Reunity

Oh 'Blog, you knew I couldn't stay away from you, didn't you? You've known all along, and yet you allowed me to play out my delusions, my fickle little fantasies of not needing you with an intense, feral desire. Only you hear me, 'Blog. Only you . . .

understand

me.

My hair is quite long now, and it isn't getting cut any sooner than the end of April, when

A Lie of the Mind

closes. (The director wants that "

Remington Steele

" look.) As with most issues concerning my self appearance, I vacillate wildly in my feelings about it. I have good hair. Shit man, I have

great

hair. I'll say it. It's soft and fine, without being too thin--it has just that right amount of body, so I don't really have to do anything with it if I don't feel so compelled . . . and I rarely do. In fact, the only complaint I ever have about my hair is that it tends to make me difficult to recognize from situation to situation. It's a proven fact: My hair length and style changes my face significantly, so much so that people I've worked with more than once will sometimes not place me when I see them again--say a month later--if I got a haircut.

{

I'm really worried about Jeff...he just keeps talking about his hair...I think he might be self-obsessing a little bit...then again, it is a freaking blog...I mean: " 'blog "...}

One thing having long hair makes me think about is the past. The reason for this is two-fold. Fold one is that hair is a record of cells gone by, so when I wear it long, I occasionally think about what was going on in my life when the cells at the tips of my current hair were dying and being expelled from the pores atop ma' noggin. At this length, I'd have to guess it was when I was doing

Operation Opera

(actors measure their lives in shows [actors: holla if ya hear me]), maybe propagating a flock of follicle fronds whilst singing a Queen cover, or enjoying a fire in David Zarko's fireplace.

Fold two is a memory of the time in my life when my hair was longest. Said time was the end of my Freshman year of college; a strange time. It wasn't particularly memorable in the moment, but in retrospect, about a million things were going on beneath the surface that would later sprout up and change my life for good. (Like hair, dare I suggest? [Too much there? {That was too much, wasn't it?}{Shit.}]) I won't (can't) get into all of that here, at least now, but it shaped me as an actor, a person and--more specifically--as a newly minted adult.

{...he's claiming a lot of self understanding now...what's he selling here?...at least he isn't talking about his damn hair anymore...}

I was a little miffed about not having permission to cut my hair for an occasion I attended this past weekend. That occasion was a sort of reunion, at least on my part.

I detest reunions, sort of for the same reasons I resent New Year's and Valentine's Days; it's an occasion where everyone is

trying so damn hard

to have a good time. And not just a good time, but the

right kind

of good time. That judgment, hanging about like smog, affects me, perhaps more than it should. And at reunions it's freaking LA smog, because everyone is taking stock of their lives (read: judging themselves against others). I favor a quote which refers to that notion, today's finsky quote:

"I know everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."

This reunion was actually a wedding. The girl I moved to New York to be with got married on St. Patrick's Day, and I was there. Don't worry: I was invited.

Why was I invited?

I can't say I really know. The break-up was fairly amicable, at least inasmuch as it could be with two very hurt people with rather little life experience involved, and I've made a point of staying friendly with her and her family. I still consider it pretty unconventional to invite the big ex to one's wedding, but ultimately I decided that it was their decision, and I wanted to go. I wanted to bear witness to the marriage of two people who love each other, and I wanted the brief reunion with people who had been my loved ones.

I guess I have to admit I'm taking stock of my life a bit, too.

{...oh God...here he goes...this is where it gets ridiculous with embarrassing clothes-rending and gnashing of emotional teeth...where's my iPod...I need to block out the sounds of his self-pity...}

It was amazing. Really amazing. Someday I'll devote a 'blog entry just to the adventure of getting to the church on time, but for now the amazement is from how welcomed I was, and how full of love the experience was for me. I was busy trying so hard to be as unobtrusive as possible, particularly at the reception, yet people sought me out, and everyone I caught up with I also shared a memory or two with that I couldn't have remembered without seeing him or her again. Sure, there were some more or less awkward moments for me (like when the Maid of Honor mentioned in her speech that my ex hadn't been seeing anyone while they were on tour together...suppressing laughter at that point was one of the more Oscar-worthy moments of my life to date) but all that was trumped by getting a rare and beautiful moment in life to remember someone I used to be, and say goodbye to him with fondness.

I don't know if I'm the only one who feels this way,

{...oh God, here he goes again...}

but I often wonder

{..."he wonders while he wanders"...dear Lord, save us from these musings...}

if I haven't

{...oh, hasn't he?...and what horror will--

Hey. Hey, Super Ego.

--me?

Yeah, you. Knock it off. You're being kind of a d&%k.

I'm doing no such

You're being kind of a d&%k. And I don't appreciate it. Now knock it off, before I'm forced to start following the "

The Secret

" program just to spite you.

{}

Anyway. I often wonder if I haven't lived so much, changed so much, that I've lost track of more versions of myself than I could possibly keep track of. Not that I essentially change, necessarily, and maybe this is just a matter of perspective. Some probably see their lives as fully integrated journeys of evolution. I can see it that way, too, but most of the time I look back and feel a great distance from my past thoughts and actions. It's a little bit like most plays I memorize. I can do a full production of a play, spend months learning and then performing lines, yet when I read the play a year later it seems alien to me. Then again, I know some words by heart that I may never lose, for no special reason. I mean, do you ever wonder if you're still who you've been before? Is this some kind of demented syndrome hatched from the habits of an actor, always moving from role to role, or is it more common than that? What do you think of yourself as you've been; and, when you think of him or her, do you feel better about that person, or the one you are now?

I was sought out recently by a fellow journeyman on

The Third Life

(tm), and an alumna of

my college

, one

Jason Carden

.

Jason

has been on the west coast for years, and I hadn't seen nor heard hide nor hair of him since he graduated, a year before me. We did two shows together in college,

The Three Musketeers

and

Stand-Up Tragedy

, and in the latter we sort of co-starred. About a month ago (whilst I was still in California: see

2/19/07

), Jason emailed me to see if we could catch up now that he was in New York for a while. I finally coordinated that with him tonight (a real miracle, given our combined schedules) and we met for dinner.

Once again I had the experience of recalling memories I never could have without the other person present. I was grateful that we didn't have to worry about one of those horrible one-ups-man-ship conversations actors can so easily fall into when catching up with one another, and before long we were confessing how much we hate the idea of reunions. Yet there was nothing awkward, or judgmental there. What there was, was a kind of understanding about the people we had been when we both had Richmond zip codes, and a curiosity about who we were now. And that was welcome, because not having to be explicit about who you are or where you come from is a relief as long as, at the same moment, a mutual respect is implicit.

Two struggling actors re-met in a restaurant today, and by the end of their conversation they were on the subject of

Batman

. Icing on the cake.

Ice was all over the street today. After a little period of promising warmth, March has whipped the city with frigid weather again. As Jason and I started to chat on the way to the restaurant, he mentioned that he had his hair cut short just the other day, and now he was really regretting the loss of insulation. I had to smile, feeling warm and oddly young.

Blessings

On my way home from rehearsal Friday night, I was stopped at the corner of 48th and 6th (in Manhattan) by two tall gentlemen (All right: tall to

me

. You bastards.) who asked me a question. I could not hear these men, as I was listening to one of my transcendentally brilliant mixes through my

Sony MDR-J10 earbuds

, so I removed said earbuds from my ears, only to discover that I still could not understand these men. They had fairly heavy French dialects, and were asking me something about channel four. "You mean NBC?" I innocently asked, pointing to the glowing studio sign down the block. (In my hometown, NBC broadcasts on channel four.) Non, Non. The bar: Channel 4. Sorry fellas. No notion.

They moved on, and as I reinserted my Sony MDR-J10 earbuds I wondered what kind of bar they were headed for. Would I be allowed in, if I tailed them? Sadly, I was distracted by the common flaw of my Sony MDR-J10 earbuds. If you yank them too hard, invariably one will get a wire loose and only send you smatterings of aural delight, which is not delightful. The opposite, in fact. Cursing my good-natured ribaldry with the French, I switched to Dane Cook (spoken word, IOW) for the long ride home.

Frankie, my character in this incarnation of

A Lie of the Mind

, is a tricky guy to play. The only background you're given on him is his relationships with his siblings and mother, and a brief reference to his having won a baseball scholarship in his youth. Oh, and he was played by

Aidan Quinn

on Broadway. (Who ranks amongst my list of least favorite actors, though

Benny & Joon

is an undeniable classic. You bastards.) He has nothing--as far as I have discovered within a week of rehearsal--of his own to fight for in the play, apart from his survival after receiving a gunshot wound. Most of his time is spent trying to help his brother out. Tricky tricky tricky. This morning, getting ready to leave for our first full stumble-through, I was busying my mind with questions about this problem. Questions like, "Why are you such a foil, Frankie?" and "Who made you such a tool, Frankie?"

Then we had our stumble-through, and stumble we did, with great conviction. My favorite moment was when one actress expressed frustration with not having learned a note about remaining positive about everything that happened on stage, and another replied, "Yeah Cindy, I mean, you

have

been working on it for a whole eight days now." (I refuse to indicate "irony" with an emoticon in this space.) I relished the run-through, dreading it as I had been, because something about its continuity allowed me to cease freaking out about how incapable of the work I felt and thereby

actually listen

. Imagine my profound sense of revelation upon actually hearing my scene partners. Ah, victory. Or, at least, a step beyond.

After rehearsal I called

Friend Younce

, who was in town with family for yet another niece's blessing. I had forgotten that this was the prophesied weekend of said visit. Fortunately (and, might I add, miraculously), I had nothing else doing tonight. Unfortunately, the crew was assembled IN

BAY RIDGE

. For those of you less familiar with the boroughs of my nuevo Zion, Bay Ridge is to Manhattan as Richmond is to DC . . . at least by

subway

. It is not so far from my home in Brooklyn, however. If the Younce clan had been gathered in the Bronx or Queens, yours truly wouldn't have had the evening he eventually did.

After near-on two hours of travel, I was amongst them. Friend Dave, his wife Michelle, their children Hildegard and Enoch, his sister Carrie and her husband Ed and their children Hazel and . . . uh . . . Ginger? No. Dang it. I'll get it later. Also Dave and Carrie's parents, whom I hadn't seen in years. It was great, albeit rather different from my usual hang time with Dave, which is usually more reminiscent of our olden days of comicbooks and discussions of girls and mythology. I love the Younces. They remind me of how sane, yet individualistic family members can be. And Dave is one of those friends of olde that I just fall back in with. So it was unconventional and welcoming.

There was pizza, and playing kids' games, and a movie (

Stranger than Fiction

, which I had already seen and--not joking here--I believe would have made a better book) and some of the olde discussion.

When I stepped out to head home on the R train, it was raining but warm. It was midnight, but really 1:00 AM, given the imminent spring in time. That amazing smell of newly wet asphalt was rising all around. It was uplifting; one of those moments that makes one wake up a bit, just enough to remember to recognize and appreciate the world around him. After a few moments of enjoying the sound of the rain on the street and the stone's-throw East River, I happily inserted my new

Sony MDR-J20 earbuds

into my ears for the not-so-long journey home.

The Riddle of the Sphynx

"We thought this was going to be about Egypt."

That's not a quote from a movie. That's one of the reactions we received this weekend from the thirty-odd senior women of Scranton who attended the reading of

the play

which is the namesake of today's 'blogination. Instead of being a history of the famous statue, the play was inspired in large part by the riddle the Sphynx (or Sphinx, but never Sfinks) poses to the people of Thebes before using their failure to answer it as an excuse to slaughter excessive amounts of ancient Greeks. ("Wot...is your favorite color?" "Blue. NO, YELLOOOOOOOO...." [There's your movie quote.]) Said riddle being:

What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening?

And the answer is, naturally: Ya' momma.

'Twas a goodly weekend, and 'tdid start practically Friday midday with my commute to the Bronx to begin anew the filmmaking classes at Validus Academy. The spirit in the school was bright and eager, and all we were doing was announcing and describing our class to the students so they'd have a better idea what to sign up for. Thus leaving earlier than usual, I had plenty of time to stop by work to get and deposit my check for the week before high-tailin' in to Penn Station to catch the train to

Port Jervis

, riding with Friend Heather and possibly-newly-acquired-friend

Greg Fletcher

, the playwright.

The weekend was just what the doctor ordered. I knew I was hungry for stage time, but in spite of my griping these

past weeks

I somehow underestimated just how badly I needed it. We didn't do much with the reading, just sat semi-circle and read, and my part, though significant to the story, was not overloaded with lines. Yet performing the thing made all the hassle of the trip out, the preternatural cold of northern Pennsylvania, the junk food, etc., quickly meld into contributions to the bliss of reading lines, of playing a character. It was just a reading of a play in development. Still, it did the trick, and today I feel alive again. How do I forget so easily what that feeling is until I have it again?

Part of what was wonderful about the weekend--a huge part--was the warm sense of family I receive every time I go out to Scranton and play my part for

TNT

's modest notoriety. It's like a homecoming, without all the actual family angst and urgent self-examination. I know my way there, and everything I do makes sense and has some sense of purpose to it. Perhaps this is because it always contains some aspect of vacation--being away from my daily concerns, socializing as part of every place I am, etc. (I can hear Patrick frustratedly [yet playfully] barking: "Like that's a bad thing?!") Certainly our activities whilst not in rehearsal or performance were very recreational. Hedonistic, in one regard. Saturday night we sat and watched the entire season of a Canadian (Canada=hedonism) television series. It was something David and Heather had been specifically wanting to do

with me

since they happened upon the series about a month ago.

Slings and Arrows

, season one, is a six-episode comedy of characters surrounding the creation of a production of Hamlet. It aired on A&E or Bravo (I can't remember which; maybe it was Sundance) a little over a year ago, and I had been psyched to catch it but, as with all things regularly scheduled, forgot about it and missed it, save the final episode, which I caught entirely by chance one Friday night back when I still had cable television. I loved it, that solitary and (for me) undeveloped finale, and was curious about the show thereafter. It didn't resurface in my life until Heather and I were talking and she mentioned that David had seen it and wanted to watch it (again) with me. So we did just that. The whole thing. At a go.

It necessitates a

James Lipton

ian response. "If you haven't yet seen

Slings and Arrows

. . . you must go to your local Canadian video outlet, purchase the DVDs, drive to a cliff of at least 100 feet in height, cry mercy there to the Gods of Television and cut yourself with the edges of the DVDs in chronological order and allow your wasted blood of life to fall over the cliff's edge before promptly driving home and watching the whole series seventeen times over without cessation for bodily needs. It is

SCRUMTRULESCENT

. . . ." And that doesn't quite cover it. It takes funny-because-it's-true to all new levels, and not just for theatre people, but people people. After watching it, I felt like I understood again what was so great about what I'm trying to do. It's insane. It's supposed to be insane. As they say in the series, after experiencing the sensation of everything going right on stage, how can life compare?

In April, Friend Heather is moving out to

Scranton

. In theory, this is a trial run for her, but it includes letting go of her apartment in Brooklyn (due to money needs) and purchasing a car (due to day-to-day needs), so the theory is really more of a hypothesis: This move may be what Heather needs, and good for her life. I hope she's accurate in that. I understand her desire, I think. This weekend past, I could envision myself making the same move. If I settled in Scranton, I would get regular acting work at the theatre, and become a name in that smaller town. I could manage more of my life by myself, creating my own work for my own audience base. And I would be surrounded by a network of friends who bordered on family, and who were much easier to be in regular touch with than my friends in this nutty city of millions. Yeah. I get it, and think about it every time I work out there.

The answer, of course, is Man. As in Humanity. As babies, in the dawn of our existence, we crawl on all fours, then we learn to walk with two legs before needing a cane to progress as the sun sets on our little story. Taoist thought, as I understand it, also divides life into stages, albeit with some greater attention to detail. That's one of the differences betwixt (

S&As

has had an obnoxious effect on my syntax, and for that I apologize) Tao and Zen; Zen, roughly speaking, says purify and divorce oneself from this material plane toot-sweet, whereas Taoism takes you by the shoulder and says, in a voice that's audible to you but not the rest of the party, "Look, you've got to do what you've got to do right now, and it would be unnatural for you to do otherwise. All I'm saying is, when you get through the ambition, and ardent desire, and angst, you're going to see none of it was what was really important. So don't fight it, but plan for that. I'm going to go get some

vinegar punch

. You want I should bring a bit back for you?"

So, I could move to Scranton (or New Hampshire, or Maryland, or Virginia) now and get on with it. There's no gauge of legs to dictate when we should change our lives; would that there were. Instead, we're left with our feelings, those unpredictable faeries that Puck us up whenever they get a chance. Stupid Feelings. Being all better-informed about what we want than our brains are. Send out memos, Feelings; send out memos!

They do, of course. The trick seems to be getting our brains to keep their fax machines on and full of paper and toner. And check the fax machine every once-in-a-while, Brain! It's in another room! You gots to check it!

This entry now ending, due to recognition of the fact that I have succumbed to day-job metaphor.

We've come for the Festival

This weekend is full of the kind of plans I never could have imagined myself having during my first year in New York. Nothing fancy, just particular to my life and the people who I've ended up on the same path with. (That was awful; "people with whom the same path I have ended upon"? No. Gimme a minute...) In a matter of minutes I'm off to Port Authority (Ah, Grand ol' P.A., how I love thy grandeur!) to catch the Martz bus out to Scranton, PA. There will dear John Beck pick me up, feed me lunch, then we'll catch my friend Billy Rogan's concert at The Northeast Theatre, after which will come dinner and the main event,

Almost, Maine

, with a cast of people with whom I've worked with on different shows. (Grammar lobe broken is. Resist must I joke of Yoda.) Afterwards, there will probably be much rejoicing, I'll spend the night at John's, then after a leisurely breakfast with said John, catch the bus back here in time to rehearse for a reading that night at

The Knitting Factory

.

Now, let's see how the events described above surprise us...

_________________________________________

Man. Let me just say, the genius of my friends astounds and humbles me. It was a very musical weekend. Billy Rogan is a genius of technique. GET his album, if for nothing else than to get on the cultural ground floor of a guy who is on his way to gifted reinvention of guitar music. Honestly, his current effort is a bit beyond my capacity for complete appreciation. He's so freaking

good

at his self-proclaimed "two-hand" approach that I can't quite keep up with its versatility, but nevertheless, he is good and good. Give a listen:

Billy

G.D.

Rogan, Ya'll

.

So I attended his debut concert, and it was wonderful. Part of what's great about Billy (name-dropping, I assure you, because this guy's going places) and his craft is that the practice of it is so lofty, yet his personal demeanor is so unassuming. He almost apologized for performing his unique and demanding art, yet revelled in it and shared his joy for it with all of us mere mortals. The music sounds like a whole rock band at times, replete with lead guitar, bass, and drum set, yet all performed on Billy's lone acoustic guitar. When he just relaxes a bit, and performs for individual connection more than virtuosity, he will take every audience by storm. And that's not a critique of his concert; just a perspective on where this impressive and unlimited young artist will be headed. The concert was still beautiful and surprisingly magnificent. (Hi Guillermo. This is your shamelessly unabashed plug.)

Reeling from that, I caught

The Northeast Theatre

's production of

Almost, Maine

, by

John Cariani

. I must admit here that I am horribly biased about this production, having worked with all of the four-member cast in one capacity or another. Nevertheless, I must say that I believe this production was leagues beyond the accomplishment of the New York debut, which I took in about a year or more ago. When I saw that production, I thought it was enjoyable, but largely ineffective. I don't know what to attribute it to specifically, but that show left me a little cold. Technically proficient, but a little "below" the actors in some respect.

TNT's show

, however, made me care about the characters so much I didn't want to leave them. Brilliant.

Heather Stuart

,

Duane Noch

,

Conor McGuigan

and

Amber Irvin

, my hat's off to you. It might have been simple romantic entertainment, but you guys made it more. Significant. True. Lovely.

Following that, festivities ensued at John Beck's house, and they were lovely. Beer, wine, snack food...what more could we ask? I stayed up too late, and when 8:00 AM rolled around, I wanted to stay in bed in John's guest room (replete with a walnut-veneer work desk) for a few hours more. I left, however, treading boot prints in the shallow snowfall on my way to the

Martz Bus

station.

Upon arriving back in The Big Apple, it was off to perform in Nat Cassidy's reading at The Knitting Factory. It was my first time at TKF, and it was great fun. Three floors of entertainment, that place is. Oddly enough, though I didn't catch them, one of the few local bands I know,

Nakatomi Plaza

(Ya'll get the reference, right?

Die Hard

? If you don't get that--get out.), was playing there that night as well. The reading went well, and was even well-attended. Nat hopes to succeed in submitting the play to the

NYC Fringe Festival

. We'll see how that turns out, but the reading itself got nothing but positive reactions. Afterward, there was much brew-ha-ha, and bands. Nat's girlfriend,

Alexis

, performed, and I was duly impressed with her folky glory. Then

Nat (Cassidy and the Nines)

took stage, and was wonderful. I heard Nat's first NYC demo when we met, working in New Hampshire, and liked it, but had no idea how great his live show would be until I saw it tonight. It was like watching Dylan with a sense of humor.

That

able, and

that

entertaining. The crowd had a ball. That final act contained a member of the reading, and the band was

Stephanie Podunk and Ghost Town

. They were great too, with dual female vocals and rock sensibility, though they suffered a bit from classic sound-mixing issues in live performance.

It was surprising and musical weekend. I had many moments of lament for how little work I was actually doing (though the audience of "The Exiled" was very complimentary of my reading) but I can't help but grin at the abundancy of creation. It was inspiring.

And Patrick: Somehow I had pancakes both Saturday and Sunday. Miraculous pancakes...

It's kind of Cold Here

Understatement is an unheralded art form. Because it would defeat the purpose of the form, wouldn't it? Ironic. Actually, that's not ironic. It's somewhat self-fulfilling and wry, but irony, strictly speaking, is the statement of meaning opposite of the words one uses. The vilest form being emoticon irony, i.e. "I freaking hate you, you bastard. ;D " Actually, the emoti-wink eviscerates the irony too, making it more of an aside. It would be more apt to follow up the statement with something like " =D " Statements that are merely apt are often swiftly categorized as ironic nowadays. It makes me sad. It wish it were a more remarkable occurrence. Alas, it merits only the amount of remarks I have made prior to the period at the end of this sentence.

:P!

That emoticon's tongue is actually stuck there, frozen to the exclamation point, because it is SO FREAKING COLD HERE. Friend Adam made a good call a couple of months ago, when he predicted we would reap the whirlwind following the balmy start of our winter here in sunny Manhattan. Me, I've ceased to make weather predictions beyond that it will rain whenever I'm feeling depressed. And no, there's nothing Sophistic about that. Why do you ask?

I still remember my first winter in New York. I moved here on the second of January, 2000, an eager-eyed little 22-year-old whipper-snapper, and hardly realized what I was in for . . . in so many ways. One of those ways concerned the effects of a northern city wind. At that time I had visited Chicago, and so thought I knew wind, but the consistency of the winds in Chicago is part of their mythos. Not so with NYC's zephyrs. There should be traffic lights and crossing signals for the gusts that bide their time in The Big Apple during the colder months. I've turned onto avenues before and been mind-numbed by the sudden drop in temperature. It's fun to watch tourists do as I did that first January here, namely walk the steps up from the subway and run up the last three because a powerful gale has hit their backs.

When I first arrived here, I was still clinging to this notion that there was virtue in being colder than I had to be. In part, this was to justify the wearing of my grandfather's fall coat nine months out of the year. (The other part was that mentality so many of us come at a significant challenge with: "I am going to do this no matter how

hard

it is, and it better be

pretty hard

, so I know my efforts are justified!") I loved that coat. Love, I should say, because it still hangs forlornly in my closet, never again worn. It has, to be kind, seen better days. A light, gray-brown tweed coat that comes to knee length, it was actually refurbished by my father (paid for it--not a tailor) one Christmas, and still I've worn it into the ground. There are holes in the lining, and a one developing through the tweed itself in the seat. The button holes are ragged, and the tweed is also wearing away around the collar fold and seam. Yes, I am ridiculously sentimental. Or rather, I used to be. Few things I've acquired since about 2001 have held enough intrinsic reminiscence for me to think thrice about tossing them. Still, I consider it an act of great callousness on my part not to wear the coat anymore, so giving or (NEVER) throwing it away is not an option.

I started wearing the coat in my junior or senior year of high school. I can't remember why exactly, and it was an odd choice for me, since at the time I placed a very high priority on my clothing being as jet-black as possible. (Yeah: That guy. And you're reading his 'blog.) I remember I wore it in a show, which may have been the start of it. I also remember my girlfriend at the time asking me if she could have it to wear, and my deftly giving her another of my grandfather's coats, as though that would settle the issue. (And that one was the heavier of the two; see my supposed IQ in entry

1/6/07

.) It rode across my back for years, and every year I would be eager for the temperature to dip so I had an excuse to wear it, regardless of how ineffective it was as a winter coat. That paragon of tweed traveled with me through quite a lot; more than I can reasonably sum up here.

I've shed a lot over the years since arriving here. It's an important and continuous life lesson--letting go--and nothing brings it to the pragmatic forefront quite like living in a city in which you're expected to change apartments bi-annually. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever actually learns that lesson, or if we just go through times when we're forced to accept its necessity, or choose insanity. That's a regular theme in shows I've contributed to the creation of here in the city, and with little wonder. In the resonance of 9/11, it was natural for

Kirkos

to create

Awake, My Heart

and

Requiem

, and for Joint Stock Theatre Alliance to continue work on

The Torture Project

. We've had to honor so much passing (though not the passage of irony from vogue, as so many were eager to report) that to say we're still grieving is an understatement. I know that I'm still learning about the effects that day continues to have on me as I continue to survive (and occasionally even thrive) through the losses then and since. And the lesson that keeps challenging me is how and when to let go. Because eventually, you have to. Life is growth and movement, and you can't move while clinging to one point, object, person, belief, etc....

Someday I'll give up my grandfather's coat entirely. I've already replaced it with something more suited to me as I am now (I swear to you, on my life, that I didn't intend that pun). My winter coat now is calf-length, and black, of course. It's still not the heaviest thing in the world, but I've learned to layer. I've had it a couple of years now, and the lining in the back has gotten torn at the seams (which I consider apt). For now, I continue to keep my grandfather's coat in my little New York closet. I still need it, somehow. Some part of me identifies with it more intimately than I do with anything I've worn since.

But I'm not really sentimental anymore. ;)