let us be undeniable
in our love
let us be fearless
and baldly resolute
unflinching and reckless and true
let us sound all alarums
let our presence be known
so no one may say
this is too young
this never can last
but let them find nothing
in our hearts
that lacks for fire
let us be fierce
let us be an embarrassment
we shall cling in the centre of the room
and be as fireworks
twinkling in the eyes
of them all
who deny
for they shall look upon
us defiantly hungry
mouths agog
and say
ah
yet
let us be still
and let us be secret
so no one may know
what jewel we twirl
or kitten we kiss
in a tangled embrace
of darkness
rocking
them all
away
oh let us be undeniable
in the marketplace
in the streets
in the parlour
and in our
big
burning
hearts
Monday, September 5, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
PINK EYE
It either all started when I stayed up all night in Toronto, or visiting my dad at the hospital.
I had started rehearsals for a play, a British Bedroom farce. At the end of the first week, I woke up in the morning with a tickle in my eye. It looked vaguely pink so I called the doctor and ended up at the walk-in clinic. After a 2.5 hour wait, the doctor told me she sees this sort of thing 5-10 times a day, use this cream daily, and it will be gone in 2 days.
2 days later, I walk into rehearsal and everyone asks me first thing, "How's the eye?" lifting up my sunglasses I say, "Looks worse, feels better."
That night I go back to the walk-in clinic. I wait 3 hours. A different doctor sees me. I show her the cream. "I don't know what that is, but you have pink eye and I usually prescribe this other cream. Use it daily, and the pink eye will be gone in 2 days.
2 days later, I walk into rehearsal and everyone asks me, "How's the eye?" I lifted up my sunglasses, "Looks worse, feels better." It's now spread to the left eye.
My parents tell their friends who have a private doctor. They will get their doctor to see me. I opt to go downtown to the hospital Friday after rehearsal and wait 6 hours in a packed waiting room with a homeless guy who has a scarf tied around his head wandering around bumping into furniture.
Finally getting through, I wait again in the back room and watch the shift change. I ask a nurse for a glass of water. A different nurse brings me a glass of water half an hour later.
I see the specialist and she looks into my eyes.
She tells me that if it's pink eye, it's the worst she has ever seen. She calls another specialist at another hospital who will see me tomorrow at 11:30. I tell her, I can't go, I have rehearsal. She tells me that she's worried about my eye, "This is your health we're talking about." She strongly recommends I go to the appointment.
The next day I come to rehearsal. Everyone asks me, "How's the eye?" I lift up my sunglasses, "Worse. Much worse."
We have a short break in the morning and they work another scene so I can make it to the appointment with the specialist. I only wait for one hour.
He takes me in and sits me in front of the machine. He looks in one eye. He looks in the other eye. He puts a brown dye in my eyes, and it drips down my cheeks. He shines a blue light into my eyes. The left. The right. He turns off the machine and washes his hands.
"You have a very bad viral pink eye infection."
"What does that mean."
"Its extremely contagious, and it's very strong. It won't respond to any treatment or cream. You just have to let it run its course. You'll have to take about 2-3 weeks off work, and stay away from people."
"That's not possible, I'm opening a show in four days."
"I am advising you strongly to take at least two weeks away from work or any public space until the infection goes away or dies down. It's obviously a very strong strain and could spread easily. You may have already passed it on to your coworkers. Isn't there someone that can do you part until it's gone?"
"No. There isn't. Listen man, this is the longest contract I've had in ages. This one job basically makes my year. If I can't do this, I don't-"
"I've told you what you need to do. I'll just give you some of time to process it." He left.
It was like a death sentence. What was I going to do? Last year I'd broken my leg and had to lose work because of it. How could this happen again? I had to do the show. What if it spread to the other actors? The crew? It was a dinner theatre, what about the kitchen staff or the buffet? If it got into the food could it start a whole epidemic, was it really that contagious? No one had caught it yet. But what if they all had it already? They all needed this work as much as me.
The doctor came back in and I asked every possible situation that would help. "What if I cut out my eye?"
"But its in both eyes."
I walked out to the hallway of the hospital and called the stage manager. I had my sunglasses on and brown tears were streaming down my face.
I told her what the doctor said. I told her I didn't think I should come back to the building.
She told me to come down and they would talk about it.
By this time, my eyes were so extremely sensitive to the sun, and it was so bright, that I had to drive back to the theatre with my ballcap and two pairs of sunglasses on. I would hold my hands up on either side of my eyes and steer my car with my elbows.
The Director, the Production Manager, everyone came down, it was by now just after lunch. I stood in the rehearsal room, sunglasses on, brown streaks on my face and tissues in my hands. I told everyone what the doctor said, word for word. And awaited the reaction.
"If we haven't caught it yet, it's not going to happen. We'll be careful. No touching. Cut the kisses. And hand sanitizer. Hand sanitizer. Hand sanitizer."
We ran the show. Our last full run before moving on to the stage. The cast from the previous show came to watch. I wore my sunglasses. We mimed kisses and hits. And we doused ourselves in hand sanitizer between every scene. And every time I was on stage with someone I would gaze into the whites of their eyes, subconsciously looking for a hint of pink moving in from the corners.
They gave me the next day off and the following day was Monday. I slept the entire time.
I wandered aimlessly around the house, cold compresses on my eyes, bumping into the furniture.
Tuesday morning I came into the theatre for Q 2 Q. Everyone asked me, "How's the eye?"
I lifted up my sunglasses.
"Better. A little bit better."
"That's good."
"Yes. Yes it is."
I have never before in my life felt so grateful for living and working with the amazing people of the theatre. Our first preview, my first show without sunglasses on, went great and by opening even up close my eyes looked pretty normal.
We suffered many sickness together
including morning sickness
but no one caught the pink eye
On closing night the set came down within three hours as we sat with drinks and talked about it all.
We are show people. And the show goes on.
I had started rehearsals for a play, a British Bedroom farce. At the end of the first week, I woke up in the morning with a tickle in my eye. It looked vaguely pink so I called the doctor and ended up at the walk-in clinic. After a 2.5 hour wait, the doctor told me she sees this sort of thing 5-10 times a day, use this cream daily, and it will be gone in 2 days.
2 days later, I walk into rehearsal and everyone asks me first thing, "How's the eye?" lifting up my sunglasses I say, "Looks worse, feels better."
That night I go back to the walk-in clinic. I wait 3 hours. A different doctor sees me. I show her the cream. "I don't know what that is, but you have pink eye and I usually prescribe this other cream. Use it daily, and the pink eye will be gone in 2 days.
2 days later, I walk into rehearsal and everyone asks me, "How's the eye?" I lifted up my sunglasses, "Looks worse, feels better." It's now spread to the left eye.
My parents tell their friends who have a private doctor. They will get their doctor to see me. I opt to go downtown to the hospital Friday after rehearsal and wait 6 hours in a packed waiting room with a homeless guy who has a scarf tied around his head wandering around bumping into furniture.
Finally getting through, I wait again in the back room and watch the shift change. I ask a nurse for a glass of water. A different nurse brings me a glass of water half an hour later.I see the specialist and she looks into my eyes.
She tells me that if it's pink eye, it's the worst she has ever seen. She calls another specialist at another hospital who will see me tomorrow at 11:30. I tell her, I can't go, I have rehearsal. She tells me that she's worried about my eye, "This is your health we're talking about." She strongly recommends I go to the appointment.
The next day I come to rehearsal. Everyone asks me, "How's the eye?" I lift up my sunglasses, "Worse. Much worse."
We have a short break in the morning and they work another scene so I can make it to the appointment with the specialist. I only wait for one hour.
He takes me in and sits me in front of the machine. He looks in one eye. He looks in the other eye. He puts a brown dye in my eyes, and it drips down my cheeks. He shines a blue light into my eyes. The left. The right. He turns off the machine and washes his hands.
"You have a very bad viral pink eye infection."
"What does that mean."
"Its extremely contagious, and it's very strong. It won't respond to any treatment or cream. You just have to let it run its course. You'll have to take about 2-3 weeks off work, and stay away from people."
"That's not possible, I'm opening a show in four days."
"I am advising you strongly to take at least two weeks away from work or any public space until the infection goes away or dies down. It's obviously a very strong strain and could spread easily. You may have already passed it on to your coworkers. Isn't there someone that can do you part until it's gone?"
"No. There isn't. Listen man, this is the longest contract I've had in ages. This one job basically makes my year. If I can't do this, I don't-"
"I've told you what you need to do. I'll just give you some of time to process it." He left.
It was like a death sentence. What was I going to do? Last year I'd broken my leg and had to lose work because of it. How could this happen again? I had to do the show. What if it spread to the other actors? The crew? It was a dinner theatre, what about the kitchen staff or the buffet? If it got into the food could it start a whole epidemic, was it really that contagious? No one had caught it yet. But what if they all had it already? They all needed this work as much as me.
The doctor came back in and I asked every possible situation that would help. "What if I cut out my eye?"
"But its in both eyes."
I walked out to the hallway of the hospital and called the stage manager. I had my sunglasses on and brown tears were streaming down my face.
I told her what the doctor said. I told her I didn't think I should come back to the building.
She told me to come down and they would talk about it.
By this time, my eyes were so extremely sensitive to the sun, and it was so bright, that I had to drive back to the theatre with my ballcap and two pairs of sunglasses on. I would hold my hands up on either side of my eyes and steer my car with my elbows.
The Director, the Production Manager, everyone came down, it was by now just after lunch. I stood in the rehearsal room, sunglasses on, brown streaks on my face and tissues in my hands. I told everyone what the doctor said, word for word. And awaited the reaction.
"If we haven't caught it yet, it's not going to happen. We'll be careful. No touching. Cut the kisses. And hand sanitizer. Hand sanitizer. Hand sanitizer."
We ran the show. Our last full run before moving on to the stage. The cast from the previous show came to watch. I wore my sunglasses. We mimed kisses and hits. And we doused ourselves in hand sanitizer between every scene. And every time I was on stage with someone I would gaze into the whites of their eyes, subconsciously looking for a hint of pink moving in from the corners.
They gave me the next day off and the following day was Monday. I slept the entire time.
I wandered aimlessly around the house, cold compresses on my eyes, bumping into the furniture.
Tuesday morning I came into the theatre for Q 2 Q. Everyone asked me, "How's the eye?"
I lifted up my sunglasses.
"Better. A little bit better."
"That's good."
"Yes. Yes it is."
I have never before in my life felt so grateful for living and working with the amazing people of the theatre. Our first preview, my first show without sunglasses on, went great and by opening even up close my eyes looked pretty normal.
We suffered many sickness together
including morning sickness
but no one caught the pink eye
On closing night the set came down within three hours as we sat with drinks and talked about it all.
We are show people. And the show goes on.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
WHY I DONT READ REVIEWS
Talk to any actor who's been around longer than say ten years, and they will tell you the story of a review that broke their heart. It sure happened to me. So now I don't read them. It's a selfish reason. But after a few shows, it changed how I approach my work.
The rehearsal process. You meet a group of strangers, and over the next 2 weeks (which, according to the CAEA, is plenty of time!) you open your hearts, your minds and your bodies to each other. You bound around the stage laughing, raging, mewling, howling, musing and panting as your director sits and watches. Then you all gather together following this tempest and take notes. You listen to your director and you write them down, attempting perhaps to understand what the thing LOOKS like from the outside... but if you DO, if you think like the director and not the player, then you lose what is beautiful about the whole process: You DONT KNOW what it looks like. So you put all your trust in your director, your stage manager, and your fellow actors: not to tell you when you do well, not to validate you, but to gently guide you away from anything forced, feigned or false.
Opening Night. The audience steps in to become the final scene partner. They sigh, laugh, groan, check their watch, weep, storm out, smile, or as in the well-known anecdote: unknowingly imitate the sound of a flock of birds as six hundred and fifty pairs of arms simultaneously unfold. Some of these responses you hear, and most you do not. You hear the laugh, and many actors fall upon it like a magnet. "You laugh, I succeed. You like me. You put value to what I do." But there are so many things you don't hear. You don't hear people's hair stand up on the backs of their necks. You don't hear someone's heart tremble because that actress suddenly looks like the lover they lost. You don't hear the wall erect in the mind of someone who just can't think about the beauty of grief just yet. If this is to happen, it is carefully shaped by the writer and the director. These are things you cannot know.
From the safety of the audience, and then from the numbing blue light of their computer, the reviewer reviews. He or she appoints the star, the vulnerable, the beginner, the weak link, the fearless, the comic, the natural, the loveable, the old, the young, the promise, the predictable, the waning, the rising, the failure.
The reviewer is an expert in his/her field and has watched thousands of plays. Their opinion is valid, and at best, controversial. A well-written passionately delivered review can launch a career and simultaneously destroy one. They flagrantly point out each weakness. Each strength. A good review can sell out a show. A bad review can close it. Right or wrong. Glowing or scathing. They do hold power.
Theatre tradition forbids actors to offer one another advice on each others performance. It forbids the director to give notes after opening except in extreme cases... often, it's when the director has read a review then panics and returns to the rehearsal hall to 'tweak' the play.
Often I've read a review of a play where the likable characters get glowing reviews and the unlikeable characters get bad reviews. The actor in the cast who 'shines', upstaging their fellow actors, gets lauded in the reviews. These opinions are valid as someone WATCHING, but how can they have insight into the subtle interpersonal web that is your cast and company: your PROCESS.
Opening night is a celebration of the work you have done so far. For the director, they leave it in your hands: not as a finished work of art, but as a living breathing entity. It will change, and grow, and deepen.
Don't set yourself in stone that day. Allow change. Allow growth. Play to closing not opening. It's called opening for a reason. It's a beginning.
You can do this by continuing to honour the vision of your director. Be present with your fellow actors and give them everything you've got. Trust your Stage Manager who is now steering the ship. Be grateful for your crew, your life is literally in their hands.
I promise that the discoveries you make along the way will be worth it.
As for your reviewers, challenge their ideas of what theatre can be by risking it all.
And for gods sake, give them something to write about.
The rehearsal process. You meet a group of strangers, and over the next 2 weeks (which, according to the CAEA, is plenty of time!) you open your hearts, your minds and your bodies to each other. You bound around the stage laughing, raging, mewling, howling, musing and panting as your director sits and watches. Then you all gather together following this tempest and take notes. You listen to your director and you write them down, attempting perhaps to understand what the thing LOOKS like from the outside... but if you DO, if you think like the director and not the player, then you lose what is beautiful about the whole process: You DONT KNOW what it looks like. So you put all your trust in your director, your stage manager, and your fellow actors: not to tell you when you do well, not to validate you, but to gently guide you away from anything forced, feigned or false.
Opening Night. The audience steps in to become the final scene partner. They sigh, laugh, groan, check their watch, weep, storm out, smile, or as in the well-known anecdote: unknowingly imitate the sound of a flock of birds as six hundred and fifty pairs of arms simultaneously unfold. Some of these responses you hear, and most you do not. You hear the laugh, and many actors fall upon it like a magnet. "You laugh, I succeed. You like me. You put value to what I do." But there are so many things you don't hear. You don't hear people's hair stand up on the backs of their necks. You don't hear someone's heart tremble because that actress suddenly looks like the lover they lost. You don't hear the wall erect in the mind of someone who just can't think about the beauty of grief just yet. If this is to happen, it is carefully shaped by the writer and the director. These are things you cannot know.
From the safety of the audience, and then from the numbing blue light of their computer, the reviewer reviews. He or she appoints the star, the vulnerable, the beginner, the weak link, the fearless, the comic, the natural, the loveable, the old, the young, the promise, the predictable, the waning, the rising, the failure.
The reviewer is an expert in his/her field and has watched thousands of plays. Their opinion is valid, and at best, controversial. A well-written passionately delivered review can launch a career and simultaneously destroy one. They flagrantly point out each weakness. Each strength. A good review can sell out a show. A bad review can close it. Right or wrong. Glowing or scathing. They do hold power.
Theatre tradition forbids actors to offer one another advice on each others performance. It forbids the director to give notes after opening except in extreme cases... often, it's when the director has read a review then panics and returns to the rehearsal hall to 'tweak' the play.
Often I've read a review of a play where the likable characters get glowing reviews and the unlikeable characters get bad reviews. The actor in the cast who 'shines', upstaging their fellow actors, gets lauded in the reviews. These opinions are valid as someone WATCHING, but how can they have insight into the subtle interpersonal web that is your cast and company: your PROCESS.
Opening night is a celebration of the work you have done so far. For the director, they leave it in your hands: not as a finished work of art, but as a living breathing entity. It will change, and grow, and deepen.
Don't set yourself in stone that day. Allow change. Allow growth. Play to closing not opening. It's called opening for a reason. It's a beginning.
You can do this by continuing to honour the vision of your director. Be present with your fellow actors and give them everything you've got. Trust your Stage Manager who is now steering the ship. Be grateful for your crew, your life is literally in their hands.
I promise that the discoveries you make along the way will be worth it.
As for your reviewers, challenge their ideas of what theatre can be by risking it all.
And for gods sake, give them something to write about.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Long Time No...
So its been a long time since I've written to you.
March I guess.
No need in summing up or catching up...
but I will anyway: Buddy Holly. All the amazing folks on that show, what a family. Especially Denis Simpson. You were always there for a belly laugh cross over, or a green room heart to heart to heart about whatever came up.
After that, a wonderful summer. Auditions. and the beach.
My brother married his Michelle at our family cabin. The best week ever.
From there I drove back to Vancouver to shoot one day on 'Untold Stories of the ER' then got up at 4am to drive straight to Burning Man.
That is another story altogether.
Came home to fringe, then by Hallowe'en produced The Soap Show (which fell apart) The Life Game (which is coming together) and Here Be Monsters (which was magic, amidst chaos)
I went all Rock Star on Saturday Night, then actually slept through the final night of the festival. Wow. Then got up to strike the fest, then home to pack my bags and clean my apartment to hop a plane (barely) at 7am to go to Winnipeg for a month. Back To You: The Life and Music of Lucille Starr. That's with two R's.
Now I'm home.
To Violet.
And my friends.
And TheatreSports. Teaching. Writing.
And to support my cousin who has quit drinking, for my dad who had to stop smoking (a daily smoker since he was 11years old), and for dear Jenny, I have embarked on #DryDecember.
No Booze, Cigarettes, Pot, Drugs, Prescription Drugs, and limited coffee and red meat. For a month. Or at least til Christmas. It's going pretty great so far.
Realized that since Twitter, I have not written in my journal, so I have decided to keep up with this again. Mostly from here on in it will be small updates from my life, but mostly observations of life in the theatre.
That's all for now.
March I guess.
No need in summing up or catching up...
but I will anyway: Buddy Holly. All the amazing folks on that show, what a family. Especially Denis Simpson. You were always there for a belly laugh cross over, or a green room heart to heart to heart about whatever came up.
After that, a wonderful summer. Auditions. and the beach.
My brother married his Michelle at our family cabin. The best week ever.
From there I drove back to Vancouver to shoot one day on 'Untold Stories of the ER' then got up at 4am to drive straight to Burning Man.
That is another story altogether.
Came home to fringe, then by Hallowe'en produced The Soap Show (which fell apart) The Life Game (which is coming together) and Here Be Monsters (which was magic, amidst chaos)
I went all Rock Star on Saturday Night, then actually slept through the final night of the festival. Wow. Then got up to strike the fest, then home to pack my bags and clean my apartment to hop a plane (barely) at 7am to go to Winnipeg for a month. Back To You: The Life and Music of Lucille Starr. That's with two R's.
Now I'm home.
To Violet.
And my friends.
And TheatreSports. Teaching. Writing.
And to support my cousin who has quit drinking, for my dad who had to stop smoking (a daily smoker since he was 11years old), and for dear Jenny, I have embarked on #DryDecember.
No Booze, Cigarettes, Pot, Drugs, Prescription Drugs, and limited coffee and red meat. For a month. Or at least til Christmas. It's going pretty great so far.
Realized that since Twitter, I have not written in my journal, so I have decided to keep up with this again. Mostly from here on in it will be small updates from my life, but mostly observations of life in the theatre.
That's all for now.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Drive
So when i moved to Vancouver in 2000 I drove all my stuff out in my dad's Chevy Blazer. Part way through the Coquihalla I ran out of gas. I alternately coasted and waited until I got about 30 km's away from Hope where I hitched a ride, bought gas, took a cab back to the truck, and finally arrived to the apartment where I moved in with my girlfriend at about 4am.
This week I saw three fantastic plays. Jake's Gift by the talented Julia Mackey. Where the Blood Mixes by Kevin Loring, who is one of my best friends. It was amazing. Then yesterday, I drove to Kamloops to see The Miracle Worker at WCTC, directed by Jeremy Tow. It the remount of a project I almost did, and hadn't seen. The production was gorgeous. Visited with the cast after at the house of the late Artistic Director, then hopped in my car to drive home at midnight.
Just outside of Merrit, still 2.5 hrs from Vancouver, my interior lights all died. I found a tiny lamp that I used to use for a light and set it up in front of the speedometer so I had an idea of how fast I was going. I also had just got new brakes done, and was supposed to get them tuned after 100km, so I was worried they might just give way. i missed the turn for Merrit to get a hotel, then the lamp died too. I finally pulled over in the middle of the mountains and slept for about 3 hours (in 20 minute segments, where i would make up and turn the heater on) until the sun almost rose and drove the rest of the way home.
I stopped again to nap around Langley, and a cop knocked on my window. He wondered if I was drunk. I explained my story. I had left my lights on. Luckily the car started and I drove home by 9am to make it to my scene study class for 10am.
I learned: work hard. be a man. play to win.
This week I saw three fantastic plays. Jake's Gift by the talented Julia Mackey. Where the Blood Mixes by Kevin Loring, who is one of my best friends. It was amazing. Then yesterday, I drove to Kamloops to see The Miracle Worker at WCTC, directed by Jeremy Tow. It the remount of a project I almost did, and hadn't seen. The production was gorgeous. Visited with the cast after at the house of the late Artistic Director, then hopped in my car to drive home at midnight.
Just outside of Merrit, still 2.5 hrs from Vancouver, my interior lights all died. I found a tiny lamp that I used to use for a light and set it up in front of the speedometer so I had an idea of how fast I was going. I also had just got new brakes done, and was supposed to get them tuned after 100km, so I was worried they might just give way. i missed the turn for Merrit to get a hotel, then the lamp died too. I finally pulled over in the middle of the mountains and slept for about 3 hours (in 20 minute segments, where i would make up and turn the heater on) until the sun almost rose and drove the rest of the way home.
I stopped again to nap around Langley, and a cop knocked on my window. He wondered if I was drunk. I explained my story. I had left my lights on. Luckily the car started and I drove home by 9am to make it to my scene study class for 10am.
I learned: work hard. be a man. play to win.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Trio takes comic trip through Canada's past
Going through security to see the Finland Germany hockey game was tense...
I put my jacket in the bin, "OH, you have a secret pocket." We all watched as she opened it, took out my glasses, then replaced them and zipped it up. Thank god.
And the flame, and Robson Square, and the Fireworks, and all of it WALKING.
Slowly, but walking.
On my new NIKE high tops.
And THE CANADA SHOW went great, It takes me an extra push to get on the box, and Leif Erickson runs a little slower than in 2002,
but I'm on stage.
Here is the article from the interview I did with the Province.
Trio takes comic trip through Canada's past
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Home
Today is 6 weeks since I broke my leg.
Last night was the first night I spent in my own bed in 2 weeks.
I just got home from an interview with the Vancouver Province about my leg and our upcoming production of The Canada Show.
Interviews are funny. I always want them to ask me in depth questions and be really interested in my life and my challenges. But they want some witty facts.
And I'm happy with that.
I am going to take the air cast off now.
Last night was the first night I spent in my own bed in 2 weeks.
I just got home from an interview with the Vancouver Province about my leg and our upcoming production of The Canada Show.
Interviews are funny. I always want them to ask me in depth questions and be really interested in my life and my challenges. But they want some witty facts.
And I'm happy with that.
I am going to take the air cast off now.
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