I am not the type of person who loses things. As an adult anyway.
As a child? Well...when I was in elementary school in Texas I lost my glasses. Twice. I used to wear them only when I needed to see the blackboard. The rest of the time I carried them in a bright green zippered glasses case that had the word "Glasses" printed on it in huge letters. I attached it to a belt loop with a little chain. I remember it banging into my leg as I ran on the playground. I lost the case and the glasses. And then I lost another pair. Same case. In middle school I threw away my retainer. Twice. I used to dutifully take it out to eat my peanut butter sandwich at lunch. And because it was gross to look at, naturally I wrapped it up in a napkin. And naturally, I forgot about it. And dumped the napkin into the trash along with my milk carton and sandwich baggies.
And we all wonder why no one asked me to the prom...
But let's face it. Somewhere deep down I didn't want those glasses. And I hated that retainer. Didn't I want them to be lost?
In the last few months I have lost several more precious though less valuable things. Sometime around Thanksgiving I lost a very special necklace that's handstamped with Doc Hubby and Bean's names. I remember taking it off at night. I remember setting it down on a dresser. I suppose I never picked it back up. Since I have been in Louisville I have lost a pair of fingerless mittens my Mom got me and I loved. They may be on the floor of the movie theater at the mall where Doc Hubby and I saw "The Hobbit" in 3D (remind me to take a Dramamine before I see another adventure flick in 3D). But I actually rather doubt it. I may have inadvertently thrown them away, too. I subsequently wrote a postcard to Bean. The postcard pictured Route 80 in Central Pennsylvania. I bought it several years ago just because I thought it was hilarious. Who buys a postcard of an interstate? I wrote it out to Bean, stamped it, slid it into my script, went to the theater, and simply could not find it. I have no memory of mailing said postcard. I have searched.
Just today I discovered my favorite lip balm appears to be AWOL.
Each of these things is an item that I rather distinctly remember putting somewhere for safe keeping. A dresser. The pocket of my jacket. Inside of my script. They were all dear. Even the lip balm, kinda. And now...? What is wrong with me? Where is my brain?
We worked through and ran the last act of OUR TOWN today. It is so shatteringly beautiful. From amongst the ranks of the dead and against their firmly-stated advice, Emily chooses to go back to life and relive her 12th birthday. She receives an unexpected present from her then 12-year-old neighbor--the boy who will grow up to be her husband. She gets a special and much-desired gift from her mother. And an heirloom present from her grandmother who has since passed. Some of these things she seems to remember, 14 years later. Some of them she admits she had forgotten. All were special, one way or the other. And because of that, or maybe in spite of it, she can't bear to look at any of them. From beyond the grave everything is precious. Every moment is vanishing. Every cup and saucer and piece of bacon and heirloom hair comb. I can't look at everything hard enough, she says.
And then she says:
Do any human beings realize life while they live it--every every minute?
And the Stage Manager responds:
No. The saints and poets, maybe they do some.
What would happen if we realized life every every minute? If every precious necklace and every fingerless glove and every tube of lip balm were recognized as perhaps the last token of a beautiful life that could end at any moment? The remnant of an era before... something changed? Because of course we never know when that minute will be. That drive down the interstate. That elevator ride to the top of a sky scraper. That camping trip to Crawford Notch.
I don't think I'd like to realize life every every minute. I think it might be devastatingly sad. And crazy-making. As it is I can barely look at videos of Bean ice skating while I'm in Kentucky without seeing how much her permanent front tooth has grown in. How long her legs are. And feeling somewhat mangled inside because of it.
I think I'd like to realize life every every...day maybe? Once a day? To mark something. To observe something. To take in something with a rather more profound depth than usual. To live a conscious moment.
And then immediately to lose my lip balm. Or my fingerless mittens. Or even my precious necklace. Because what is it those Zen fellows say (to borrow the "folksy" tone of the OUR TOWN Stage Manager)? Isn't the glass already broken? Isn't the lip balm already lost? Isn't the child already grown?
I'm glad they were mine for a little while anyway.
Showing posts with label Our Town. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Our Town. Show all posts
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
May 5th and February 11th
"Father died a year ago today. On your birthday Irina, May 5th." Three Sisters
"Well now dear, a very happy birthday to my girl and many happy returns." Our Town
This is the second play I have done in a row that involves a character's birthday.
We performed "Three Sisters" on May 5th. The actress who played Irina's actual birthday was the day after. May 6th. The prop birthday cake we used in that production was laughable. Like some kind of joke. There is no way that a single person in the audience could possibly have believed it was an actual edible cake. On the actress who played Irina's actual birthday, we brought in a real cake. We put real candles on it, and surprised her onstage. I will never forget her face. She was so surprised and tickled and amused. She just kept giggling. And there's something especially glorious about that sort of thing happening in front of a live audience amongst professional actors who know how to keep the play going. It was grand.
We will be performing "Our Town" on Emily's birthday--February 11th. My "daughter's" birthday.
It is a funny thing when something someone speaks on stage is actually true. When it really is May 5th or February 11th. Or Christmas Eve or an actor's birthday. When the stage truth and the true truth converge. For a moment there is a wonderful clarity--a crystalline moment of shared reality. And we all actually see each other for a second--even if we've been doing a play for weeks or months and it has become a bit stale. Theater artists strive a whole lot to create reality on stage. Most of our efforts are put into finding a way to create circumstances that will allow the lines the playwright has given us to say, to become true. And by the time we are performing a play...well maybe we feel true about 50% of the time. Maybe 60% on a good night.
It's a funny job. Typically a group of total strangers get together in an empty room. Grown adults mostly. And then we pretend to be married and related and someone else's mother or wife or best friend. And we hug and kiss and cry. And in about a month we do all that in front of people. Weird, right? Pretty sure most jobs don't involve pretending to parent coworkers.
And it's my actual birthday today. 750 miles from home. I've never had my actual birthday celebrated onstage. But I've had the great privilege to be working on a number of my birthdays. I think for a lot of people having to work on your birthday is a tremendous bummer. Those of you who are fortunate enough to have a job most days of your life. For me, actually, it's grand. It means that on the day that marks the passage of another year, I'm actually doing what it is I want to be doing. I turned 40 during the run of my first Broadway show. That was one of the best days of my life. How many people can say that about their 40th birthday?
Today in rehearsal my job is to be a mother. And then to be a friend. And to mime making breakfast in a 19th century kitchen.
I think in 2014 I'm going to strive to do at least two of those things with as much truth and awareness and thoughtfulness offstage, as I do on.
"Well now dear, a very happy birthday to my girl and many happy returns." Our Town
This is the second play I have done in a row that involves a character's birthday.
We performed "Three Sisters" on May 5th. The actress who played Irina's actual birthday was the day after. May 6th. The prop birthday cake we used in that production was laughable. Like some kind of joke. There is no way that a single person in the audience could possibly have believed it was an actual edible cake. On the actress who played Irina's actual birthday, we brought in a real cake. We put real candles on it, and surprised her onstage. I will never forget her face. She was so surprised and tickled and amused. She just kept giggling. And there's something especially glorious about that sort of thing happening in front of a live audience amongst professional actors who know how to keep the play going. It was grand.
We will be performing "Our Town" on Emily's birthday--February 11th. My "daughter's" birthday.
It is a funny thing when something someone speaks on stage is actually true. When it really is May 5th or February 11th. Or Christmas Eve or an actor's birthday. When the stage truth and the true truth converge. For a moment there is a wonderful clarity--a crystalline moment of shared reality. And we all actually see each other for a second--even if we've been doing a play for weeks or months and it has become a bit stale. Theater artists strive a whole lot to create reality on stage. Most of our efforts are put into finding a way to create circumstances that will allow the lines the playwright has given us to say, to become true. And by the time we are performing a play...well maybe we feel true about 50% of the time. Maybe 60% on a good night.
It's a funny job. Typically a group of total strangers get together in an empty room. Grown adults mostly. And then we pretend to be married and related and someone else's mother or wife or best friend. And we hug and kiss and cry. And in about a month we do all that in front of people. Weird, right? Pretty sure most jobs don't involve pretending to parent coworkers.
And it's my actual birthday today. 750 miles from home. I've never had my actual birthday celebrated onstage. But I've had the great privilege to be working on a number of my birthdays. I think for a lot of people having to work on your birthday is a tremendous bummer. Those of you who are fortunate enough to have a job most days of your life. For me, actually, it's grand. It means that on the day that marks the passage of another year, I'm actually doing what it is I want to be doing. I turned 40 during the run of my first Broadway show. That was one of the best days of my life. How many people can say that about their 40th birthday?
Today in rehearsal my job is to be a mother. And then to be a friend. And to mime making breakfast in a 19th century kitchen.
I think in 2014 I'm going to strive to do at least two of those things with as much truth and awareness and thoughtfulness offstage, as I do on.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Ghosts of Christmas Past
So I was last here in Louisville ten years ago. I played a 1930's magician's assistant in a beautiful play called "Orange Lemon Egg Canary." That's me in the shorts. The title refers to a magic trick in which the magician peels an orange and inside it he finds a lemon. He peels the lemon to reveal an egg. He cracks the egg and a canary flies out. Cool trick.
I have been trying, since I arrived, to overlay my memory of being in this town...at this theater...with my experiences of the last week. Merging the map of the city in my head with the streets I'm walking--like superimposing Google maps and street view. We were here 11 weeks in 2003. I should be able to remember something.
And I have been failing miserably. I can't remember which rehearsal room we used ten years ago. I walk to where I remember the door being, and hit a wall. Admittedly, the city itself has changed significantly. We're not staying in the same building we stayed in before. An effort has been made to revitalize the downtown and there's a HUGE stadium, the KFC YUM! Center (I wish I were making that up) across the street from the theater. Beyonce sang there not too long ago. But it is downright disconcerting to know that I was here, know it for a fact, and not remember much of anything. The Starbucks is where I recall it being--but it looks totally different inside than my memory of it.
And then there's the fact that I did "Our Town," the same play I'm doing now, fifteen years ago. And much like this city, I remember some of it crystally. I remember loving being on top of the ladder and listening to the choir practice in the first act. I remember sitting at the soda fountain. I can hear the voice of the woman who played my mother loud and clear. I have to resist falling into some of her line readings. And yet. I have been racking my brain and I have absolutely no memory of who played Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. I can't picture the kid who played my brother. The stage manager's words just lurk somewhere right at the back of my head. Vaguely familiar. I can taste them in the back of my throat.
I have lived long enough that there are parts of my adult life which are absolute complete blanks.
We have zillions of people in this play. All 19 young actors who form the theater's apprentice company are in the show. When they tumble into the rehearsal room, it's like I'm suddenly surrounded by puppies. Puppies with lots of facial hair and plaid shirts and big glasses and stocking caps. I have to stop myself from grabbing them and saying, look, I know I seem to you like some forty year old lady who is playing the mom...but about thirty seconds ago I was an unpaid intern and moving the furniture. Last week I did the scene up on top of the ladder. Just blink and you'll be Mrs. So-and-so, too.
You'll be finding yourself saying the exact, and I mean the exact, words your mother said to you. Your fictional mother or your real one. Or both. You'll catch yourself saying those same words exactly as she did and trying to at least change the inflection. After all, you're doing things your own way. You'll be alone in actor housing five days before Christmas, watching "It's a Wonderful Life" and seeing scenes you swear have never been included in the televised broadcast...and checking twitter to see if this year they're doing some uncut longer version that they've never done before. Because since when do we see George Bailey as a kid? And finding out that no. You just simply don't remember it.
Ghosts of Christmas Past.
In the play "Orange Lemon Egg Canary" the actor playing Great, the magician, does the magic trick on stage. He peels the orange and lo and behold there's a lemon. He peels the lemon and reveals an egg. He cracks the egg...
and it plops to the floor in a sticky mess.
Funny. I could have sworn a canary flew out.
I have been trying, since I arrived, to overlay my memory of being in this town...at this theater...with my experiences of the last week. Merging the map of the city in my head with the streets I'm walking--like superimposing Google maps and street view. We were here 11 weeks in 2003. I should be able to remember something.
And I have been failing miserably. I can't remember which rehearsal room we used ten years ago. I walk to where I remember the door being, and hit a wall. Admittedly, the city itself has changed significantly. We're not staying in the same building we stayed in before. An effort has been made to revitalize the downtown and there's a HUGE stadium, the KFC YUM! Center (I wish I were making that up) across the street from the theater. Beyonce sang there not too long ago. But it is downright disconcerting to know that I was here, know it for a fact, and not remember much of anything. The Starbucks is where I recall it being--but it looks totally different inside than my memory of it.
And then there's the fact that I did "Our Town," the same play I'm doing now, fifteen years ago. And much like this city, I remember some of it crystally. I remember loving being on top of the ladder and listening to the choir practice in the first act. I remember sitting at the soda fountain. I can hear the voice of the woman who played my mother loud and clear. I have to resist falling into some of her line readings. And yet. I have been racking my brain and I have absolutely no memory of who played Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs. I can't picture the kid who played my brother. The stage manager's words just lurk somewhere right at the back of my head. Vaguely familiar. I can taste them in the back of my throat.
I have lived long enough that there are parts of my adult life which are absolute complete blanks.
We have zillions of people in this play. All 19 young actors who form the theater's apprentice company are in the show. When they tumble into the rehearsal room, it's like I'm suddenly surrounded by puppies. Puppies with lots of facial hair and plaid shirts and big glasses and stocking caps. I have to stop myself from grabbing them and saying, look, I know I seem to you like some forty year old lady who is playing the mom...but about thirty seconds ago I was an unpaid intern and moving the furniture. Last week I did the scene up on top of the ladder. Just blink and you'll be Mrs. So-and-so, too.
You'll be finding yourself saying the exact, and I mean the exact, words your mother said to you. Your fictional mother or your real one. Or both. You'll catch yourself saying those same words exactly as she did and trying to at least change the inflection. After all, you're doing things your own way. You'll be alone in actor housing five days before Christmas, watching "It's a Wonderful Life" and seeing scenes you swear have never been included in the televised broadcast...and checking twitter to see if this year they're doing some uncut longer version that they've never done before. Because since when do we see George Bailey as a kid? And finding out that no. You just simply don't remember it.
Ghosts of Christmas Past.
In the play "Orange Lemon Egg Canary" the actor playing Great, the magician, does the magic trick on stage. He peels the orange and lo and behold there's a lemon. He peels the lemon and reveals an egg. He cracks the egg...
and it plops to the floor in a sticky mess.
Funny. I could have sworn a canary flew out.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The Best Laid Plans...
So an hour after I published that last post I got a text from Doc Hubby. Bean had a temp of 102.
Yesterday the fever rose to 103. And then Bean got an itchy rash on her butt. At that point I urged Doc Hubby to text a pediatrician friend.
"Is there something going around...103 fever, mild sore throat, rash...?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Lasts 48 hours or so."
Can this please be some weird rashy virus that only children are susceptible to and adults simply cannot get?
We started blocking the play today. Always feels like jumping off a cliff. But miming making an entire breakfast in a 19th century kitchen. Um. So what does an ice box look like again? And how exactly do you string green beans?
Lucky for me, Kameron with a "K" made a video to help out with that one. I think it bears sharing.
Here's what I learned today. All Mrs. Webb (the character in OUR TOWN that I'm playing) wants to do is to raise healthy children. This appears to be her primary goal in life. Yet (spoiler alert)... both kids and her best friend will be dead before her 45th birthday.
Sucks to be Myrtle.
The best laid plans...
Are you friggin KIDDING me? This week was jam packed full of holiday activities! Open ballet class on Tuesday for Granny and Pops to attend! A family gathering at school. Pajama Day. Macy's windows! Christmas shopping and a poker game for Daddy. So much everyone wanted to do this first week I am away. This last week before Christmas.
Yesterday the fever rose to 103. And then Bean got an itchy rash on her butt. At that point I urged Doc Hubby to text a pediatrician friend.
"Is there something going around...103 fever, mild sore throat, rash...?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Lasts 48 hours or so."
Can this please be some weird rashy virus that only children are susceptible to and adults simply cannot get?
We started blocking the play today. Always feels like jumping off a cliff. But miming making an entire breakfast in a 19th century kitchen. Um. So what does an ice box look like again? And how exactly do you string green beans?
Lucky for me, Kameron with a "K" made a video to help out with that one. I think it bears sharing.
Here's what I learned today. All Mrs. Webb (the character in OUR TOWN that I'm playing) wants to do is to raise healthy children. This appears to be her primary goal in life. Yet (spoiler alert)... both kids and her best friend will be dead before her 45th birthday.
Sucks to be Myrtle.
The best laid plans...
Monday, December 16, 2013
Mama's Gift
Mama is back in the act. Acting. Playing a Mama.
I am doing "Our Town" in Louisville, Kentucky. A theater where I first worked a little over ten years ago. Before I was a Mama.
Bean has known for months that I was going to do this play. We talked about it and did our best to set up a framework in which she could feel comfortable and included in my leaving. I will be back for Christmas. She will come down and see the play. And then I will come home.
Still, Doc Hubby had to peel her, screaming, off of me yesterday when I left for the airport.
"But do you really absolutely have to go do the play?"
"I do. They are counting on me."
"Do you absolutely have to go today?"
"I do. I'll be back in just a week for Christmas, okay?"
"It is NOT OKAY!!!"
Fifteen years ago I played the daughter in this play. I loved doing this play. I loved the soda fountain scene most of all. I also loved playing the third act but I struggled to find the emotional depths. The playwright says that Emily sobs when she goes back home and sees her Mama "so young." I never sobbed.
Today I couldn't get through reading the last act without tearing up embarrassingly. And of course, Mrs. Webb can't cry. She's just making biscuits or oatmeal or bacon or whatever Emily's favorite breakfast is. Because that's Mama's job.
I just spent about 45 minutes trying to figure out what Mrs. Webb's birthday present to Emily in the third act would have been. Emily turned 12 in 1899. I have no memory of what I imagined it was when I was playing Emily. Something Mrs. Webb had to send all the way to Boston for. Something they didn't even have in Concord...the capitol of New Hampshire. What in the world can this be? I have some ideas. They all sound vaguely silly.
I left to come here yesterday...the 15th of December. All of Bean's Christmas presents are ordered and 90% of them are wrapped. That's what Mamas do, isn't it? Find the special presents. Wrap them. Send to Boston if you need to.
Do I really absolutely have to come and do this play? As I was leaving yesterday I just wanted to say "Nope. Mistake. Wrong. Just kidding. Take the suitcases back inside I don't have to go." I mean, how can I leave her? She's six! Our little family is so precious and it's a big world out there. And after all, it's Christmas.
But I remember that when the offer came to do this play, my heart leapt and I thought "yes!" I think I will be a better Mama if I come to Kentucky for two months to do this play. I told her that. I told her that Mama is a storyteller and I need to come and tell this story. But I can in no way explain my decision to Bean in a way that will satisfy her.
So as much as it is a gift to me, to come here and do this play, I really believe it is a gift to her too. I had to send all the way to Kentucky for it. I had to go away and pretend to be someone else's Mama for a while. And pretend to be part of a different family. And it's because of my actual daughter, I think, that I could now go back and do the Third Act as Emily. And begin to glimpse what Emily can see from beyond the grave. After all I'm fifteen years closer to it.
But it's too late. I can't go back and be Emily now. I'm the Mama.
I think that's kind of what this play's about.
I am doing "Our Town" in Louisville, Kentucky. A theater where I first worked a little over ten years ago. Before I was a Mama.
Bean has known for months that I was going to do this play. We talked about it and did our best to set up a framework in which she could feel comfortable and included in my leaving. I will be back for Christmas. She will come down and see the play. And then I will come home.
Still, Doc Hubby had to peel her, screaming, off of me yesterday when I left for the airport.
"But do you really absolutely have to go do the play?"
"I do. They are counting on me."
"Do you absolutely have to go today?"
"I do. I'll be back in just a week for Christmas, okay?"
"It is NOT OKAY!!!"
Fifteen years ago I played the daughter in this play. I loved doing this play. I loved the soda fountain scene most of all. I also loved playing the third act but I struggled to find the emotional depths. The playwright says that Emily sobs when she goes back home and sees her Mama "so young." I never sobbed.
Today I couldn't get through reading the last act without tearing up embarrassingly. And of course, Mrs. Webb can't cry. She's just making biscuits or oatmeal or bacon or whatever Emily's favorite breakfast is. Because that's Mama's job.
I just spent about 45 minutes trying to figure out what Mrs. Webb's birthday present to Emily in the third act would have been. Emily turned 12 in 1899. I have no memory of what I imagined it was when I was playing Emily. Something Mrs. Webb had to send all the way to Boston for. Something they didn't even have in Concord...the capitol of New Hampshire. What in the world can this be? I have some ideas. They all sound vaguely silly.
I left to come here yesterday...the 15th of December. All of Bean's Christmas presents are ordered and 90% of them are wrapped. That's what Mamas do, isn't it? Find the special presents. Wrap them. Send to Boston if you need to.
Do I really absolutely have to come and do this play? As I was leaving yesterday I just wanted to say "Nope. Mistake. Wrong. Just kidding. Take the suitcases back inside I don't have to go." I mean, how can I leave her? She's six! Our little family is so precious and it's a big world out there. And after all, it's Christmas.
But I remember that when the offer came to do this play, my heart leapt and I thought "yes!" I think I will be a better Mama if I come to Kentucky for two months to do this play. I told her that. I told her that Mama is a storyteller and I need to come and tell this story. But I can in no way explain my decision to Bean in a way that will satisfy her.
So as much as it is a gift to me, to come here and do this play, I really believe it is a gift to her too. I had to send all the way to Kentucky for it. I had to go away and pretend to be someone else's Mama for a while. And pretend to be part of a different family. And it's because of my actual daughter, I think, that I could now go back and do the Third Act as Emily. And begin to glimpse what Emily can see from beyond the grave. After all I'm fifteen years closer to it.
But it's too late. I can't go back and be Emily now. I'm the Mama.
I think that's kind of what this play's about.
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