Posts Tagged ‘theatre’

It’s pretty ironic, really, that I have been spending hours online messing with things like websites, social networking, and decoding twitter-speak and it has left me with no time to blog here.  At my first bloggy site of love.  (Can I tell you how much it pleases me that that sentence resembles “love at first sight” and yet frustrates me that I couldn’t edit it to make it a more recognizable pun?)

After declaring, on my thirtieth birthday no less, a year of just me, no DOing, I went and got doing.

I been doing a lot lately.

No, not in the sack.  You all have one track minds.

Here are my latest adventures.  They keep me up late.  I can’t keep my mind off of them.  I am excited beyond belief.  I am terrified to my core:

  • PictureBook Plays has gotten a complete overhaul after its last publisher turn-down.  The task was immense and still ongoing.
  • GAN-e-meed Theatre Projecthas been launched to the online public and is now in the process of a bloggy face-lift.  Next step…press releases. (fine print: we need to raise 32K by April 2010 so please email me and then send me a check)
  • I have been accepted to present a workshop at NAEYC in DC this fall.  Apparently, it’s not easy to get a workshop accepted so this is a huge honor and a big step in my career. 

More anon.


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Letting it Slide

I’m letting it slide.

Even though I don’t want to.

I want to call you (or, since I’m a chicken, email you) and let you know you done wrong.

You cannot offer something and then not offer something.

You cannot leave me to figure out for myself that the not has happened.

It’s bad business.

I shouldn’t expect more, given your track record.  But I like to believe people can get better, even though they rarely do.

The teacher in me wants to give you a lecture on best business practices, on respecting the artists around you, on communicating with people.  I won’t.  Because, since I don’t live in a culture that values community awareness, I’m not allowed to tell you what I think.

But, maybe, just maybe, you read this blog.  If you’re smart, you’ll figure out who you are and apologize.  Or, even better, don’t do it again.

As for me, I plan on being a better producer than you ever have been for me.

And I’m letting it slide.

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i love teaching high school actors.

together, they are a group of inherently cool people.  and in every group of students there is at least one, often two or three, of the following:

– the chic i wish was my friend

– the dorky boy who will grow up to change the world

– the political activist who has done more in 15 years than i have in 30

– the forgotten child who fell into acting by chance and it has changed her world

– the one i want to party with

– the gay boy who doesn’t know it yet, or does but doesn’t announce it

– the gay boy who boldly announces it

– the movie starlet

– the shy one with a big soul and a louder voice (when she or he finally uses it)

– the one who gives me hugs

– the one who writes me such a beautiful thank you card that it makes me cry

– the unexpected jock

– the one who gets the least attention because she works the hardest and goes so far and needs only the smallest of nudges from me.  and, in the end, she reveals herself to have talent far beyond what i expected.

– the one i cannot budge.  he is seemingly talentless.  until, one day, something miraculous happens.  i never know what it is.  but it happens.  and then he is a changed child.  perhaps he is even a changed man.  and i wonder if i made a difference in his world, or if he did it all on his own after all.

they all make my heart soar.

due to creations like facebook, i get to see many of their shiny faces pretty much every day.  i respect the boundaries of children and adults.  i rarely look at their ‘party’ photos.  it’s none of my business.  but i love seeing them fly.

and, sometimes, i’m blessed with things like seeing two of them seriously lip-sync to the most absurd video ever.

this one.

it was pure silly high school.  and i told them so.  i told them i missed high school.

they responded by posting a video to my wall that made me laugh so hard that i cried.  four of them stared into the camera at me while the aural melodrama of Electra played in the background: screams of horror and mourning co-mingled with these very serious young faces trying very hard not to laugh at the silliness of their own ingenuity.

and it reminded me that my life is more than just feeling ill and learning to love my child.  my life is full of all these young souls that i love to work with.

all of these young souls blossoming with art.

all of these young souls with the minds and bodies of grown-ups but with a toddler’s ability to create and enjoy the most ridiculous pieces of art.  and life.

this is to you, kids.

thanks for being in my life.

may your years continue to delight you.

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Dream Lost

I used to be an actress.

A very talented actress.

I got cast in good roles; I got good reviews.

I was young and excited and brave and going places.

But I was unhappy.  I dreaded rehearsals.  I dragged my feet to shows.

Once on stage, I was perfectly fine–indeed, I was glory incarnate.  But, getting there, that was another story.

So, slowly but surely, I left acting behind.  I focused on teaching, on administration, on directing, on producing.  But I still find myself missing being an actress.  I find myself missing what I could have been.

I stare at bios, pictures, and websites of the women and men I know who have continued to live their bohemian actor lives and a knot rises in my chest.

I wish I was that.  I wish I could have been that simply because I was good at it.  I could have been something.  Actually, I was something.  I was talented.  Now, the thought of auditioning leaves me shaking in my boots.

In the darkest, smallest room in my heart, there is a promise to myself that I will act full-time again, when I’m fifty.  I will retire early and go back to the theatre.  And then I will play the great roles.  But, for now, it is a dream lost to life, time, circumstances, and choices.

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One un-ironed white cotton blouse from Barcelona left folded and unwashed in its plastic bag after its only night out, smelling faintly of foreign shores.

One Old Navy brand blue striped summer scarf wrapped haphazardly round my neck with the hope it would drape elegantly and artsy-like, smelling strongly of sunscreen and oily hair.

One pair of Old Navy jeans.  Droopy in the ass.  Belt forgotten.  In need of a constant hitch.

One pair of Black docs.  Ten years old.  In need of a shine.

One scarf in hair made of a fabric ripped (literally) from the stash in my sewing closet.

Many strands of thunderstorm-induced frizz.

One greasy face.

One unbrushed smile.

One toddler in a wrinkled pink polka-doted party dress with white tights bagging at the ankles and a pair of hand-me-down white patent leather mary janes.

One newly acquired ugly plastic baby doll called Kevin.

I was so not proud of this wrinkly, smelly, thrown together ensemble as I trudged down the street to the one and only performance of my latest directing endeavor which would be performed at a local restaurant as “site specific.”

And yet, somehow, typing it all out makes me look rather fashionable after all.  Minus the greasy face and bad breath.

Or, maybe, I’m just really tired in and in need of some pity.

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