Burlesque

Last Saturday was the day of celebration for

Wife Megan

's 30th anniversary of the day of her birth and she, being the woman I married, wanted to go see some good, wholesome burlesque. You know burlesque, right? It's that quaint throw-back to a more innocent time, when men were men, women were women, and occasionally they all agreed to meet somewhere with dim lighting to reveal their knees to one another. One of the things I love about living in New York is being somewhere that such nostalgia for the frilly sins of the past exists. Any town that's a friend of anything remotely related to vaudeville and old-timey fun, is a friend of mine, as I always say (or will, henceforth). Furthermore, I specifically love burlesque. It's theatrical, it's joyous, and it usually incorporates lots of humor and props with its boobies. What's not to love?

So we went to

The Slipper Room

.

We stayed for many acts and several hours.

We left late, and they were still going strong.

Most of us will never be the same.

So from a theatrical perspective, it was a roaring success. I mean, if I can perform in something that really evidently changes people, I consider that a pretty big success. The specificity of that change is something that's even trickier than the change itself, given that all live performance is by its nature collaborative and interpretive. So personally, if you got something out of it, I got something out of it too. This reflects my attitudes on a lot of things. Like . . . dance. Or . . . board games. Or . . . other occupations of one's quest for joyous experiences. Let's not be judgmental about anyone's pursuit of happiness, even if they spell said pursuit "happyness." Hey: Rock on. It brings you joy and, on some level, that makes me happy.

Now there were some things I witnessed Saturday last that did not, per se, make me happy. The responses I had were more along the lines of being made to feel surprised, or confused, or scared. Very, very scared. But others really enjoyed some of these things, and no one got hurt or maligned beyond repair (though of course some audience mockery is part of the idiom), and so we can all look back on it and laugh. Sure, some of us may have gone home and gone directly into the shower, do not pass "GO!", do not bother removing one's clothing. But here we all are, scarless, and with a generally broader view of our fellow man, woman, and all others.

A broader view in a smaller world, I should say. I knew one of the performers -- had performed with her before, in fact. Her stage name is

Miss Saturn

, and she is a dynamite hula-hoop artist. She is also, it turns out, somewhat uninhibited in her display of God's gifts. When I performed alongside her, it was at

a benefit

for

Friend Melissa

's company,

Kinesis Project

. She hooped it up, I clowned around, and afterward she suggested we work together again some time, but I never followed up. Now I'm left to wonder if following up would have led me to The Slipper Room. It would not have been an entirely unwelcome opportunity, assuming I would have been able to stick to my personal preferences for the content of my act. During Saturday's experience I also had the unexpected mystery of feeling I recognized another performer: one "

Harvest Moon

." As it turns out, I don't. She's not who I mistook her for, but she has nevertheless reminded me that secret identities are as common in this city as free newspapers.

Some may view my appetite for nostalgia with disdain, but what can I say? I like sentimental sweetness in my indulgences, and could have used a bit more at The Slipper Room. After each break, the acts grew progressively more risque and shocking, and I grew less and less interested. Of course, if I were to run a contemporary burlesque show in New York City, I've no doubt I'd have to make similar allowances. After all, what we saw was probably closer in overall effect to us as the burlesques of old were during their time. These shows were shocking, titillating not just in sensual ways, but in visceral ones. The atmosphere should be one of reckless abandon and in this sense there was nothing inapt about my experience Saturday night. It was just that I had walked into a circa-1930s Berlin burlesque, when I had been hoping for a circa-1889s French one, I suppose. C'est la vie! I regret nothing!

Looking back, it occurs to me that there's an awfully fine line between anticipation and dread, and that line is going to be set at different places for different folks. A friend of mine recently sent me some writing research that discusses the role of feedback loops in sexual experiences. The gist of it was that "healthy" sexuality involves a feedback loop of increasing focus on arousal, and "unhealthy" (or perhaps, unhelpful) sexuality involves a neurotic, self-evaluative loop. Both increase the focus, but one allows you to engage, and the other rather prevents it. If we accept that sexual feelings are erotic in the broader sense, this is a very interesting way of looking at what we as performers inspire in our audiences. Will we fill them with eager anticipation, loathsome dread, or something of a different ratio altogether? In my opinion, neither is bad, just a different effect. And whatever effect, it begs the question: What, if anything, will we make the payoff?

Curses: Foiled Again

Lately I've been wanting to write in my 'blog using the voice of

Rorschach

from his journal:

Had phone conversation with

Expatriate Younce

last night. Brief, but good. Wonder why doesn't happen more often. Talked of writing, ideas. Must remember notes later. PS, senseless debauchery and depravity of malignant tumor of a world makes crave cold beans again...

Doubtless this is due to the really wonderful performance by Jackie Earle Haley in the movie. Definitely in the top-five best interpretations of comicbook characters in cinema. Probably in the top three. Probably commie.

All right. That's enough of that.

One of my more irksome writing habits has to do with creating characters that are mere foils. I believe I can create some really developed, interesting characters, but more often than not I end up with a foil in there somewhere -- someone who fills gaps, quasi-antagonizes broadly, and generally exists as a sounding board for the rest. (Benvolio, for example, is largely considered a foil.) It's weird to me that I'd be inclined toward this, because I've played many foils in my career, and it's always a bit, well, irksome. In fact, when I was younger I was often cast as the "foil character." Not all of these were foils to a fault (i.e., folks devoid of development or consequence; e.g., Benvolio), but they were there to serve the needs of other characters in advancing the plot. I think Frankie in

A Lie of the Mind

is a fair example of this. If you disagree, then you may have some insight into why I did such a shite job playing him (see

4/5/07

).

Perhaps it's my proclivity for such characters that lends to their presence in my writing. It's hard to say. What's easy to say is that they are often burdened by concept. Take for example Jude and Angelo, characters from two plays of mine. Jude is a Mormon cast out of his church for numerous breaches in personal behavior, who continues to believe and do mission work whilst using drugs and foul language. Angelo, from

Hereafter

, is a former gang-member with a dead son who lives with him in his paranoid delusion. It's as though having a concept answers too many questions about the character for me, in a way, so I feel there's nothing left to explain or develop in its writing. Yet simultaneously, I feel clueless about what the characters need and where they go from where they are.

This habit and its connection to my acting came to mind for me out of last night's discussion. We talked a bit about the writing and idea-generating processes, and in particular I was intrigued with the possibilities and challenges of creating the characters Youncey was contemplating. Of course the discussion eventually touched on my as-yet-owed (and as-yet-written) werewolf story, and talking about it helped me realize that I stalled out in a previous attempt because I had all these exciting concepts for characters . . . but no real ideas about who they were, and where they were going. Well, two of them had direction and identity. Two that weren't remotely werewolfy. *sigh* So I thought the problem was that I just didn't actually

want

to write a werewolf story. Now, however, I have some ideas (hopefully not mere concepts) about what I do want to write about in a werewolf story. Now it's a question of time and keeping it foil-free.

Wherefore the foil? It's not laziness. Often time I spend much more energy on what turns out to be a foil character than I do on a fully realized, interesting one. Perhaps it's a problem with my perception of structure in a given story. It's true that I've never outlined a plot in my life; the closest I ever come to that is when I somehow know where I want the whole thing to end up. Writing is improvisation to me, or (perhaps more accurately) like just such a conversation as I had last night -- ideas piling up, going exploring down one path or another, accepting everything I can and using it as best I can. It's funny. Younce will continually make claims to not being a writer, yet the very stockpiling of ideas we do equates to the writing process for me. It isn't the same, of course. I take for granted whatever actual writing skills and instincts I may have acquired over the years. Yet that idea-hashing, that collaborative energy, that's what keeps me writing. That's what I really love about it.

When I was a teenager I was quite obsessed with my writing voice, and unique little turns of phrases. Early teachers of mine would kindly describe my prose as being "poetically dense." Thankfully I've rescinded my former enthusiasm for linguistic frippery and syntax of a winding and convoluted manner, the which is not dissimilar from a verbal slalom track (not to mention [since it bears repeating] a certain appreciation for [parenthetical] asides). But seriously: When I was a teenager, it was even worse. Now I value a certain amount of clarity and efficiency in my writing (not too [too] much, mind). Similarly, I want to make efficient stories, with necessary characters, not just cool concepts and dramatic tensions. That's the mysterious quality of really amazing stories, for me: structure. Lean, mean and beautifully functional.

Something made of steel, rather than foil.

Mysteries and Secrets

Neil Gaiman

.

Neil Gaiman is an incredible treasure of storytelling, whom I can appreciate largely due to the years-ago efforts of

Expatriate Dave

to make me experience as much of Mr. Gaiman's work as possible. Since that time (around age 17, this was) I have consumed every iota of his work that I could, and his work includes comics, other literature, movies, a

daily 'blog

and numerous odds and ends besides. If you don't know his work, you should, even if you don't consider yourself a fan of fantastical fiction. He has very good ideas, and he steals awfully well. By which I mean that one of the things I love about his work is the way he can tie together disparate old ideas and stories with new ones and make something appreciably unique. This could be considered a decent description of what any artist endeavors to do. Neil Gaiman is an artist.

I decided to write about him today because I have noticed many disparate ideas and stories coming together for me lately that point his way. In brief:

• I'm reading a book about him I received for Christmas.

• He was just on "The Colbert Report," which I stayed up to see (WAY past night-before-open-call bedtime).

• He just made Wife Megan's esteemed list of Famous People With Whom She Would Like to Have a Conversation.

• I've been enjoying the fiction-writing process of late, especially with Friend WHftTS.

• Expatriate Younce actually confessed some writerly desires to me the other night -- a victory for the cause of Fiction, I assure you.

• He recently experienced a personal loss that makes me wish I could do something for him, as he's done so much for me.

I had an opportunity to share a word or two with Neil Gaiman a few years back, when he was in town signing copies of his short-story collection,

Fragile Things

. He was interviewed by John Hodgman, which was hilarious and insightful, and then took a seat at the back of the room to sign hundreds upon hundreds of signatures. I waited my turn in line with my and Megan's books, and I thought about things. I had a signed copy of his novel

Stardust

that I had won in a costume contest back in my home town, and it seemed unbelievable that I was going to watch him sign a book from my very hand. I wondered what I would say, and suddenly the whole thing felt eerily familiar. Looking back, I realize the panic I felt was the exact same feeling I have waiting for an open call. Suffice it to say, I thought of a million things I could say. When I got to the table, I squeaked. Something. I don't know. I think I've since blocked it out. But I know it was squeaky, whatever it was.

The Zen Buddhists believe that the elimination of desire is a key to enlightenment. When I want something as much as to be cast off-Broadway, or to get into a discussion about mythology with Neil Gaiman, I can see their point. It can be crippling.

Mythology, as a concept, is a very interesting way of looking at our lives. Obviously I would say so -- see name o'blog -- but a few thousand years' worth of actual mythology may be said to back me up on this as well. I used to think of mythology on the whole (and prepare for more sweeping generalizations here) as a way of devising answers to difficult questions. I was taught that these stories came about because primitive peoples needed an answer to things like lightning storms, death and babies. I won't argue against that theory, but it is only one theory. The more I learn about them, the more I see the enduring mythologies as stories and beliefs that return people to essential questions, rather than direct answers. Moreover, I see mythology not as giving us guidelines or neat morals for our living, providing context, so much as it

changes our story

. Stories influence other stories, and one person's life can be said to be a (hopefully) long, largely sequential story. What I realized while standing in that line was that Gaiman's stories had profoundly affected my life, my story. In fact, just at that moment, it seemed entirely likely that his stories had had the most influence on mine, out of all of them. Thus: Squeak.

I don't know if myth and mystery have any relation, etymologically speaking, but I find them to be very closely related. Brothers, almost. In his famous

Sandman

graphic novels, Gaiman resurrected DC Comics' versions of Cain and Abel as the keepers of mysteries and secrets, respectively. According to that particular mythology, a mystery is a mystery because it was meant to be shared, a secret a secret because it ought to be forgotten . . . if it can be. Mythology, fiction, stories, they all confront unanswerable questions in one way or another, and it's by sharing them that we fulfill their functions. So I hope you'll share in some of Gaiman's, because it's no secret that they're uncommonly good.

"Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."

Or:

Wabi-sabi

.

From

the Wikipedia article on

Jujutsu

:

"The Japanese have characterised states of mind that a warrior should be able to adopt in combat to facilitate victory. These include: an all-encompassing awareness,

zanshin

(literally 'remaining spirit'), in which the practitioner is ready for anything, at any time; the spontaneity of

mushin

(literally 'no mind') which allows immediate action without conscious thought; and a state of equanimity or imperturbability known as

fudoshin

(literally 'immovable mind')."

With regards to

anshin

and

mushin

, I've done some significant work in my life. Being ready for anything at any time is applicable to improvisation, stage combat, temping, not to mention simply trying to get acting jobs. Spontaneity, the release of conscious thought, is harder for me but a life in the theatre naturally keeps me in reasonable form.

Fudoshin

, if I understand it correctly, is one in which I have to date been sadly lacking. I'll try not to judge myself here -- "sadly," it may not be; but "lacking," certainly. For most of my life I've regarded such a quality to be ultimately negative, relating it to stubbornness or narrow-mindedness. As I embrace my adult life, however, I begin to see that it is not only a desirable quality in many cases, but a necessary one, in some.

Of course, the Japanese express the idea more beautifully than I could ever hope to:

"A spirit of unshakable calm and determination,

courage without recklessness,

rooted stability in both mental and physical realms.

Like a willow tree,

powerful roots deep in the ground

and a soft, yielding resistance against

the winds that blow through it."

So how do we cultivate this quality, this ability, this eventual instinct in our lives? That's one of the things I'm aiming to find out.

'Sno Doubt

We don't have "snow days" here in New York. They don't shut this city down for nothing (short of disaster and/or east-coast-consuming power failure). This morning they actually closed the NYC schools, yet we privileged adults are still at work. It is not so, in my home town of Fairfax, Virginia. They love to close there. You could argue that it's a car-culture thing, and it is, but it's also that

they love to close there

. They close on weather prediction, sometimes.

Wife Megan

sees this as a sensible policy, but I fluctuate in my opinion. I like that New York doesn't shut down for snow, that we keep on truckin'. I'd like it better still if my work day was a little more theatre-y, but there you have it.

Today, however, I shake my fist at New York's resilience in the face of the inclement. Durn you, NYC! Durn you right straight to heliotropic heck.

I caught myself a cold over the weekend, when Friends Mark and Lori were up for a short visit on their way to skiing. It's not a bad one, but I nursed the heliotrope from it yesterday (and by "nursed," I of course mean "sat on the couch eating whatever and watching the entire LoR trilogy on the TBSes") in the hopes that it would be banished today. It's better, but not banished, and the snowy commute seems an added burden, in spite of my tremendous snow boots. Would that it were banished. ("Yet, banished?!")

It seems to me that I have been sick numerous times in the past nine months. Every year,

Actors' Equity

offers free flu shots, and I didn't go this year, so I can't help but wonder whether things might've been different this time around had I opted in on that. Also, there is a noted tendency for we actors to come down with something after ending a long and/or strenuous production process, as I just have. It's like one's system says, "Oh, we're done bouncing around and shouting every night promptly at 8:00? Great. I'ma take a lil' breather now; see you in a week or so." You can add to that the circumstance wherein I astoundingly overestimated the temperature on Saturday (Friday was so warm!) and had my first purging acupuncture appointment in two-and-a-half months. There are, in short (too late), numerous reasons why I might be saddled with a cold right about now.

HOWEVER. However. When I get sick/injured with great frequency, I can't help but recall something a therapist once advised: If you find yourself getting hurt a lot, consider the possibility that it's your psyche trying to get you to pay attention. This therapist used as an example shaving cuts. This may sound a bit nutty to some, but think of a computer, if it seems too far-fetched. When I start having a problem loading a particular program, I always consider it a possibility that something else may be gummed up, and that this is merely symptomatic. Our brains are pretty complex little computers, even without considering emotion (ha ha), and I believe the same possibility exists for we humans, we all-too-humans. So I'm contemplating the possibility that something underlying or over-reaching may be going on for me here. At any rate, it can't hurt to ponder.

Certainly returning to el day jobo has been a stress factor for me, so my default explanation is that I'm unhappy with my work situation and the relative lack of acting therein. Ah, but I caught cold during

R&J

as well. Prior to that I got ill in the fall, toward the end of September. And in between, there have been various physical aggravations and minor injuries. If my theory is to be believed, then whatever's aggravating me has been doing so -- on and off -- for nearly six months now. Perhaps it's money, that old bugaboo. Certainly those stresses mount daily. If it's a problem with myself, it's feeling a bit unanchored, or uncertain, I think. (See?) I started a daily record of little details from my day at the new year, and it grows spottier and spottier. I haven't used it at all from the end of the

R&J

run. I'll give it a shot again.

The snow has given me pause to contemplate this as much as the ill health and virtually abandoned office, so there's a silver lining to all this white wash. Conclusion? None. Yet. But I'll mention one other thing -- I finally looked at upcoming NYC auditions today. Perhaps it is the work, somehow. Or perhaps it is frustration with myself for not getting out there more . . .