This is Private (Bears!)

When I was in elementary school, in

my county

(which I have since discovered was one of the wealthiest counties in all of this great nation [don't ask by what standards {'cause I don't know and will be forced to punch you rather than reveal my ignorance}]) they were very concerned in the public schools with students who might be "learning disabled" (LD) or "gifted & talented" (GT). I have come to adopt my mother's view (she worked as a teacher in the very same public school system for years), namely that the distinction was more a matter of public opinion than actual intellectual merit. In both cases, the powers-that-were were seeking out children who demonstrated alternative patterns of thought and recognition. I'm not saying they did their job poorly. I'm only saying the criteria by which they deemed "good" and "bad" were, at best, hypothetical. As a result and as you might imagine, some very bright and crafty kids ended up with the stigma of LD, and some good test-takers ended up elevated to the distinction of GT.

Was such the case with myself? Possibly. I tested three years in a row, each time at the recommendation of my teacher of the time. Each and every time I earned one point within the required intelligence quotient (141...at age 9, mind you) and the decision was made that the result was too ambiguous to signify my transfer to special GT classes or workshops. On the third try, they followed up with a personally administered, oral test. I frustrated the hell from that tester, I'm sure.

"In this picture, is the man walking toward the tree or away from the house?" "Both."

"How do you measure out 4 liters using these containers?" "You fill that one up one-third--" "You can't do that." "Why not?"

"How many prongs does

this figure

have?" "None. It's a picture."

Nevertheless, by fifth grade I was going to a school that catered to the alternative thinkers. It was certainly a better fit for me than plain ol' school had been, but in retrospect I just wish they could have extended to every student the same listening and consideration they did the "GT" kids. I'm sure there are reasons that this turned out the way it did, but it seems a shame to separate kids in order for them to learn better. I'm put in mind of the educational theories of

John Dewey

(whom I only know about because my Uncle John lent me his copy of this book when I asked for a good book on American History:

The Metaphysical Club

). It just seems like everyone is capable of critical thinking, but so few teachers appreciate the reward of encouraging it in their students.

Anyway. I'm getting a little off-point. Blame my excessively liberal education.

When I started this 'blog (back in ot-six, it was), I barely understood the concepts involved. (I was walking

away

from the

house

, or whatever the crap was the "wrong" answer.) I mean, I've read the press. I know this is the sort of sudden public publishing everyone was getting twisted up about when the interwebz started getting more accessible. I know that what I write gets out there and is open to an audience. In a sense, it's a further exhibitionism for someone who is already pretty obsessive in his need for an audience. I know this, and yet I've already accomplished a few irresponsible acts on this page o' mine. People who know me will read, or have read, things about myself that they don't like. Or, perhaps with more hazard, things they do like and take to heart in a way that wasn't intended. I'm being intentionally obtuse, and I beg your forgiveness.

Blame my religious upbringing (

Unitarian Universalism

).

In another sense, it's hard to say that such was not my intention all along. As an actor, I've had to confront the possibility on far more occasions than your

average bear

that my actions (and inaction) have more intention behind them than is initially apparent. I'm not a believer in the ethos that "everything happens for a reason." I just happen to practice a craft that makes every effort to mirror life with cunning verisimilitude, and that craft relies most often on the intention of a character for dictating how a scene should be played. In other words, we always want something. Sometimes we are conscious of what we're doing to achieve that certain something...and sometimes, we aren't.

One of my favorite

Rilke

quotes says something to the effect of: The mother is the only truly fulfilled artist, because she achieves what all other artists aim for--to produce something of oneself, to have it live in the world, independent of its creator. (Someday I'll find that exact damn quote again, I swear. It's prose. It can't be that difficult.) I aspire to this every day, I think. Call it a defect, a constant need for approval, or a compulsion, an essential insecurity that drives me to constantly prove to myself that I exist, or call it a calling. I don't really care what you call it; it's there and I get pretty dang miserable when I don't feed it. So of course, given the opportunity to publish my thoughts and ideas to the world-at-large, I'm going to do it. And I'm going to write words that will have effects beyond my control, no matter how safe I try to play it. So be it. It's not like I've spent my life up to this point trying to play it safe, and just maybe I'll learn a thing or two in the process.

Then again, maybe I won't. I am, after all, proudly

a bear of very little brain

. I just happen to test well.

Fear of the Third?

Yesterday, amidst the bustle of an office desperately trying to resolve its business before the impending holy daze, I got a call from my roommate, Zoe. (An "umlaut" goes over the "e." Let this parenthetical represent "umlaut.") Now, I am a master of silencing my phone, particularly at work, but I try to make a point of answering calls from family or roommate if I'm possibly in a position in which I may. It turns out I was, at that moment, available (doing nothing but musing and typing away over some silly 'blog) and I answered to discover that the call had nothing to do with the heating, a bill or me leaving my stuff out like some kind of domestic endurance course between the work room and the kitchen. No, Zoe (an "umlaut" goes over the "e"; let this parenthetical represent "umlaut") needed help of a different sort altogether.

Zoe (a"u"got"e"ltpr"u") and her partner Dave engage in a rarefied profession, coined "acro-salsa." Under the guise of

Paradizo Dance

, these marvels of modern physicality travel the world, performing and competing with their unique synthesis of movement traditions. They rock. Seriously. I don't know performers personally who are as strong and dedicated as these guys are. I met Zo(a"u"got"e"ltpr"u") through Kate Magram, who founded a circus-dance-theatre collective called

Kirkos

. Anyway, one of Paradizo Dance's new ventures is to put out a series of instructional videos in their approaches to salsa and

acrobalance

. Last night they had space booked, were all set for another filming, and Dave's back got sprained.

Hence, the phone call to me.

Now, I'm the sort of chap (don't restrain from hollering if you hear me) who spends a certain amount of his day planning out his evening--at least on the rare occasion when that evening's activities are not otherwise prescribed. This becomes a particular priority to me in times of flurry-ous activity, i.e., the week before Christmas. At the time Zoe(") caught me in these machinations, I had a good plan all well and settled: 1) visit Geoff at bar (Live Bait) and deliver Xmas present, have dinner+beer(s); 2) wrap-up Xmas shopping; 3) go home and start laundry; and 4) catalogue footage from film-making class. All-in-all, a nice little stratagem, sleekly designed to annihilate a certain amount of holiday stress. To top this off, about a month ago I injured my groin, or, in medical specificity, my

ballular area

. (What can I say? My sister's a nurse.) And so, when Z. proposed my presence as a base to her flyer for the purposes of posterity, I had a moment.

One of doubt.

Perhaps more anxiety than doubt, or inconvenience, but all roads led to doubt in the final summation.

I changed my plans. I went to

BAX

and helped out. Nothing spectacular happened. My groin did not 'asplode. My list of things-to-do remains precariously heavy. I'm so glad I made that choice.

Now for something completely different.

My dear friend,

Patrick Lacey

, began a project right around the autumnal equinox called

The Traveling Muse

. He began it by distributing three masks of his own making to the fellow members of our little group, The Exploding Yurts. (No, it's not a yodel-rock band from Sweden, it's a creative collaborative from the five boroughs.) The assignment was, amongst other things, to hold onto the mask for a month, then send it on. There's a lot that goes into it, but as I understand it the basic idea was to create something, send it out into the world to exist on its own and affect people as it will (though I'm pretty certain Patrick hopes it will inspire change for each person, be it in smaller or larger ways). Great idea. LOVE IT.

Loved it so much, in fact, that I was guilty of hanging onto the Muse for nearly three bloody months. There it sat, on the wall opposite my desk, boring its non-existent irises into my back. For me, it served as a reminder of all the things I'd rather be doing--indeed, feel I

ought

to be doing--if only I were in a demographic with more time for such things. It's possible it even inspired me to make more time, somehow; eke it out of my already jam-packed Third Life. All the while, I dreamed about when and to whom I would release it, and what effect it might have on him or her.

I got the most unexpected result. The person I sent the Muse to received it with enthusiasm, but when I explained to her about its purpose, she declined to engage in the project. The Muse will soon be winding its way back to Brooklyn.

There could have been any number of reasons. Perhaps she was too busy to be bothered, or maybe the project didn't make sense to her. Or, if it did, maybe it just wasn't something she could find the value in. There must be hundreds of reasons along these lines

not

to do it.

Yet it inspired in me a new idea about how a person might react to the kind of invitation the Muses are extending them. That reaction is: Fear. (A kissing cousin with Doubt.) Some people might be frightened by an excuse to step back and examine their wants, wishes, desires, dreams. Some may view their imagination as a place fraught with danger, unpredictability and disappointment. And, you know, I believe such people are right. It is dangerous in there. It may be where you got to make out with Angelina Jolie, but it's also where insanity sets its roots, and where Brad Pitt beats you down...and not in that nice Fight Club way.

I was reminded a couple of months ago of what an act of bravery any creative examination is when I had the opportunity to listen to Neil Gaiman speak during a tour promoting his new

book

. (It's a great read, as is his 'blog, which he writes in daily.) He talked about a lot, but what was striking about it all was to sit there and take in a person who had made his entire life about his creations, stuff purely from his mind and its collaborations with other minds. I thought, "God. That takes balls."

It does. Now, I don't know if my friend who is mailing back the Muse had this reaction. I can only guess. But the events of the past twenty-four hours add up to remind me that

The Third Life

(tm) is a high-stakes game, and playing it for too long can make one a little jaded to the feelings of others who may not be as involved in that particular game. Every act of creative examination is a very, very brave thing.

Tea and empathy.

I've had a day to think about it, and the blog, it seems to me, is best for communicating with three very specific sets of people:

• blog enthusiasts, who troll about all day looking for interesting insights into anonymous strangers
• fans, who, via my website or previous positive experience with this here blog, come to visit on a semi-regular basis
• web searchers, whose terms are so specific that my blog (out of a shmazillion, n.t.m. all the other types of accessible, search-able pages out there) pings back on the old search-engine sonar

Sew, these being the cases, this is the best venue for venting, extemporizing, theorizing and...er...empiricizing on the issues of theatre, writing, circus and the generally creative life altogether. I have

Douglas Adams

to thank for this insight, and the value it may actually inherently have. I'm not altogether clever about these things, these emerging (yes, it's a blog, they've been emerged for some time now I know SHUT UP) forms of communication, but he certainly was. He was writing about this phenomenon fifteen years before it came to pass.

And so, dear reader, what is to follow will be various observations and extrapolations on what I like to think of as

The Third Life

{(c)(tm) JeffWills, Hugin+Munin Productions Ltd., Inc., LLC, PDQ, WTF}.

The Third Life

is that life lived outside of the norms and expectations of mainstream society. Let me be clear that I don't consider this life special in the sense of rarity; I believe we all have ambitions and inspirations that are outside the frame of expectation. I also believe that we are all interconnected, a whole, in spite of where we come from or what our ideologies may be.

However, some of us embrace a life that, from the outside, seems to be lacking in immediate compensation, a life of more dreaming and possibility than substance and reward. Living that kind of life is hard as hell. What keeps us with it? That's a good question.

Incidentally, I haven't (and possibly never will) read "

The Artist's Way

."

Enough loftiness. My next post will probably address what I consider to be a conflict of interests between comedy and improvisation. And there will be fart jokes.

Oh yes: There will be fart jokes.