Sitting at Cindy's past midnight
(The guys in the next booth, so annoying)
I eat scrambled eggs and listen
To nothing, to everything, to my
heart my thoughts my inklings
and I realize what I hear coming
through rather strongly is so simple

I wish my Muse was  here

It has been a while since I have
been present to that... well what would
I call it? Not longing, not missing,
not wishing, not hoping, not yearning
and yes, all of that and yes, none
of that and it just sucks to

Wait 44 years for a best friend
like this and then be separate in
form when I need a shirt to grab
onto and hold between my fingers
to feel texture, to know fabric
To bring to my face and inhale

Yeah, my face squishes up with
the dratted "if onlys'" chatter

In six days it will be seven months
More absence than presence
And more than likely a couple hours
from now all that will suit me fine
but right here, right now, right then
Sitting at Cindy's past midnight
I eat scrambled eggs and listen

I wish my Muse was here

 

It seems like every time I attend a read-through, I get nostalgic for previous casts and directors and remember the other times I was at that particular theater or with these particular people.

 

I was walking down the stairs next to Jacob and I said to him, “Hey, the last time we did this together, it was for ‘Laugh-In’” which naturally made us both laugh.  Jeremiah looked at the folks walking to the rehearsal hall and said, ‘Look at all the people here who were in ‘Whorehouse’ – and started counting, ‘One, two, three, what, are there five of us?’”

 

I was grateful Amy asked about accents and we were told we didn’t have to use them today. We talked about some movies to watch, to try to pick up the proper Louisiana-New Orleans sort of talking that would fit our characters living, loving and losing in Elysian Fields.

 

I can tell already that this is going to be a great experience, better than I even expected.

 

Eunice is so much fun… there are plenty of ups and downs and there is humor and seriousness and anger and sauciness… all good stuff to fire up my creativity.  I liked when I got to yell at Stanley. That was, I think, my favorite part of the read-through. I got to say things and use words I-as-Julie would never say. I even corrected the grammar at one point, totally subconsciously. My elementary school English teachers would be proud and I will be sure, before rehearsals begin in earnest, to use the words as scripted, incorrect grammar and all.

 

I realized something else that makes this experience extra special: many of the actors I am working with I have either never worked with before or we have never actually done a scene together and now, in this show, that is changing.

 

Sheila and I were in a couple scenes together in “Cabaret” – but they were brief, very brief. Amy and I have done three different shows together: “Cabaret”, “Sunday in the Park with George” and “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” – and our characters didn’t interact in any of them.  Sarah and I were both in V-Day, and except for sitting together on the bleachers, our paths didn’t cross on-stage.  Jeremiah and I have worked more together with me as Director, only being in one show together, “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” where I was the Dogette who “had his back”. Of anyone in the show, he and I shared, for me, the densest concentration of time together.

 

I have never done a show with Rick or Steve.

 

It was a treat to see Sheila and Jeremiah – the first “Hello” reminded me so much of the first hello in “Five Women,” that first time Jeremiah hit a Bakersfield stage – and that stage chemistry between the two of them can’t be denied.

 

I was bummed that Jared didn’t make it today. I was looking forward to finally not playing an Old Maid – I thought, “Wow! I finally have a husband!” and then he didn’t show up. Bob read his lines, which was reminiscent of our “Cabaret” pairing only Fraulein Schneider would never have yelled at Herr Schultz. She probably wouldn’t have yelled at Steve, either, now that I consider it.

 

I am not scheduled to go back to rehearsal mid-April, which means I have plenty of time to work on my lines and watch movies that take place in Louisiana to work on my accent. I remember when we were doing the Farndale show and I was working on my English accent, which I do pretty well now…. I would rent DVDs and then stand in front of the television set, echoing back everything that was spoken.

 

Julie-the-British-Parrot.

 

Now, Julie-the-Louisiana-Parrot

 

And now? I get to see what Eunice has to teach me about her life before I go back to rehearsal. I am looking very forward to getting to know her – and getting to share her with you.

  

Streetcar Named Desire opens at the Spotlight Theater on May 11 at 8 PM. It runs for four weekends, including matinees on the first three Sundays. Hope to see you there.

The Countdown is On

 

I was downtown this afternoon and figured I might as well go to Spotlight Theater and pick up my script for “Streetcar Named Desire” since read through is tomorrow at noon. It isn’t as if it hasn’t been on my mind – I bought a paperback copy of the script months ago, when I was deciding whether or not I wanted to audition at all.  I have looked at it every day since.

 

I was convinced I wouldn’t be cast if I were to audition.  That is not an empowered place to come from when you hope to be cast in the show. I am not sure what finally made me cross from “Why bother?” into “Well, I might as well go ahead.”

 

I think it came in two places: re-reading the script and deciding to be strategic with what I really wanted to experience in the show.

 

I want to do as many classics in theatre as possible. I have packed a lot of experience into my relatively short time on Bakersfield stages, but I feel woefully limited in my work with classic works of literature. The idea of being in a Tennessee Williams production delighted me, so that was one of my motivations for at least showing up at auditions.

 

If I didn’t go to auditions, I definitely wouldn’t have a shot. At least if I went, I would know I tried.  How could I look myself in the mirror if I knew I wanted to do classics and one showed up and I didn’t even try? What would I tell my children to do?

 

The second motivation and simultaneously scary thing was seeing that Bob Kempf, a director I respect very much was directing. Bob was the only director in town who I had auditioned for who had never cast me. I auditioned for him twice and had been cast zero times. 

 

I figured, “Why not go for an even 0 for 3?”

 

The problem was, I really wanted to be in the show.

 

Add to that where it was playing – Spotlight Theater – which for me is one of the most sacred places on the planet. This was where I first experienced transcendence in acting. This is where I decided acting wasn’t a choice – it was something I absolutely had to do.

 

Being shut out there would be make my triple whammy more like a quadruple or quintuple or whatever a bigger uple might look like.

 

I called the Friday before auditions and leaped into the abyss. I made an appointment.

 

I had my strategy firmly in place. I chose a part that was a good, supporting character – one where I could create fully and have enough stage time that it was worth the time I would invest.

 

Eunice. That was who I wanted to be. I really didn’t want to play any of the other smaller roles simply because between my family, my business, and my work on the board of Bakersfield Community Theatre, my time is already pretty tight.

 

On my audition form they ask who you are auditioning to be. I wrote “Eunice.” It felt weird. This was “Streetcar”. Aren’t all the women supposed to want to be Blanche or Stella?

 

Not me. I wanted Eunice. There is another question that says, “Will you accept any role?” I didn’t want to jinx it by being negative, so I wrote, “I will play Eunice” with a smiley face.

 

I spent time carefully cataloging all my stage credits on the audition form before my appointment, even noting the show where I played opposite Bob, “Cabaret.” I have worried so many times that he didn’t cast me since then because I must have done an embarrassing or horrible job in that role. I knew I couldn’t hide it, so I wrote it in its exact historical sequence, thinking, “Maybe Bob will forget and maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he will think I am some strange woman off the street, just happened to be walking by the theatre and have an affinity for playing apartment building owners named Eunice.”

 

Coryn said to me, “Whenever you are ready.”

I was the first audition of the day. I had hoped I would at least be second. I felt like a baseball player or something with all the weird superstitions running through my head.

 

The walk into the basement at the Spotlight felt like it was really, really long. “Where are the auditions?” I asked.

 

“In the Orange Room” Coryn answered.

 

The Orange room. It was the place where I first experienced transcendence in an acting class with Hal Friedman and changed my life forever.  Did I hear the tides shifting? Could I finally be having a change in fortune in auditioning for Bob? Maybe this would be ok after all.

 

I walked in, nervous. Hoping I didn’t look nervous.

 

One thing about Bakersfield theatre is we all pretty much known each other, once you have been involved for any length of time at all. I know how people gossip. I am pretty sure people talk about me when I am around. I pray what they say isn’t too negative. I had a bunch of negative stuff running through my head as I waited for instructions and Bob read my audition form.

 

After what felt like an eternity Coryn and I were given the go-ahead to read.

 

She was to read for Stella and I was to read Blanches’ lines, even though I was auditioning for Eunice, which was in and of itself very exciting.  “I get to be Blanche!” I thought, “For a few moments in time, I get to be Blanche!”

 

“Do you want me to do an accent?” I asked Bob.

 

“If you have one, you can use it, if you want,” said Bob.

 

“Well, I don’t really have one, I mean, I can work on it, but I don’t want to sound stupid and have it detract from the audition,” I explained.

 

“Well, then,” said Bob, “let’s just focus on the acting.”

 

The audition piece could not have been more fun. It was up and down and back and forth emotionally.  We started and a couple lines into the audition I heard that somehow I had gotten some sort of accent.

 

I don’t know how, it just came out. I didn’t want to worry about it, so I just kept going. At one point I looked down at my hands and I realized they were shaking.  “Use it,” I heard Hal say in a years ago acting class, so I did.

 

I was having such a blast I started worrying about when Bob would stop me. It was a lot of dialogue and I wanted to squeeze every little bit of juice out of the piece.

 

I paced, I shook, I ravaged, I whispered, I cried.

 

And guess what?

 

The jinx is gone for now. I got the role I wanted, Eunice, and we start tomorrow.

 

Less than twelve hours to go.

 

I put together a collection of poetry for the recent VFair (a part of the international event, VDay which included a fundraising production for Vagina Monologues at the Empty Space) and being the sort of… well, rebel that I am… chose the theme “Celebrating Men.”  This was the first poem I read because it was one of the few that wasn’t inspired by a particular man and was generic.

 

I don’t even remember writing it.

 

I read it again last night at the Russo’s Poetry Group, which was, at that point, predominantly men, and they enjoyed it (or pretended to enjoy it.)  As we discussed it, I found myself really appreciating all these qualities of that favorite position on the baseball diamond... the Catcher.

Memories of all my favorite catcher's wafted through my mind. Steve Yeager was there, Mike Scioscia popped in, and then there is the ever well known Kris Yoder. He was on the Jersey City Indians, a AA team I followed when I was 15 year old and lived in Glen Ridge, NJ.  It took everything I had to stay focused on the other people sharing their poetry for a while after all that sharing and parade of Catchers in my mind.

 

So – when is it that Spring Training starts? Or did it already and I missed it?

 

Catcher’s Mitt

 

I wonder if in my muddled mind

The metaphor somehow slid through

 

Catchers. In baseball.

Always enthralled me.

 

I thought it was their burly beefy bodies but

Now, I wonder. I pause. I consider was it….

That I trusted they would unflinchingly catch

Whatever I threw at them?

 

Catchers. Waiting, behind the plate.

Signalling. Shaking off. Nodding.

Watching.

 

Always enthralled me.

 

I had been coming to this flower shop for more than seventeen years so I knew the drill pretty well. I would walk into the main flower display area and choose a couple bunches of flowers which I would then pass over the one of the clerks who would take it, rearrange the bunches together and pass them back for my approval.

 

In the seventeen years I have been purchasing flowers I never once sent a bouquet back for any floral readjustment, never spoke harshly to a clerk, but also never felt particularly glad to be there, either.

 

When I was there, it was like a train-station. A place I waited to get someplace else.

 

That day it felt different.

 

The air smelled slightly more beautiful, my feet felt simultaneously more grounded and my spirit was swimming in a deep sea of contentment intermingled with wondering "What if I never had to come to this place, ever ever ever. What would my life be like, then?"

 

I stood and waited while several other people were being helped. I saw a woman with brown, looked-dry-to-the-touch shoulder length hair. She was probably a bit older than me and was accompanied by her young adult son, or a man I am guessing is her son.

 

They were chatting with another woman, not sure what her role was, and they had several order forms in multiple format.  There were signatures and papers to put into envelopes and heads to nod. I stood and waited, breathing deeply, not at all concerned about what was next or whether or not I would beat the Friday afternoon rush hour out of  Los Angeles.

 

I handed over the two bouquets I wanted to be blended into one arrangement and waited some more. It only took a moment for the clerk to come back with my colorful flowers, cut down to the just-right length. I held them as if they were a sacred vessel – close to my body so that the blossoms could connect with my heartbeat.

 

I lowered my face to the flowers and inhaled, deeply.

 

"Oh, they smell so good… so good…" I said.

 

"We get immune to it here," said the clerk. "Only when we first come in do we notice it."

 

I smelled deeply again, doubting this experience would ever become ordinary to me.

 

I signed my name to the charge slip and walked back into the sunshine. I walked past the woman and her son, who were talking about I don't know what. I stopped, still, and decided to find out what these flowers were, besides pretty in their purple-pink fragrant way.

 

"They are beautiful," the woman said. "You made a good choice."

"Thank you," I answered. I stopped my towards-the-shop trajectory and asked, "Do you know what sort of flowers they are? I am just enjoying them so much, but I don't know what they are…."

 

She patiently and matter-of-factly shared that they were bougainvilla and carnations, something I should have known and probably did know before stepping into the shop.

 

"Oh, thank you…" I said. She smiled back at me, gently.  My voice softened. "Have you lost someone recently?"

 

She stopped, and brought her hand to her face.  "My Mom." She caught her breath before asking me. "And you?"

 

Interesting. You go to a fraternity party and you are asked. "What is your major?" You show up at a theatre read through and people want to know what shows you have done. You arrive at a cemetery flower shop and you talk about who died.

 

"My daughter," I said. She visibly shook at my declaration, which brought up some needed tears in me. "It was seventeen years ago, but sometimes it is still hard… still hard."

 

She reached out to me and we stood there on the pathway back to the parking lot and cried together.  "She is in a better place," she said. My intellect agreed, but my heart still occasionally got angry at that sort of trite come back, this time I nodded in agreement and said, "as is your Mom", which seemed to give her comfort.

 

I drove off to the hillside where Marlena's headstone rests under a beautiful tree, just on the outskirts of its shadow.  I had to dig out the lawn-overgrowth over her flower vase, it had been such a long time since I had visited.

 

I took my space, lying down on the grass next to the headstone. I felt completely at peace, completely at home.  I listened to birds, counterpointing in song above me. I flipped on my back to look at the sky, the leaves on the tree. I turned to my left and saw balloons flapping in the wind. I turned to my right and saw the studios of Burbank stretched below me.

 

I rolled onto my belly and reached to the flowers, which when I held them and immersed my face into their center felt like a baby's face, accepting my kiss. My fingers traced the letters on the bronze marker. The dried grass scratched my face.

 

I sighed, content and filled when I must have opened just enough to hear this message from a divine space within me.

 

"Never doubt the perfection of the moment," it told me.

 

I remembered my timing at talking to the woman whose mother died. I remembered my visit with my brother, John, prompted because my mother took a perfect moment to call me and I could open up the space to make the visit happen on a rare, no plans kind of Friday.  I remembered the wait at the cash register which gave me time to not only purchase the flowers, it gave me the time to experience the flowers completely.

 

I smiled a half smile and said the words aloud, "Never doubt the perfection of the present moment."  Tears dripped from my eyes. Not sad tears but tears of wonder, of bewilderment, of privilege.

 

I know now those words were given to me – at the perfect time for a perfect reason – for you.  These words – given to me – are meant for you, too.

"Never doubt the perfection of the present moment."

 

Never.

 

Always, open, trust, know – and activate your passion.

I looked out the window and realized the time was
now or never.  If I wanted to capture the sunset,
we would have to leave the house right away.

So we did exactly that.  Sam and I chased the
sunset  – we stalked it – we were in search of the
mysterious, best place in Bakersfield to view it.

We had limited time and fell short of our
perceived goal.

We had a great time though, on the journey. We
drove up curvy, roller coaster like roads that
had Sam laughing and shrieking.

We did some Four-Wheeling up several dirt roads
only to find ourselves woven back to where we
started, only a few yards ahead of ourselves.

We drove up yet another dirt road only to encounter
a fence part way to where I thought it was going.

I turned the car around and stopped, looking out over
the view all around me.  The beauty called out, whether
or not I was in "the perfect spot."

I rolled down the window and paused, breathing deeply.
I inhaled the scent of dust.  I allowed the essence of
long, windswept grasses that sounded like God to breathe
their way into my being.  I ingested the aroma of them,
the scent of blessings layered upon blessings
layered upon even more blessings.

I stretched my hand outside my car window to
touch the sacred air. I was surprised how cool
it had become, so quickly.

Tears filled my eyes as I sat, wordlessly,
with my little boy.

"What about the people?" Sam whispered, somehow
understanding my need for quiet and not understanding
that the lights of the city below were made by
and for people.

"It's just us here, Sam." I waited, the emotion
slowing my words.  "Just you… and me… and God."

He silently looked out over the ribbons of deep
red, cutting across the horizon – the last vestiges
of what must have been a stunning sunset.

Together we smiled.  We hadn't missed a thing.

Together, we understood.

Several years ago I bought a desk at a church rummage sale, a desk destined to be my front-porch desk. It was something I always wanted to have, a space designated as sacred and set aside for writing.

 

I sat there today, writing practice causing my pen to float across the page, merrily weaving a-ha’s into my consciousness, but there was something more calling to me.

 

It is glaringly obvious. Before I came outside to my writing desk, a rose-shaped pinecone and an acorn asked to join me at my desk. Who am I to deny pinecones and acorns?

 

So, out they went, and there they sat, just to the left of my notepad as I waxed rhapsodic about paradox and wishes and hopes and growth.

 

My eyes landed on my friends, the acorn and pinecone, which usually lived on my entry-way altar.

 

I picked up the pinecone and wrote:

 

“I am not sure where I picked up my rose-shaped pinecone, but it is so very beautiful. Its skin is fragile, paper-like.”

 

My pen paused, hanging in the air, waiting for more.

 

“Aged-newspaper-like, actually. Its edge reminds me of a dried up reed, left unplayed, in a clarinet. Two pieces, two petals, fall away like questions left unlived.  Like a glass of water only half consumed, like wind chimes, perpetually still and soundless.”

 

I gently placed the rose-shaped-pinecone and its petals back on the weathered desk and picked up the acorn.

 

“Valley oak acron, so long and thin compared to the squat acorns of my youth. There is life inside you, life that can only be tapped with the right soil, the right moisture, the right pressure and heat.”

 

I brought the acorn to my lips and my pen continued moving.

 

“And you know what else, Valley oak acorn? You are a treasure exactly as you are. You are complete in your current incarnation. You are not a massive tree, you are simply an elegant acorn. A precise, lovely acorn.

 

“A seed.”

 

I took a deep breath and put the acorn back on the desk beside the rose-shaped-pinecone.

 

I put my pen back on my desk, intensely satisfied in the sweet simplicity of the moment.

 

I wrote this late last night and got distracted and somehow, it never got posted. Better late, than never.

 

I have some other better lates than nevers to post, too, today. And for now, here you are.

 

It is almost Thursday.  Less than 45 minutes now.

 

And then, it will be Friday. Always a good thing, always something you can trust – the movement of time. It is comforting, the simple fact that every twenty four hours another day of the calendar is turned and a fresh start is proclaimed.

 

I am very aware of two things today. One is our houseguest – one of Katherine's friends from school whose father is having cancer surgery in Los Angeles. I am being the supreme Carol Brady/Susie Homemaker/Name that Super Human, make everything from scratch, answer to all the kids needs kind of woman… had some tasty lasagna for dinner, fresh sheets on the bed, nice serene candles going, everything in a row for her… and praying Emma and Sam don't annoy her too much.

 

The second is the tumultuous quality of life. I quickly went from ecstatic, overflowing joy to… sadness about my brother John's worsening condition…. to odd reconciliation with John's situation – and gladness that I will be seeing him Friday morning.

 

And then, there is the skin. His skin. Far away skin.  I spoke to Jen B. today and she asked me about him. "How is he?" she asked.

 

"What 'he' do you mean?"

 

David. My Muse. My Beloved Friend. I think many people think he fell off the edge of Kern County and out of my life.  Not at all, not at all.

 

I just miss his skin a lot these days. And no, I don't mean sex. Get your thoughts out of the gutter. I miss the skin on his forehead, where we would connect and breathe,  breathe and connect. I miss the skin on his forearms and calves. The skin beneath those cargo shorts that make me crazy, I think they are called cargo shorts anyway.

 

I miss the hair on his skin, the way it reflects the sun.

 

I miss the smell of his skin, the "had a busy day" smell of his skin, the "we've been out in this almost wilderness for hours beside this fire" smell of his skin, the "we are separated from the dark, cold, rain by this truck" smell of his skin.

 

The sleeping in the hot springs smell of his skin, the tired-eyed glance of waking up and not wanting to wake up and "did the sun come up yet?" question on the skin between his eyes. And yes, it did. The sun, I mean. It came up.

 

I miss the skin behind his ear, where I whispered, "Is that a coyote I hear?"

I miss the skin on his knuckles, stretched as he held onto the steering wheel, off-road with the Toyota, egging on the cows to come chase us as it felt like we were teetering on the edge of something – sanity, perhaps?

 

I am becoming quite practiced at delayed gratification.

 

I refuse to like it.

 

So, come Saturday I will have said goodbye to John, again.

 

I will have waved "so-long!" to my houseguest.

 

I will have lived 48 more hours.

 

And John will be that much closer to not having skin anymore.

 

And I will still be missing his skin.