Fire that's closest kept burns most of all

This made me very sad today.

I was eating dinner across the street from Eastern Market around 10pm last night. I didn't see anything unusual. I think it happened much later, or even the next morning.

Yes. I was eating dinner at Tunnicliff's. But it wasn't my fault. HPMelon wanted a chicken sandwich. So there it is.

Anyway, Eastern Market is the reason I moved to the hill five and a half years ago. I visited Skids in DC around 1998 when he was assisting on a show at Ford's and I was in school. He was staying on the hill, with a couple who later became dear friends of mine. I got horribly lost getting to their house (quadrants, duh) and pulled in to their drive less than an hour before the show I was heading to at Arena Stage was to start.

I don't remember the show and I don't remember how I got to the theater, but I do remember walking around Eastern Market the next day. And I loved it. It reminded me of a cross between the Public Market in Rochester, which I LOVED going to as a child (more for the booths selling cheap jelly bracelets and plastic charm necklaces than for the produce) and Chelsea Market in New York (which is a chi-chi, urban version of any of these markets).

So when 2001 rolled around and I needed a place to live in DC, any listing that referenced Eastern Market moved to the top of the list. I knew nothing about the actual neighborhood, I only knew that there was this cool place nearby where I could impulse shop for jewelry and used cds (remember when we bought cds?) on the weekends, and buy dates and tomatoes and apple butter during the week.

Since I moved here in 2001 I have never lived anywhere that was not within walking distance to Eastern Market.

Oddly though, I've only been to Market Lunch once. The crowds make me itchy.

It's very sad.

When I was writing for voice of the hill I wrote a piece about the history of the outdoor flea market part of Eastern Market. I need to track down the date--maybe when I find it I'll link to it here. And I imagine (I HOPE) that the outdoor market will still operate even with the damage done to the produce part of the market.

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Weekend Warriors

The City Paper review of Dali is out. I actually kind of really like it. Trey gives several caveats concerning the piece as a whole, but I think they are pretty darn fair and accurate.

I also love the words he used in his write-up, as they are words that I would harvest myself to describe the kind of work I would like to be creating:

lean
hard core
gratifyingly physical
intensely atmospheric
muscular
thoughtful
complex

and my personal favorite turn of phrase:
bruised under all the blushes

I have some free time these days, which is quite lovely. I am catching up on theater--I saw She Stoops To Comedy on Wednesday night, and enjoyed it quite a bit. Also saw Pillowman last week, which I am very glad to see but felt like something was lost along the way in its development, but I can't quite tell what. I loved the stories and wondered why it was so important to put a solid framework of a plot around them in order to provide structure. That part of it felt forced, sometimes contrived to me, while the stories themselves were surprising and engaging, consistently. It also surprised me that they had American accents--which I guess has been the norm with productions of the play in the States, but still didn't feel quite right to me.

These pieces reinforced yet again to me the importance of pace--both stood as great examples of extremely well paced work. Joy and Howard have been doing this for a while. They get it. So nice to be given the chance to discover what I am supposed to get rather than being forced to see what I am supposed to get.

Get it? Got it? Good.

There is a fabulous article in the LA Times (which I found through Mr. Grote's blog) about the challenge of doing new work. It's great--doesn't so much posit a solution but at least shines light on the problem. He very eloquently puts into words some thoughts about the importance of doing new work that I have been at a loss to articulate myself.

Yes, yes, yes.

And my parents are in town. My mother is celebrating a milestone birthday. Where should we go for dinner? We can do either before or after seeing Dali--probably best to find something in Mount Pleasant, or U Street could work. And Saturday day time... a whole day... has anyone seen an exhibit recently that is a must see?

Maybe this? My parents actually really like Georgetown. I think the only time I ever go is when they visit. If the weather's nice...

Atonement

I'm less angry now.

"The weird way we have chosen to live our odd and fragrent little lives". This from a friend of mine in regards to this strange journey of life we muddle on through. The forks, the turns, the surprising outcomes--who among us could have ever seen them coming?

I've arrived at the final part of Atonement, set in 1999, fifty-nine years after Part One. Our heroine, who for many chapters of the book existed as something of an anti-heroine, has reached the dimming if her twilight years. She takes a cab ride through London en route to a museum. Each street, each nook, each stately building, holds a specific memory for her. She can't escape them. She's grown too old for anonymity.

At the risk of sounding self-important, I feel that way sometimes about this city. DC--and New York--hold a lot of stories for me, though each place has factored in for less than a decade total in my life.

But the memories are there. Often fond, sometimes dismal. Dreamy encounters, tearful break-ups, surprise reunions, festive times--all pepper the streets of these two cities.

Wow. Who do I think I am? I know, I know, I do.

It's life, it's funny, it's small, it's ironic.

It's life.

And we will lose people and we will find people and we will hold on to people and we will let people go.

I have really enjoyed this book, I have.

Where I Try to Get All Literary On You

I'm about 3/4s through our April Book Club choice, Atonement, by Ian McEwan. I've been meaning to read McEwan for years.

I'm glad I finally did.

I was charmed at the off-set by the portrait of the young girl writing and attempting to put on a play. There was something endearingly recognizable about that (someday when Aaron or I really hit it big, they'll dig out our Lochness Monster Trilogy, circa 1983, and attempt to get at the root of our eight-year-old theatrical minds) and a sweetly pastoral beauty about the English estate setting.

And then it all turns. There is sex, immediate and needy, there are awful transgressions of judgment, there are secrets and lies, there are little moments of reveal that peel away the corner to show the dark underbelly of a family--but only for a moment--suddenly there is life in all of its ugliness and error. And still a sheen of beauty. A lover's departure, a moment framed by moonlight--longing, aching romance.

I like it, I do.

The retreat from France section did go on a bit, but there are passages in that section (like the meal with the French brothers in the barn or the vision of the beach littered with thousands of men) that make it well worth the stretch.

I've just started on the third part. There is a wonderful description of this moment when collective life is changed forever by war when the wounded and maimed arrive suddenly at a hospital in evacuated London. It reminded me of Hope and Glory and Empire of the Sun, two fabulous movies that came out in the late 80s, both of which gave peep-hole views into life during the second world war, particularly if you were British, particularly if you were a young boy.

Those of you who were too young to see these movies when they came out, see them now. They both left an indelible impression on my twelve-year-old mind.

Other odds and ends:

* A great DCist review.

* Spring arrived.

* The speech-writer's brother is in town to read from his new book. Those of you looking for a place with smart people who are only slightly self-aware of their own hipness should go. Don't we all keep saying "We should see less theater and go to more book readings and museums!"

Really, I do keep saying that, and I know I've said that to some of you. Anyhow, I'm going to try to go if there isn't a design run I need to see.

* Feist suddenly appeared everywhere in my life and I am liking her. You too?

* I read Green Eggs and Ham on Friday, and I am here to tell you--it only gets better with time.

Good Buzz Makes Me Hot

Read the press.

Read the Rorschach Blog.

See some great pictures.

Go see the show.

H and H, Baby

I am pained to say that the VT incident hit close to home for a dear friend. It sucks. It really does.

After hashing out what’s been going on with that yesterday she asked about Helen Hayes. It felt indulgent to even talk about this fluffy, over-the-top event in light of everything. I demurred.

“I believe in celebrations” she said. “If we stop celebrating in the face of these kinds of things then what do you have?”

Well put.

I am happy to say that the Helen Hayes awards this year, in my humble opinion, celebrated all of those things most worth honoring—passionate work, balls out performances, and people and processes that honor the principles of trust, belief, and humanity.

The highlights:

I was so very proud to be a part of Catalyst, glowing with our first win as Best Ensemble for Chris Gallu’s bold and fantastic staging of The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui. I love this group (both as friends and colleagues) and am so honored to be working with them. I can’t say enough good things about their collective presence in my life. It’s been unexpected and wonderful. Furthermore, the crew that made up this dynamic cast included several actors I finally had the opportunity to work with this year: Grady Weatherford, Scott McCormick, Andrew Price and Elizabeth Richards. Seriously, and you all think I am just in an effusive mood, but I thank every one of them for being smart, talented, exciting actors in the contexts of our work as well.

Y’all rock, you know that.

A yelp went out for the Posner/Folger double victory—I finally caught his acceptance speech (two years ago I was late and missed it) for best director. And how cool that Measure for Measure won best production! An *impossible play* that he made engaging, funny, beautiful, and magical. I watched the show from one of the side galleries at the theater and Aaron told me later that he noticed that I had this funny grin glued to my face the whole show. What was that about? See above. Engaging, funny, beautiful and magical. It was intoxicating.

Another yelp for Matthew Nielson, who I just had a great time working with on Dali. He is talented and astute, and also so much freakin’ fun to work with, very deserving of his award for the Sound Design of A Prayer For Owen Meany.

And finally for Joe Calarco (who I raved about last year after his many wins for Urinetown.) I didn’t see either of these shows--and that’s totally lame of me but a credit to him—as they tend to be near impossible to get tickets to. Again, this year, his actors spoke of Joe’s faith in them as artists and his commitment in to the process of creation and his willingness to take risks. Risks are scary, but how important that someone is not keeping it “safe”.

That’s what I would say about all this work: Ui, Measure, and based on all I’ve heard about Assassins—they were willing to take big risks. And that’s what we have to keep doing to avoid becoming complacent with big, pretty sets and easily digestible material.

Make us all chew a little.

Joe’s sister Renee won the Charles MacArthur Award for best new play for her Short Order Stories. Again, a show I am sorry to have missed but here’s hoping this guarantees it a future. The brother-sister scene made me glow a little with upstate pride, as both hail from Rochester.

I offer congratulations to all other winners and nominees, these folks just happened to be the ones particularly close to my heart. All in all—a fun evening and a well-paced ceremony.

As for the evening as a whole, I give you my Helen Hayes 2006, by the numbers:

# of people at my house getting ready at 6:00pm: 4
# of times I put my hair up then took it back down: 3
# of pieces of double sided tape used to keep me in my dress: 4
# of minutes late I was to pick up my tickets from Gallu: 22
# of times I made my entire row stand up to let me out for a pee break during the ceremony: 2 (once in, once out)
# of regrettable costume choices for the tap-dancing girls: the whole kick line. Come on—give them a complete costume, not dance pants, silly.
# of minutes spent on the dance floor: a good twelve or so
# of rotations through the two ball rooms with the fabulous Ms. Fortier: hmmm, 3?
# of times I lost my date: 4
# of times I found my date: 4
# of years in a row I get to corner the delightful Karl Miller in conversation in front of the Marriot: 2

# of regrettable exchanges or moments: 0!!!! None this year, which is a victory in and of itself.

Till next year, all.

A Request

I'll say...

It seems irresponsible--trite--to address anything other than what happened at Virginia Tech yesterday. The magnitude of this event is overwhelming. I can't wrap my brain around it. Maybe I don't even want to try.

I can only imagine the impact that this is having on the people in my life with close ties to the school. My love is with them. Let's see each other soon. If you can. When you can.

I'll write about the Helen Hayes later or tomorrow. It was a blast, really, the best time I've ever had at one of these things. Warm fuzzies as people I admire and care about received much deserved recognition.

But the randomness of life's outcomes is all that I can think about right now. Why these kids? Why that day? We have so little control over this world, because ultimately we have no control over each other.

And this is what makes the world a magnificent, unpredictable, awe-inspiring, and often completely devastating place to be.

So again, in the words of Mr. Vonnegut (and what a place this would be if we all adhered to this request) "At the outside, babies, you have about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of–God damn it, babies, you’ve got to be kind."

Let's be good to each other. In big and small ways.

Please, let's be kind.

Breathing Through Your Nose is So Overrated

How does the body know these things?

The day of the opening of the last show of this crazy three-show run I get a head cold. Like, somehow my immune system knew it couldn't break down until... yesterday. And there it goes.

It's not terrible. Seems to be contained completely in the upper half of my head. But it looks like i am going to be a little high on cold medicine for Helen Hayes tomorrow night.

Consider yourself warned.

Video Killed the Radio Star

Final Pay-What-You-Can Preview tonight. Come one, come all.

I'm feeling the nerves in my gut but it's not about the show. I think it's about being at the end of a three-show run and becoming aware that all the things I've avoided dealing with since January are now going to rise up like a re-animated corpse and force me to deal with them.

"We're still here... We were just waiiiitttiiingg for you to give us you unddiiivvided attention..."

Yeah, can I take a rain check on that?

There are aspects to having more time that will be wonderful. Maybe see a movie. Be a decent friend again. Finish a book club book in time. Have a visit in New York.

Maybe I'll actually have something worth writing about then.

I don't have a dress for Helen Hayes. I'm forgetting right now why I decide to go every year (besides the very justifiable reason this time around of cheering on Gallu) when it just becomes a stressor of last minute shopping (which I hate) for form-fitting garments (which I hate even more).

I feel so very rough around the edges right now that the last thing I want to do is wear heels.

Fair Moon

There was a weekend and it happened and I don't have much more to say about it than that.

A sort of 10 or 12 on Saturday. All things considered, it went really well.

Easter happened on Sunday. I ate peeps and jelly beans and peanut butter m&m's for the better part of the day (after sleeping ridiculously late). Then I went to Marvelous Market at Eastern Market and ate a Caprese Sandwich. Then I listened to Gallu's play.

For the night after a day off, yesterday was a quite promising run of DALI.

What is this play about, by the way? I have to say it is a love story because I always say everything is a love story.

It is, indeed, a love story.

It is a story about love as a metaphor for war and war as a metaphor for love. It is a story about people at war with the people they love, about a people in love with war, about a planet at war with the people it loves.

In closing, and dedicated to our own lovely moon DCepticon:

Look Down, Fair Moon
from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman

Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene;

Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;

On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide,

Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.

Theater-y-ish

Been thinking a lot. About my life. Sorting stuff out in my head. It's good I think.

Not really stuff to write about here. Let's all make coffee dates and I will tell you all about it? And you all can tell me about all the thinking that you've been doing. And we can drink tea from little brew pots and I'll fix mine with milk and sugar and you can fix yours any way you want. Deal?

Isherwood weighed in on the Humana offerings. I wish I could argue with his assessment but I don't altogether disagree with him this time. I will say--his thirty-five word dismissal of the New Paradise piece feels very unfair and hugely subjective. I was certainly having fun.

Fun tidbit I learned from super-one-person-show-director-man at Humana--Isherwood wrote a book. A book about a porn star. A gay porn star who died at the age of twenty-six from a drug overdose. And apparently it's pretty good.

Who knew.

And through various twists and turns I ended up at this entry in James Urbaniak's LiveJournal. Reading people's LiveJournals always feels a bit more invasive than other blog formats so if you didn't want small handfuls of theater folk from DC reading this, Mr. Urbaniak, do let me know.

Anyhow, it's the funniest thing I've read in a while. And too, too apt.

We had a moment in Darwin where an actor clearly reveled in his ability to "Dash Riff". The first time I was a little confused.

"Wait. What he just said? About the daughter's illness? That's TOTALLY not in the script..."

Then I realized what was going on. And I have a confession to make. I don't think I ever said anything. Because it was too much fun: a. watching said dash riffer come in with longer and more elaborate riff's throughout the process and b. watching the actor who was cutting him off jump faster and faster at the bit to actually cut the other actor off so that he didn't have to listen to the increasingly dramatic riffs. I'm sorry. That was bad of me.

I agree with Urbaniak's assessment of how a dash should be interpreted. But the moment made me giggle so I didn't fix it. Yeah, now you all trust me with your work, right?

Mea Culpa, it won't happen again.

Play-Time

Louisville was fabulous. So much theater, so little time. So much socializing, so little sleep. I am sure that I said many inappropriate things to many different people but hopefully none so inappropriate that it came off as anything more than unintentional social awkwardness. Which I have decided is the best name for the way I behave in crowd scenes. Not social anxiety, simply social awkwardness.

I won't talk about drinking because it makes my mother nervous. But when people refer to Humana as summer camp for theater people, but you're allowed to drink (and do other stuff, but I didn't do any of that) I'll say... umm, yeah, it's true.

I was always socially awkward at camp too, so the analogy is kind of perfect.

And I'll credit Jen Men for going one further--she pointed out that having people at "Humana Camp" that you know from your neighborhood (e.g. DC, or NCSA for that matter, or even Michigan 'cause I'll claim that too) allows you to have the little "We're from the same 'hood" nod every time you cross paths. And to seek them out in the little discussion clusters. I had many neighborhood folk in town the same weekend, which was delightful. And both Skids and the late-recruited Otis from Centerstage were fabulous and attentive fake dates.

When I have some time I'll talk more about the plays, though overall I was particularly impressed with some of the direction. I thought Garces knocked Dark Play out of the park. And Batch was so super cool that I don't even think I'm cool enough to write about it.