and went back out into the night.  I listened to my voice mail from Matilda Kay. Her tired voice invited me to call her if I was still out and about.  I smiled. The only thing I could think of at that point was chocolate and writing all of this down so I would remember.

Yes, just another Friday.

I am getting over my cold-flu thing fairly rapidly…. Am feeling almost up to par this morning… or maybe it is just my system getting shocked back into gear by nightmares.

At 2 AM I woke up, worried about “Control Freaks” the next play I am set to direct, we have auditions on Saturday. What is up with that?

It is a tremendous script – all the actors who participate will grow incredibly… so why did I wake up in a slight tizzy?  No, a real tizzy.

I don’t know.

Weird.  I got an email from a friend of mine who saw “Picnic” on Sunday. I wrote him a thank you note, just cause that is what I do… and he wrote back, “Julie, you are a force up there!  Your heart is right out on that stage and I love being your audience. I want to work with you, again.” (I have directed him before.)

I think I’ll ask him to audition.

I need bold, fearless, incredibly open actors who will trust me.  Ok, I am off for another massage. I can feel my right shoulder blade acting up again, so it must be pretty… darn… tight.... yikes. 

There is a place

Beyond the words

Deep in the soul

Where beauty is stored

Beyond language

There is a knowing

That transcends our minds

We may only feel it

With our hands

With our hearts

With our tears

With my breath

And yours

Nestled in grey ambiguity

The turbid smokiness

Of desire yet not wanting

The question too risky

The Invitation unasked

The words wait for

The understanding

To Catch up

I have been hit by a very nasty flu... so much so that I scribed this last night and I am just posting it now....so, anyway.... I had my phone off for the last 24 hours and slept away most of the day. I knew I had to go to rehearsal tonight even if I wheeled in there in a hospital bed, I need to be there. Just won't do any of my "Kum Bay Ya" hand holding stuff.  *Darn, I love that stuff.*

I think this is to distract me from grieving Rosemary. Last night I had a very important meeting on a hillside outside of town, to watch the sunset.  It was, to borrow Rosemary's words, "The most flaming sunset I ever did see..."  This hillside is about fifteen minutes from my house but feels worlds away. So quiet, you can hear the grass dancing. So peaceful, there are no car sounds and if you are really quiet, you can hear a rusty oil well doing its thing occasionally.

The sun set, it got dark, a screech owl came by to see what we were doing. Maybe it was the bread or the cheese or the wine that got his attention.

It was a stunning five hours of presence. It opened my soul enough to let this flu in... lucky me.

So if you write or call or text and I don't respond, it isn't personal. I am either rehearsing or sleeping.. and tomorrow I have two classes to teach, also not missable.

I receive gifts from every production, from every performance and every rehearsal. It is up to me to unwrap the presents when they land at my feet, asking for attention.

Barry gave us an assignment as a part of daily preparation for "Picnic." I am a big fan of warm-ups and anything an actor can do before rehearsal or going on stage. The main reason I enjoy those exercises is that it puts a distinct line between what is going on in my life outside the sacred space of the theatre and what is going on when I hit the stage.

When I hit the stage, full presence is not something I hope for, it is something I create.

Barry doesn't believe in my standard form of warm ups, but he does have us "walk the stage" before the house opens, so naturally I found a way to wed his assignment with my usual warm ups.

On Sunday, Meg asked me if she could take pictures of me walking the stage.  I was thrilled. I love having photos of me just living my life much more than photos where I am posed.

I lied on the stage and breathed deeply. I looked up at the lights and thanked them for helping people to see us and see the story of playwright William Inge unfold. I sat up in a Yoga sitting pose and quietly greeted the audience-members-yet-to-come and blessed their seats, hoping they would be touched by something – anything in the show.

I sat in my Rosemary chair, the place I sit when Howard almost leaves me without a second thought – until I, as Rosemary, ask a question that is pertinent to each one of us.

I said, "Where are you going?"

Meg snapped a picture. She looked at it and said, "You have a buddy with you."

In the frame above where I sit, is my ethereal friend. Unseen by the human eye, the film caught the presence.

I normally don't look at freshly snapped pictures of myself, but I couldn't resist. Through tearful eyes I looked. And looked. And looked.

I had been thinking about William Inge, intently connecting to his art.. could it be him?  I called on Kevan throughout the show, asking for his help daily – could it be him?  Marlena made herself known during rehearsals, especially through Phred, who I found is almost exactly to the day a year older than my little girl would be. Could it be her?

Mary Oliver wrote in her poem, "Ghosts" in her book, American Primitive the following words.

"In the book of the earth it is written:

Nothing can die.

In the book of the Sioux it is written:

They have gone away into the earth to hide.

Nothing will coax them out again

But the people dancing.

This morning something made me open to exactly this poem in a book I have looked for and not been able to find where it was left right on the shelf until today. 

I think my buddy is telling me "thanks for the dance."

It was my supreme pleasure. We will do it again, soon.

I wore Rosemary's nightgown to bed last night.  I love how soft it feels against my skin, sort of like how I like to feel Rosemary's heart beating inside my heart.

I don't want to give her up.

My intellect knows she isn't going anywhere, that she is always with me now - like Miss Shields and Jack's Mom and Fraulein Schneider and Blair Daniels - even my other Rosemary, Rosemary Mortimore. They're all within me still.

My spirit, on the other hand, doesn't want to put her aside, where she won't be visible to others anymore.  She wants more time with her. Three more performances? That's it?

I brought home my costumes yesterday, time to wash them. It was a long, trying day and it felt like the perfect choice, to cradle myself in Rosemary's nightgown before the closing weekend.  Three of her costumes are my own things, including this nightgown I am still wearing, while the morning is still young.

I didn't put my hair in pin curls, I didn't don a Japanese robe, but I will continue to wear this tangible reminder of Rosemary until I have to face the outside world.

My prayer for today> No "stuff" or "extraneous business" or "anybody's anything" will get in the way of my deepest relationship with my beloved Rosemary Sydney.

I just realized I have come to think of her as more than just a character, I think of her like a dear friend, a beloved friend, a soul friend who is so connected to you that sometimes you feel like she is you and you are her. 

Ohhhh, yes. I just had a second "a-ha".  My second prayer is that sometime after January, I find a character to love just as much as I love her.

Rosemary - she loves pinks and soft shades of muted red. She doesn't like to be called "Rosie."  She loves pretty clothes and pretty "things" - always feels like wearing pretty garments somehow elevates her above her ordinary ways.  She is sad and hurt underneath her vivacious exterior and rarely lets that other side show.  Rosemary, like Craig said when we first met, is something of "a voluptuous vixen with a deep, dark secret."

Rosemary, I will miss you.

= + = + = + = + = + = +
Only one more weekend to see "Picnic", written by William Inge and Directed by Barry Wolcott.  “Picnic” was the Pulitzer Prize winner in 1953. It explores the hopes, fears, excitement and sorrow of following our dreams while we make choices that impact the ones we love. It is playing at Bakersfield Community Theatre.  Call 831-8114 for reservations and further details.

What would you do if you were driving home from a friend's house at 3:53 AM and hear the unmistakeable sound of a flat tire whappp whappp whapping from the front left section of your car?

That's what happened to me today - I never went back to sleep, either. I got home at about 4:15 AM and didn't dare go to sleep because I would have to get the kids up early and on alternative - non-Mommy-powered methods to get to school.

Major crisis diverted.

And then I got a massage.

I have been getting massages lately from students at the Bakersfield Bodyworks place downtown on G street. They do a great job. 

Last time I had a massage it was so incredible I ended up crying into the headrest.  It was one of those "hurt so good" things and all this blocked energy pummelled my spirit and I cried in paradoxical grief/joy.

Today my muscles were so tight my massage therapist muttered under her breath at one point, "This is crazy!"

I recounted in my mind all the garbage that has gone on in my life for the past few weeks. No wonder my body is revolting by tightening up. It's trying to hold on... to something!

The back of my hips hurt. I don't know what energy is stuck there, but sheesh. I've been drinking water like a fiend and as I type, the car situation is being handled.

Things are looking up.

Oh, and I scheduled a follow up massage. I obviously need more work more regularly. And by then, more of my life will have calmed down.

And if I happen to bump into you anywhere about town this weekend? Hugs will be heartily accepted. I need 'em!

I got this crazy email from my brother Jim
(lives in North San Diego County and works in
Irvine) thanking me for inviting him to see
me in "Picnic" - he actually schlepped all
the way up here... took a side trip on the way
to Laguna Seca in Monterey because car racing
is his passion (and part of his business, too.)

Anyway, he said his new buddy Patrick Dempsey
LOVES "Picnic", too. I said, "Patrick Dempsey, the
actor?" and he wrote back...

"Yeah, the actor.  I remember him from "Loverboy"
and "Can't Buy me Love" movies from the 80's.  He
is a huge TV guy right now (so much so that he is
on the cover of Good Housekeeping!) but wants to go
 racing so I am helping him a little.  Very nice
and humble guy, you would like him. 

Anyway, I was bragging on my sister to him
and he really likes the play."

Ahhh, I love the thought of being "bragged about"
to Patrick Dempsey. 

That is almost as good as me inviting the band
members of "Cake" to see me in "True Tales 2" at the
Empty Space last year.... when I didn't have
a clue who they were... but hey, John McCrea
complimented my singing and I never give up
the opportunity to invite someone to
see local theatre!

Speaking of which - come see PICNIC in its closing
weekend at BCT, Fri and Sat at 8. We even have
a matinee on Sunday at 2.

I don't know when I will be back on stage... and
this is really one of my favorite roles of all time.
It means a lot to me when any of my friends
(virtual and otherwise) show up, so I hope to see you there.

Today a bright, shiny white canvas was delivered
to my door. It waited for me to take notice
before it said, "Here I am! Create upon me.
I am yours to choose how to use... just
please, use me... and use me well.

Circumstances may show up as negative or
trying or less than perfect.... you may feel
riddled with self doubt or judgment or your
eyes may be coated in tired goo... and the
canvas awaits, anyway - patient with its
beckoning, requiring nothing yet desiring
with every ounce if possibility that your
presence be shared with its being.

The white canvas returns, slightly different,
each time our precious planet circles the sun.

Each time it appears, we have the privilege of
choice, the option to take that canvas and
place our unique, lasting impression upon
it. Or not.

My response to the canvas?

"There you are - hooray!"

I pick up my pencil and move it. I open my
arms and hug those who enter.  I open my
mouth to speak and sometimes people
even listen!

Thank you, white canvas. Thank you.

My life has taken some intriguing plot twists and turns this week as I wait to be back onstage in “Picnic” this weekend at BCT.

The most mind altering started with a call from my mother on Wednesday morning.

In such classic Jordan fashion, she left me a voice mail about something from my daughter’s school and left a PS of sorts, “Oh, by the way, John has been really, really, really sick for the last… oh, two weeks or so. When I get back to Arizona, I’ll give you more details.”

Ok. So, apparently Mom was in Southern California, and apparently my brother, who has Down’s Syndrome, has been ill for quite some time and no one bothered to tell me.

My brother and I were quite the twosome when we were little.  He was born when I was only fourteen months old, so I was just a baby when this special little guy came into our family. I never knew life without him.

Our older siblings were at school, so for the first four years together, it was John and me alone with Mom. Back in the sixties there were lots of daytime coffees for the Moms, none of whom worked, and we kids hung around in the background.

I would hear very confusing questions on a regular basis.  “Well, Nancy, have you found a place to send John yet?” people would ask.  Common knowledge then was that special needs people, folks who were different, belonged in institutions where “normal” people wouldn’t have to be reminded of genetic errors.  “Oh, Nancy, I know someone who knows someone who placed their daughter in a lovely place….”

This happened regularly and I didn’t get it.

You see, the Jordan family way was to act as if John was just like all the other kids.  Yes, he looked different, acted different and couldn’t do the things the rest of us, but that River Denial was so strong in our blood that it didn’t matter if little Julie, John’s constant companion, actually bought that John was “just like the rest of us.”

I lived in constant terror that not only would John get sent away, but that I might get sent away, too. So I became his shadow, made sure he was happy and no trouble at all for my parents. I figured if I took good care of him, he wouldn’t cause a problem, wouldn’t get sent away and neither would I.

I remember on a family vacation we went to visit one of those places where the children were plentiful, there were lots of nurses in pressed white dresses and weird hats, and no Mommys and Daddys to be seen. The grounds were beautiful, there was even a great playground, but I was petrified. So petrified I never said a word, my fear froze preschool and early elementary school concerns into a wildly pounding heart.

Life progressed and we were both “safe”. I went away to college at University of the Pacific and neglected to explain to John what was going on. When I came home for the summer, John completely ignored my existence. That is how mad he was at me for leaving him like that.

My family thought it was hilarious. Once again, my wildly pounding yet frozen heart kept my thoughts silent.

I wasn’t redeemed in John’s eyes until my Junior Year in college, when I brought home the man who was to become my husband. 

Our bond is different than that shared by any of our other siblings, so to hear two weeks later that he is so ill that they are not sure if he will make it through, yes, I would say it is life altering.

He has aspiration pneumonia - and was in the ICU at Saddleback Hospital for two weeks, on heavy duty anti-biotics, a trach, and a feeding tube.

He was transferred to another acute level hospital in Santa Ana, which is where he is now.

He is still on the trach and feeding tube, but he did drink some water today.

His oxygen levels are at 35%. They are not sure if he will make it or not.  When he got transferred to the hospital in Santa Ana, they said, "Do you want him to go to the hospital or to hospice?"

Mom is back in Flagstaff now for a week after spending two weeks in Orange County.  She said she couldn't do anything and felt bad because John was so wanting her to get him out of there... (communicating only non-verbally because of all the medical apparatus he has right now.)

I asked a lot of my Conservator type quality of care questions (this is why I worked for the county, I have decided) and apparently the medical staff is serving him well.

I was worried they would treat him like a "thing" and not communicate well with him, or explain things to him, because they assume he doesn't understand.

Mom also said she would keep in touch with me daily now that I know.

I think I will go to Santa Ana on Tuesday. That is my first open day.

What bothers me the most is thinking of him lying there in the hospital, all alone.  My sister, Sue, is fairly close by and my brothers, Joe and Jim, are in Oceanside, so I am trusting they have been to see him.

This weekend I will seek solace on stage.  I will allow the words of William Inge, the Pulitzer Prize winning “Picnic” playwright, to beckon me to peace. I will portray Rosemary with truth, with integrity, with the care she deserves.

I will perform my poetry at (burn the witch) on Saturday again. New stuff this week  I set a new goal a week ago to perform more poetry, so I was exceptionally grateful they asked me to perform for a second go-around.

Art calms my heart. It unfreezes all that stuff that is locked up in there. It connects me with those I love – across the miles, across the years, across the misunderstanding and dropped communication.

I remember the words of one of my favorite ancient poems, Rumi. He wrote, “Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: We taste only sacredness.”

That is what I aim to create. I aim to fill the cup of one person in my audience, perhaps someone I have never met and will never meet.

Wings open, hurt disappears, sacredness fills the soul.

= + = + = + = +

"Picnic", written by William Inge and Directed by Barry Wolcott, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. It explores the hopes, fears, excitement and sorrow of following our dreams while we make choices that impact the ones we love. It is playing at Bakersfield Community Theatre for two more weekends. Call 831-8114 for reservations and further details.

(burn the witch) is an all woman group art show at the Empty Space Theater with an encore engagement Saturday, September 16 from 2-7 pm. I am performing my poetry and will be engaging the audience in some live, collaborative art creation at 3 pm.  The Empty Space is located at 706 Oak Street which is between Brundage and California behind Pizzaville.

I stood outside the backstage door, waiting for “Picnic”
brush up rehearsal to begin.  It was the perfect time for me
to arrive because the folks rehearsing “Dark of the Moon”
were on a break so I found myself surrounded by friendly,
enthusiastic fellow artists, ready to chat and grow
and pass the news of the day.

Kaitlin told me she had heard tremendous things about
my performance in “Picnic”, which I naturally received
with large amounts of gratitude.

With more conversation rumblings of “Show theft” came
up… and some other nuggets and bits and pieces and all
of a sudden I felt myself becoming
increasingly uncomfortable.

The pervasive unconscious thought was, “I am
doing it all wrong.”

There was one piece I was doing wrong. I was feeling
afraid of other people’s assessments and opinions. That
was where the wrongness lived. 

Elizabeth Cady Stanton said, “The moment we begin to fear
the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that
is in us, and from motives of policy are silent wh
no longer flow into our souls.”

Earlier this week I was working on my business and a big
a-ha flooded through me. I wrote, “This isn’t about me,
this is about the rest of the world… this is about
transformation… this is about all helping others to
see in themselves all that is good and right and
perfect about themselves” and all of a sudden
those divine floods of light pooled all around me.

My worry about other people’s opinions of ME vis
a vis my business clouded the way of that flood of
light.  It was just like worrying about the “show
stealing” thing was – for a split second – making
me consider turning the lights down a bit on my
beloved character, Rosemary Sydney.

All artist’s have insecurities. It is what kept
Steinbeck away from writing fiction after winning
the Nobel Prize for Literature and a scathing review
at the same time. It’s what makes artist’s keep
their light hidden, alone and separate.

I waited too long and lived to much of my life
in an artistic tundra to let that happen to me.

Tomorrow – yes, tomorrow – I will be back on stage,
breathing life, and light, and exhilaration back
into this dear character.  Isn’t that the
way it should be?

= + = + = + = + = + = +

"Picnic", written by William Inge and Directed by
Barry Wolcott, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. It
explores the hopes, fears, excitement and sorrow
impact the ones we love. It is playing for two
more weekends at Bakersfield Community Theatre.
Make your reservations now by calling 661.831-8114.

I wrote this poem last night.... and it will undoubtedly be revised. I just felt like I needed to put it out there, give it voice. When I get that calling, I know I need to share my words.... and more likely than not, the words are meant for a specific someone that I don't even know.

Without any further banter.......

This Him Will Do

I can still smell him

On the ridge above my lip

Just under my nose

Just hours ago

Our lips touched and I said

I missed you and he said

I missed you, too and I said

Did you say you missed me, too?

And he said, Yes.

The entire conversation was had

Without either pair of lips

Leaving the other pair of lips

And I thought

I am pitiful

So here I sit

Still smelling him

On the ridge above my lip

He sleeps, his head

Resting on the pillow I left

The door locked behind me

As I slipped out into the night

Once again

Feeling vaguely unsatisfied

And restless

I need to get up and wipe off his smell

But instead, I stay still and remember

That I enjoy smelling a man’s smell

And if it can’t be the other him

This him will do, for now

And I know

I am pitiful

I can still smell him

On the ridge above my lip

Just under my nose

So there I am, in an alley in downtown Bakersfield, carrying a toilet.

Am I the vision of feminity or what?

Have you carried a toilet lately? They are not a light piece of machinery – and even though my biceps are rather buff from heaving around my always-slower-than-I-want-him-to-go-five-year-old , I had to hold onto laughter when this group of people caught sight of me and said to someone waiting with an open door, “You waiting for a toilet delivery?”

Oh, the things we do for our love of theatre.

Hal Friedman called me last week looking for a prop for “The Full Monty” which opens at Spotlight Theatre this weekend.  I am oh-so-happy to oblige.

Then “Picnic” opened and I went into this post-opening weekend haze until he called to remind me. “Umm, Julie, where’s that toilet you promised me?” or something like that I heard on my voice mail.

So I schlep to BCT and risk life and limb to get this plumbing device down from a crushing pile of furniture props, praying I don’t make the whole thing avalanche on my head.  I am without backup because my usual assistant and daughter, Katherine, is at callbacks for the Fall Show at EBHS… and since I love that SHE loves theatre, too – I decide to brave the toilet retrieval all by myself.

So that is how I wound up in an alley, downtown, with a toilet in my arms.  I passed it ceremoniously into the waiting arms of my friend Michelle Weingarden.

My favorite moment of this entire interlude was when I bumped into Michelle’s mom in the lobby of Spotlight and she shared with me that she had been cast in “Jesse’s Place” – a World Premiere production of a Barbara Gagnon play which is coming up in November at the Empty Space.

Sharing that excitement with Mrs. Weingarden – it just doesn’t get any better than that.

Yes – this is why I do all the things I do for theatre.  Deliver toilets, act my heart out, give it my all when I direct, accept the slings and arrows as they come, and very importantly, share my resources with the other theatres in town so that we all benefit.. and the audiences get the best show possible, too.

Yup, that’s the reason I schlep toilets around alleys. Its certainly the best reason I could think up.

The wings were dark, and at least somewhat quiet.

I was trying to escape from everyone and everything and settle into the deep alone-ness of my character in the moment before… she walked back into her world.

The music was too loud, it was unnerving me. I felt myself getting angry at it.  I was bugged because I felt the presence of other people, I didn’t want other people.

I climbed Madge’s ladder… the backstage way she gets into place for an upcoming scene – a very mundane tool to create theatre magic.  I stood on the narrow ledge and plastered myself against the black theatre wall.

I held my cheek against its coldness, my palms flat against its rough walls.

“Kevan, where are you? I need you!”

I have felt the presence of my friend, Kevan Klawitter, who died in March.. many many times as I have worked at the theatre. It was now that I really needed him and it was now that he didn’t appear.

“Please… please… Kevan. Please come out.”

Kevan once said my performance was flawless. I can’t even remember which one or what situation, I just remember him saying the word to me. “Flawless…” Is there a greater gift for an actor to receive than kudos from a beloved peer who is further along the path?

I looked up at the ceiling. I saw the dimmed lights flickering. I heard the voices of the audience, returning after intermission.  My time onstage was coming.

I lowered myself from the ladder and bent at my waist, resting my upper body on another platform.

I closed my eyes and saw my funeral. With no one there. Just the minister, sprinkling dirt.

No one will come, I thought. I am unworthy of anyone’s presence at my funeral.  I am unworthy of anything…. I will die utterly alone…..

I saw the pity on the minister’s face.

I saw my coffin, buried six feet beneath the surface of the hushed cemetery.

I pulled on my deepest aloneness, my darkest fears, my lonely spaces where I normally didn’t dare go.  My underbelly – the place where I am the most vulnerable, the place where some people may find it sport to take the knife and spin it around a bit.

I let myself feel the pain, my blood leaving my belly.

The lights dimmed. Time to walk out on stage and once again become Rosemary.

= + = + = + = + = + = +

"Picnic", written by William Inge and Directed by Barry Wolcott, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. It explores the hopes, fears, excitement and sorrow of following our dreams while we make choices that impact the ones we love. It is playing for two more weekends at Bakersfield Community Theatre. Make your reservations now by calling 831-8114.

I felt my heart come a little bit off its hinge last night as I left for rehearsal.

“No rehearsal, Mommy. Don’t go to rehearsal…. Please….”

Sam was doing his five-year-old best to keep me from getting out of the house.  He wanted me to stay and cuddle, as I had been doing – purposefully – to spend some quality time before I left for the theatre on my next-to-last night of rehearsal.

I drove by a church after I dropped everyone off at school this morning. Their greeting to me was “How do children spell love? T-I-M-E.”

The guilts are definitely on for this Mommy artist.

“Picnic” has been one of the fastest rehearsal processes I have experienced – four intense weeks to get it out and delivered.  Tonight is our final dress rehearsal, the night we open up to a small audience of board members, friends and some folks with media connections. 

Once tonight is over, everything settles down considerably.

Sunday – I am back to being “normal” Mommy, the Mommy Emma frequently says she wishes she had – not a Mommy who lives to create, whose very breath is connected to bringing art to life.

Even as I write this I know how important it is for my children to have a Mommy who expresses her art passionately. There were too many years when I was asleep to my true self, when I pretended I wasn’t an artist because it wasn’t socially acceptable, because “what would people think.” *Gasp*

I remember when I first started acting, many of my “normal” Mom friends would ask me, “Where do you find the time?” 

It isn’t a matter of finding it, it is a matter of creating it – of breathing with it. Of trusting, knowing and loving both the art and my children enough to know that creating art is absolutely the right thing to do.

I am a better Mom because I create.

Tonight I bring Rosemary to life for her first audience. Monika was sort of an audience last night (being her first night on the light board) and when I heard her emotional response to my art, I can not tell you how intensely satisfied I felt. I am looking forward to being in front of a wider audience – because I hope they laugh at the parts that are meant to elicit laughter, too.

Oddly enough, I am not nervous.  I am, instead, grateful… and feel incredibly privileged to be out there on stage again.  Each time I do, I think about what I almost missed out on.

Pablo Picasso said, "Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone."  That could have been me. I could have died with my stage self… left undone.

So now, tonight – and for the next three weekends… I will take my heart and open it up for everyone who comes to see and experience first hand.

I never fit into that “normal” box very well, anyway.  And people may truly think whatever the heck they want. I have learned not to let their thoughts bother me… too much.  Instead, I will create – on stage, with words, with poetry-photo-collage, with my children and sometimes, without them.

It is quiet in my house. My dogs are sleeping, my laundry is tumbling, my dishes are waiting in the sink for me to finish them.  I am eternally grateful.

= + = + = + = + = + = +

"Picnic", written by William Inge and Directed by Barry Wolcott, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. It explores the hopes, fears, excitement and sorrow of following our dreams while we make choices that impact the ones we love. It is playing at Bakersfield Community Theatre beginning September 8 for three weekends. Call 831-8114 for reservations and further details. 

(burn the witch) is an all woman group art show at the Empty Space Theater with a gala opening Saturday, September 9 from 2-7 pm. I am performing my poetry and will be engaging the audience in some live, collaborative art creation at 3 pm.  The Empty Space is located at 706 Oak Street – which is between Brundage and California behind Pizzaville.

I remember how I got started with this whole poetry performance experience.

It was at my first “Les Femmes Artistes” and I was waiting backstage at the Spotlight Theatre, pacing.  I got what felt like a really wild idea.  You see, the first night I performed this woman complimented me for my poetry.

“Oh, honey – I loved your poetry, it was SO CUTE!”

Cute?

She thought my poetry was cute?

Something was wrong. My intention was not to be cute with my words. My intent was to be evocative, to connect deeply.

I accepted her compliment as an agent of change.  I picked different poems to perform for the second night of Les Femmes. 

I stood underneath a light in the hallway backstage a