The anger pierced my skin from the inside out.  It traveled

from deep in my gut and burst out my throat in a torrential

storm of vehemence

It is a feeling-image that will stick with me for a while.

I saw my friend, Sheila, standing in the wings.  I was

rehearsing, fully in the moment and angrier than I have

been in… probably years.  In a flash of energy I lost my

line-thought, it vanished.  What I remember was throwing

my head back and yelling an expletive because I thought

I had stepped over Rikk’s lines.

Sheila’s voice came out from the wings, “No, hon,

you are ok…”

So I kept breathing and finished. And stepped off stage

and whispered-or-did-I-shout-“Dammit!” I can’t remember

how loud I was with that word, I just know I felt it from

the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

I am usually pretty calm, pretty upbeat, so this seething

me… very different energy. I couldn’t even see for a

minute, my eyes were glued shut.

Jared stood next to me and calmly said, “I am having the

same problem tonight, I can’t seem to be able to

get the lines out.”

I looked at him, still angry, and said,. “I am just so

mad at me. I just so want to get it right….”

It had been a three-theatre-day in a weekend full of

theatre related activity, most of which was intense

and pressure-packed. I was teching “Macbeth” at the

Empty Space – a substitute tech for closing night

which brought striking-the-set on Sunday morning.

That mostly meant, for me, cleaning and carrying

stuff around, putting things away.

I sat in my idling car on Oak Street and California

after strike and started crying. I was doing some emotional

work for “Streetcar” and just let it rip as I waited for the light

to turn green. When we started moving forward, I noticed

Thomas Brill, a cast member from “Macbeth” had

been idling in the lane next to me.

I wondered if he saw me crying. In a flash I realized

I didn’t care. “I am Julie, I cry. How do you do?”

In the afternoon and early evening I was providing

support at the producer of “Rocky Horror”. I sat and

watched rehearsal, provided water, made sure the cast,

crew – everyone – had as much of what they needed

as I could provide.

I schlepped stuff for the band, restocked toilet paper

and brought bottled water for everyone to drink in

what feels like the perpetually overheated space.

I watched rehearsal, sitting in awe of the performers

who were giving it their all. I couldn’t take my eyes

off Caroline-playing-Columbia and the woman playing

Janet, a woman I have sang karaoke with at both the

Junction and Kosmos, I think her name is Terese.

She is so cute, so good – so quintessential Janet in

a 50’s Barbie style. Loved it.

Next it was rehearsal for Streetcar, the end-of-the-day

task doing what I enjoy the most – performing, being

onstage.  I had two aims for rehearsal – to work without

my script for the first time and to follow up on the notes

from the last rehearsal.

I needed to be louder in my angry scenes. I needed to

amp up my energy. 

My first scene went relatively well except for my inability

to remember the line, “That’s where you are now.”

I spent more time backstage, finding Eunice’s walk. Being

where Eunice is as the other action is occurring onstage and

she is not seen. I started to hear some of Eunice’s thoughts.

This always helps me in performance, when the Julie thoughts

begin to vanish and the character thoughts begin to take their

proper place on the forefront of consciousness.

It was time for seething, unleashed anger.

I have been known to say I don’t need to go to therapy anymore

because I have theatre. Rehearsal has been my greatest

medicine since my brother, John, died. It is almost like

my meditation, my release, my playtime, my play doh and

finger painting – detached yet highly committed to bringing

forth something of value.

I remember in “Into the Woods” when I faced down the

Giant in order to protect my son. My mother told me the

woman sitting next to her said, “Wow, she is really yelling!”

as if that was astonishing.  Her thought, I suppose, was that

I should pretend to yell or pretend to feel the importance

of protecting my little boy from sure death.

I loved fighting for “my son” because when my real-life

daughter died I didn’t have the chance to fight. I had often

said I would have traded my life for hers and this one – this

time – in character, I got to do exactly that. I (my character)

died and “my son” lived.  I wasn’t angry in that shouting

match, I was empowered, I was determined, I was Mama Bear.

This shouting match is different.

It feels like I am fighting on behalf of “woman hurt” overall.

Yes, I am fighting for Stella but I am also fighting, once again,

for myself and madder than anything that I have to keep

fighting this fight over and over and this, this, this fight

is quaking me to my core… again. I sense Eunice has said

these almost exact words before and she will, more than

likely, say these exact words again, for the Stellas and

whoever the heck else comes along and needs a protector.

And I also get the sense that Eunice didn’t have anyone to

fight for her, so that shows up in my show down, too.  Yes,

I am fighting for Stella - and more than that, I am

fighting for myself.

Fighting for myself. It brings another onslaught of tears.

Deb just wrote to me, concerned when I

told her I was busily “writing and crying.”

I responded, “I am emotional. Crying isn't bad. I am

processing. Crying is cleansing.”

Interesting. In allowing myself the space to cry through

all this I am wrestling with myself. I am stretching the

muscles of my Julie Self. I am becoming comfortable

and settling into this latest version of me.  I am consciously

bringing on the tears, daring myself to feel through everything,

completely, complexly, creatively.

Theatre, among my favorite art forms – the place where I

experience transcendence and discover me, more fully me.

Richard O’Brien’s Rocky Horror Show opens May 4 at Midnight

at Bakersfield Community Theatre: 2400 S. Chester (just north of

Wilson) and runs for three weekends with shows at Midnight on

Friday and Saturday with 8 PM shows on the first two Saturdays.

Call 831-8114 to make reservations.

Streetcar Named Desire opens on May 11 at 8 PM at the

Spotlight Theatre, Located in the Historic Hayden

Atrium Building in downtown Bakersfield. 

Call 634-0692 to make reservations.

Loading...

Larger Map

larger view larger view larger view

I arrived at the Bakersfield Community Theatre at a couple minutes after 6 to drop off some scripts, to put some costumes away and to see if the Rocky Horror Band was doing ok in the their impromptu-box-office-rehearsal-hall.

I walked towards the box office and saw Tyler Shanklin, rehearsal accompanist. We visited for a bit. Then I saw the actor playing Riff Raff, Brian Brown, and chatted with him. Sarah Purdy, the stage manager and Rocky Alum from the 2005 production pulled into the parking lot followed by Caroline Clark, who also appeared in the 2005 production and is playing Columbia this time around.

I waved to Stacie Whaley, one of the ensemble members as she walked in. I looked at Sarah and asked, “What time is it?”

She glanced at her watch and replied, “6:25”

There was more than a half hour until rehearsal started and actors were already congregating. Actors were predominantly… early.

Anyone who has been around theatre for any length of time knows this is a rarity unless there is something truly extraordinary happening – which would be one of the ways to describe the 2007 Production of the Rocky Horror Show at BCT.

Rocky Horror is a phenomenon in and of itself.  The original London production spawned the movie, which became successful only through its cult following-mostly midnight shows that had audiences coming back again and again and again.  This lead to the rise of "Movie Mimic" versions of "Rocky" that can be seen on a regular basis all around the world, including in Bakersfield.

Richard O’Brien’s The Rocky Horror Show, the stage musical, is something even more phenomenal.  David Lollar and Sheila McClure, Directors of this year’s production, are telling audiences, “The show includes adult themes, profanity, and partial nudity, so leave the kids at home, because this ain’t your mama’s ROCKY!”

There was a lot of gossip early in the process with this show –hard feelings lead to rumors from people who would like to see the show not succeed. “They are doing a PG-13 version of Rocky at BCT,” they tried to convince future audience members.

“I saw one rehearsal – just one, and I knew right away this was NOT PG-13,” said Sarah Purdy. “It is more like… well, not PG-13.”  She proceeded to re-enact David Lollar giving very specific directions to the actors about specific physical maneuvers during some of the racier scenes.  A quick visit to the show’s Myspace page to see slideshows of… very not PG-13 positions the actors will find themselves in during this Sci-Fi-CampySpoof-Meets-Twenty-First-Century-Musi cal-Theatre.

Two years ago BCT offered audiences the opportunity to experience Richard O’Brien’s 4-time Tony Award nominated revival musical. That production was directed very passionately by the late Kevan Klawitter who died a year ago from cancer.  There are some returning cast members, such as Andrew Hupp, who is reprising his role of Brad Majors.  These actors are honoring Kevan’s memory in their performances.  New cast members hear of the legendary Klawitter and want to honor his legacy by offering up a production that would make him proud.

It will be exciting to see Bakersfield’s hottest performers in Brad and Janet’s sexy romp with Frank’N’Furter, Riff Raff, Columbia, Magenta, and of course, Rocky himself. Time Warping was great last time, I can only imagine with a cast so excited to just show up at rehearsal, it is going to be even better this time around.

Bakersfield Community Theatre, at 2400 South Chester Avenue, presents  Richard O’Brien’s 4-time Tony Award nominated revival musical THE ROCKY HORROW SHOW, running May 4^th to May 19^th, Friday nights at Midnight and Saturday nights at 8:00pm and Midnight. Call BCT right now at 661-831-8114 to reserve your seats to the hottest Rocky Horror to hit Bakersfield, ever.

I stood in my backyard, pulling twig sized branches

from the smallish trees that stood at rapt attention,

waiting to serve me.

Tears filled my eyes as I said, “Plum, dear plum, what

do your branches offer me today?”

Less than a quarter hour before I was plucking wet and

slightly tired and soggy wood from my diminished wood

pile.  April in Bakersfield doesn’t sound much like

hearth-fire time, yet today – it was.

I had told My Muse last week, “It is so cold and damp,

I want a fire so badly… but…well…I….”

He wondered aloud why I couldn’t have a fire.

“Well, all my wood is wet.”

“The trick,” he said, “is to leave some wood by your

fireplace so that it doesn’t get wet.”

I glared into my phone, massaging the skin between my

eyes so my frown wouldn’t deepen the lines there.

 “I know that, but I didn’t suspect I would want to

have a fire in April.”

Days passed and it was still cold in April and I still

wanted a fire and somewhere between the desire and

the implementation everything clicked into place and

I found myself scavenging for wood.  I marched into

my living room and plunked myself down in front

of my fireplace only to discover there was, in fact,

some dry wood available.

It was large dry wood, though. I sighed. “Great. Might

as well not have any wood at all,” my

facial-lines-massaging-self lamented.

I put together what I had and struck a match.

Imagine my delight when it ignited. I had made a fire,

in April, without the perfect equipment. “Hummm,” I

thought, “time to shift my beliefs I suppose.”

I sat right on the floor, watching the flames

lick the roof of the fireplace in great arching

motions as if it was an enormous, charred

chocolate ice cream cone, much like my favorite

fudge brownie flavor from Baskin-Robbins. I reveled

in my success.

And then it started fading. And my quick burst of

stuff from outside had diminished and the wet, soggy

wood had never gotten hot enough.

“Anything will burn if it is hot enough,” I heard my Muse

speak into eternity. Even when he wasn’t nearby he was

pushing my buttons.

I stood up, brushed off my black pants and marched

myself back into my yard. I greeted my trees that needed

pruning and cooed at them as I pulled their dried, shriveling

branches from their core.  “You give me so much, you

ask for so little,” I said to them.

I worked intentionally, methodically, quickly.

I rested my hand on the trunk of my little plum.  I felt a

twinge of sadness for not paying near enough attention

or gratitude for this perfectly colored tree.  “We’ll do this,

we will.” I told her as I turned and marched back

into my house.

The embers were crackling, seeming to celebrate my

return with more fire-making offerings.

Once again I built.  “Are you in this for the long haul?” the

fire place asked me.

I nodded. “Then show it,” it dared me.

So I did. I built with everything I had and then some. I

struck a match and sat back, smiling. I watched and smiled.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote.  The “too big” wood wasn’t

anymore. The wet wood was no longer wet.

The earlier quick-burst of flames was beautiful to look at

and was even fun for a moment, but it wasn’t a long-haul

fire. It wasn’t there to teach me, over and over, to whisper

to me when I most needed its presence.

It was a flash-in-the-fireplace.

This fire, this second fire, was the life-changing one, the

soul one. The one that I allowed myself to build hot enough

and true enough. The one that said, “Yes, I am building

for the long haul.”

The fire is gone now, except for traces of sound and

the scent still hangs festively in the air.  It left

a poem, too:

Sweet sensuousness of the crackling air

Grey essence climbs into my heart

Arching, aching, tendrils twine with my hair

Love offerings given heavenward

Lips humming unspoken melodies spare

The unburnable burns

The not there suddenly is

The too soggy and wet

Now isn’t and it all

It all It all It all It all

Weaves with the saltwater

Traveling from my face

To the Earth

In bewildered gratitude

= =

The sounds of these words nurture me, like the fire did

as it made my heart fill, my lips hum, my ears hear

whispers from deep within me.

Bewildered gratitude from the soles of my feet to the

top of my scalp from my heart and my breath and my

fingertips: it is gratitude of the unknowing, gratitude

for the smokey-grey, not quite being able to see shadows

that come into our lives cloaked in what looks like fear

and often, in the end, is our greatest friend.

My plum tree offered her used-up branches so that

I could have an “a-ha” and pass it along to you.

I am in it for the long haul.

Anything will burn if it is hot enough.

Somewhere between the desire and the

implementation everything clicked into place.

Thank you, plum.

Thank you, Muse.

Thank you, fire.

Thank you, bewilderment.

Thank YOU.

“Goodbye, that”

I said, when I realized

The variety of former

Necessities that have

Started sloughing away

Thanks to this big ol’ Loofah

That is my life

“Goodbye, that”

“And that”

“And that”

“Goodbye.”

Participating in theatre is like medicine for my soul.

No matter what “stuff” I am experiencing away from the stage, when I am there, doing my thing – everything else falls away so that I can be pure with my work. I can be pure in my process.

Last night I was late to rehearsal and I do not like being late. Emma had a performance in her show choir and as the sole means of transportation for her performances, I had to schlep her there and back.

I had called Bob to tell him I would be late it and he said it was ok – but nonetheless, I went to rehearsal out of breath and concerned that my absence was problematic.

It wasn’t. I arrived in my out-of-breath, apologetic state and they were in the midst of the part of the scene before my arrival. Bob stopped them and they re-ran the scene up to that point before continuing on.

I thought, “I wonder if Bob stopped and had them restart so that I could become present, so that I could ease into the rehearsal and do a respectable job instead of an out of breath, apologetic job?”

Konstantin Stanislavsky said, “Never come into the theatre with mud on your feet. Leave your dust and dirt outside. Check your little worries, squabbles, petty difficulties with your outside clothing -- all the things that ruin your life and draw your attention away from your art -- at the door.”

It came to the time for me to do my thing on stage and I literally ate up every moment. This is my shortest time on stage in a particular scene but I so enjoy telling Stanley exactly what I think of him and handing it to him on a chipped, cheap platter from the neighborhood five and ten cent store.

Rikk said during our break, “I felt like I was getting in trouble, that I got caught by my Mom.”

My first instinct was to lament that I am not all that much older than him.

My second instinct was, “Hey! I was doing my job!”

One of my commitments to myself during rehearsal time is to always be acting, to not be “calling it in”.  In the case of this rehearsal, Bob, as the Director, really assisted me in the process by backing up so that I could catch up and allow “the worries, the squabbles, the petty difficulties” fall away as I sat in the audience, watched, and reviewed my lines before going on.

I even managed to do some breath work during my first read of this scene. Perhaps that helped Rikk to feel what he felt, which created a real response for Stanley – and would lead to his very authentic, heartfelt request to Eunice which, naturally, she shoots right down.

I have been living a tough chapter of my life lately.  I found it exceptionally syncronistic the way the schedule for “Streetcar” managed to unfold exactly in the way I needed in order for the crisis point in my life to subside, just a little – and begin to step back into my new normal.

It feels so right, so replenishing - when I accept and live within this wondrous medicine for my soul.

I found this one that I have never shared publicly. I know, Twinkie - its been a while since my muse's presence has been reflected in my words. Something about listening to Celtic Quest brought this one out of the file dungeons.

The tears come, unbidden

I call for Rumi’s field to be our meeting place

The one, you know it

Outside of wrongdoing and

Rightdoing it is

the soul lying down place…..

My prayer, my prayer

to connect with you,

tonight right there

So we can

Kiss these tears away

I rented "Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood" so that I could listen to their Bayou inflected voices and then do my favorite parrot trick in order to breathe some vocal life into Eunice, the character I am due to play in "Streetcar Named Desire."

It has been a tough time in my personal life lately, so the movie sat unwatched for quite some time.  (Why is it that as I type, I am now hearing with an accent? Now that is flat out freaky.)

I finally pulled it out yesterday for some Easter viewing.

Between the last time I saw it and this time I saw it, I had read the Ya-Ya books so it wasn't nearly as fun.  I knew all the places where the book was superior to the movie. Between the last time I saw it and this time I saw it, Katherine, my daughter, had seen some Harry Potter movies that includes one of the Ya-Yas... the actress playing "Caro" to be precise.

"She is supposed to have a British accent," Katherine remarked.

There goes my thinly held belief that these folks, my dialect coaches, were actually true Louisiana babes.

Oh, great, I thought. I am going for authentic and she is British?

There is something wrong with that.

I loved listening to Ashley Judd, though. I enjoyed looking at her and thought if I was a man, I just might have a crush on her. Didn't she play Read on "Sisters" back when I was young? With that woman who played Susana on "thirtysomething" you know, the one who had the baby with th blonde guy who died in the end.... and when she was in labor  they kept playing Pachebel Canon and she griped about it? She should have tried James Taylor, like I did. Anyway, I digress.

Because I was watching with Katherine, I couldn't stand right by the TV and do my parrot ritual, so instead I watched with the intent to go back and do scene selection when all my darling loves are back in school tomorrow.

What I did notice was that this weird sorta-like-Ashley-Judd voice keeps popping out of me at the strangest times.

It is just...... odd..... which considering the circumstances is absolutely... normal.

Now, to get motivated to pull out my script and start working on lines.

larger view

My brother is dying.

Poetry soothes me. It also reaches into his heart, as I have been sharing more and more poetry with him. I wrote this piece on Wednesday morning, when my heart called me to visit this park in Dana Point, behind the house where we lived when I was in high school and John lived from age 14 to age... oh, about 32 or 33. (John has Downs Syndrome and lived with my parents until we chose to place him at a board and care facility in Capistrano Beach - a home he loved and lived in until he was hospitalized last August for the pneumonia which began the severe deterioriation in his health.

Here is what I witnessed on Wednesday and shared with John later and left for others to read to him as he readies himself for his transition.

The fire circle is gone
There is a dog area, small
in its place

Rather surprisingly large trees
Have sprung up where
Joe and his wild friends
Built tumbleweed fortresses

The path to divinity
Now leads to unbearably large houses
Which strain on matchbox lots

And the ground is still the same

I chat with a woman
and her three-legged Bouvier
(Furry, cut to have almost
a very large terrier face)

I nestle my notebook in the
Embrace of a willing tree friend
In meager attempts to hold the
Moment in these words I offer you

And the ground is still the same

A camouflaged, statuesque bunny watches
To see what I will do
It rises up when it feels my honoring
Birds offer their orchestration of the sacred

Fence interlopers slice the hillside
To keep my wandering feet away
My eyes scan for trodden pathways

The cave within the cavern I communed in
Seems to have been devoured
By the developers underbelly

And the ground is the same

I succumb to the beauty, the loss,
the presence and I reach for
The Eucalyptus which catches my tears

My forehead to its bark - my hand
traces the cracks in its body
It welcomes me home and the
Helicopter overhead says "Come"

And the ground remains the same