From Hot to Cold.

It was July. The city was hot. The Mormon was gone and I was deep into rehearsals. He had left a blazer at my apartment and his scent clung to it and I clung to that scent. I would come at night exhausted after 8 hours of work and four hours of rehearsal and grab the jacket, curl up on the floor and inhale his scent. I needed it. The scent faded quickly. Finally, I knew it was best to fold the jacket up and put it into the closet. I was still occasionally emailing the Mormon. We talked on the phone one or two times. I made a point of saying, "It's JV" every time I called him and thought he was overstepping the bounds of intimacy by saying, "It's me" when he phoned. He sent me a text one morning from an IHOP, remembering our IHOP experience in Miami. But most of the time, he was cold. Distant. Lost to me.

Instead of clinging to that jacket like Emma in 'Song & Dance' singing 'Tell Me On a Sunday', I knew it would be better out of sight.

Rehearsals for 'Icarus' were intense and extraordinary. The play explored lots of issues and themes that I found uncomfortable in my own life: self-worth, beauty, worthiness. I invited the Mormon to our final rehearsal in the city. He said, "maybe." I stood outside 520 8th Avenue smoking a cigarette and waiting until the last possible minute. He didn't show. I remembered how a month or so before he casually tossed of an "of course I am" when I said I hoped he would come to Texas to see the play. Now I couldn't even get him in the same room with me in the same city.

'Icarus' was a blessing for me. It remains the best show I've directed before or since. It was a combination of striking visuals and mostly strong performances. There was a rawness and a power to it that I haven't felt often. I enjoyed being in Texas. It was different. It was fresh. The days were hot and dry. We came to the theatre and into piles and piles of sand in front of a staircase that reached to the sky, an angel's wing in the process of being painted on to it. Magical Realism at it's best.

The days went quickly and the nights were painfully slow. I would have trouble falling asleep, but no trouble waking up in the morning. I would go for long hikes in the woods and return energized, sweaty and ready for rehearsal. The closer we came to opening, the more I felt all the elements of the show coming together. Tech is always my favorite part of any rehearsal process. It's usually the first time that everyone involved in the production is in the room together, working toward the same goal. I could sit for hours and play with light and sound, watching the actors get comfortable in the space, adjust their blocking, or just sit around talking. It's magic.

I had had a single date right before leaving. It was a set up; a friend of a friend. We met in Soho and went to some expensive, fancy seafood place. He was nice, nondescript, older than me, stuffy. We had little to say and the evening was prolonged by drinks after dinner. At least he paid. I was surprised to get a text from him in Texas wishing me a happy opening. But would I hear from the Mormon.

On opening night, I was in the theatre before the house opened. The actors were backstage, the crew was backstage and I was, surprisingly, all alone. I stood there in the sand looking up at the giant angel's wing and I thought about what I had done, what I had created, what I had dreamed into life here. And I thought about the Mormon and what he had destroyed, what he had killed, what he had given up. There was a tap on my shoulder and one of the interns handed me a note. "Someone wanted me to give this to you." My heart jumped. Was it the Mormon? Was he outside in the lobby? Was he here for me, finally? I opened it up and it was something scrawled in blue ink on a piece of notebook paper. Silly lines about someone having a secret crush on me. I crumpled it up and tossed it in a waste basket. He wasn't coming. He wasn't ever going to come back to me. I knew it and I didn't want to know it.

The audience began to file in and I put him out of mind. The set designer, the lighting designer and I sat next to each other grasping hands as the lights went down. We all knew we had created something beautiful, but would the audience know? Would they get it? To a point, they did. But asking people to face the ugliness and insecurities inside of themselves is never easy. They were polite, hushed. The critics were kind. Opening nights are lonely for me. The director puts the show behind him and leaves the family. They go on playing without you.

The rest of my time flew by quickly. I went rock climbing (see an earlier entry). I hit all my favorite spots: Papasito's, the Paris Coffee Shop, etc. And I got ready to go home. I knew when I did, the Mormon needed to be faced. I had to return his jacket and some other items. He had some of my stuff as well. My friends told me not to do it. "Don't see him in person." Why not? Shouldn't he have to see me? Shouldn't he have to face me and hand me things I had left with him?

On a rainy Sunday afternoon we met at a coffee shop on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg. I was first and I grabbed a table outside, under an awning. I sipped my coffee. I heard a rumble behind me and I watched his truck back into a parking spot. What was I thinking? What did I want? For him to say, I was wrong. I miss you. Take me back. And would I have? At that point? Yes. I would have. But he didn't. We chatted over coffee. I handed him a paper bag with his things. He handed me a plastic bag with mine. We said goodbye. Immediately upon returning home, the skies cleared and the sun came out. It was late August but cool for that time of year. I went online and wrote him an email. "I know this is difficult. I would like to keep you in my life. I don't want to burn the bridge...etc." He emailed back directly: We'll see. I usually find it necessary to burn the bridge, etc.

Very few emails were exchanged after that. I told him I was taking a writing class he had taken, with the teacher who had been a sort of mentor for him. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe not. It started me writing again. But on Monday nights I would come home late, cross under the BQE and hope to see his truck parked in front of the house waiting for me because he knew where I was and when I'd be home. In class, I didn't write about him. The exercises took me back to another time. Another person. Other relationships. But on my own I began to craft a piece about our short time together. Almost six months but it felt longer. How can one touch you so quickly, so deeply and then disappear? It's a part of life.

I went to the gym. I went to work. I started internet dating (see earlier entry) and I got on with my life. We no longer emailed. The city began to be mine again in a way it hadn't been in a long time. Walking the streets by myself at any time of the day or night, I remembered that feeling I had when I first moved here. I had changed so much. And then I realized I didn't really want to be dating so 'goodbye Match.com.'

I've only seen the Mormon four times since that last coffee meeting. Once on 42nd Street as I cleared a barrier and there he was waiting for someone who was taking him to the opening night of 'Mary Poppins.' I told him I had left at intermission when I'd seen the show in London. I made sure that when I passed him again I was smoking a cigarette and he could see me and I "ignored" him.

Once on the subway platform at 42nd Street on my birthday. I was going through a particularly rough time at work. I was reaching the end of my rope (the first time) and the Loved One and I had just spent a weekend at his parents. As I heard the subway approach I turned and there he was, standing on the platform; hair uncharacteristically slicked back, a fancy coat and all dressed up. Pretending to be someone he wasn't. I don't know if he saw me. The Loved One and I got on a different car, I made sure of that.

One morning on the G train he appeared before me. I recognized his swagger as we made our way down the long hallway in which you transfer from the G to the E. I'm a fast walker and he was in no rush, his head held high, whistling. Like a maniac I made my way to the moving platform (I hate the people who use the moving platform, by the way. It doesn't get you there that much quicker and just fucking walk.) I weaved my way in and out of people to pass him and go on.

And, finally, only a few months ago. Once again going through an extremely rough time at work, I had a particularly intense therapy session. I had committed to meeting the Loved One and his friend for dinner in Chelsea afterwards. With my iPod on and tears in my eyes I made my way on the L to 8th Avenue. I exited on 17th Street and 8th to avoid as much of the cold as possible. When I hit 8th Avenue, the street was busy. When I crossed 18th Street, everyone had mysteriously disappeared. The street lights cast there amber glow on the street and I saw the world through a haze of tears in my eyes. I glanced up the street ahead of me and there he was, walking toward me with an American Apparel bag and a coat and hat I recognized from two years ago. It had been two years. He saw me and opening his mouth either in surprise or to say something and all I could do was laugh, shake my head from side to side and turn in to the restaurant, to the Loved One and leave the Mormon behind, alone, on 8th Avenue, in the cold.

Sad Sunday

Every night I have dreams revolving around work. When you have almost nothing to do at the office during the day, then fall asleep at night dreaming of the importance of nothingness...it gets taxing.

It reminds me of when, during my freshman year at NYU, I had a work study with the Morse Academic Plan. This was a new program designed for incoming freshman at the College of Arts and Sciences. Every student had to pick classes from a core curriculum; NYU's version of Liberal Arts education. A small part of my job was ordering teacher copies of books through publishers and distributors. A large part of my job was photocopying class schedules, curriculums (curriculi? finiculi finicula finiculi finucula....). I would often stand at a copy machine for 3-4 hours a shift. At night, I would dream I was standing at a photocopy machine. Tedium begets tedium.

Taking a break from working in our own garden, the Loved One and I ventured out to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on Sunday. The weather was perfect and the grounds were lovely. The experience was ruined though by the sight of EMT's furiously working on a young person that had passed out near the cafe. Security were keeping the perimeter clear around the kid and I could see an EMT worker administering CPR; another had an oxygen tank at the ready. The Loved One had to walk away. I scanned the crowd and there was no sight of parents around. Onlookers mostly tried NOT to look.

We went into the conservatory to look at the Bonsai trees but I could still see the scene taking place. I couldn't see the kid, only the soles of black sneakers. From this view, I could see the EMT worker massaging the kid's heart.

We moved on from Bonsais and into another room. I was distracted. I wanted to know what was going on. When we finally left the conservatory we had to walk around the scene where the action had just taken place. At some point they had managed to move the kid and the only sign of the event was a pile of medical paraphernalia or, rather, the packaging it comes in. We walked past two park officers and I heard one say, It doesn't look very good for her, man. Does it?

My heart sank.

I had a dream involving water this weekend. No, I didn't pee the bed. But whenever I do it often portends big changes in my life. Fingers crossed.

And I'm obsessed with the story of the Craig's List Killer.

Potential. Not Yet.

At 13, I was probably around 5'5" tall and 135lbs or so. For every inch I grew taller, I grew two inches wider. My hair was blow-dryed and moussed until spiky. I had big framed, semi-tinted glasses. I had braces. What did I know? It was 1989.

The Prep was an imposing building. Jesuits are all about community service so the school is located in the heart of the Philadelphia ghetto of North Philly. The building itself, oddly enough, seems designed to let no one see out and no one see in. How's that for community? The classroom windows were at the very top of the wall right below the ceiling and barely a foot tall. So they let in some light. But it mostly was like going to school in a three-story bunker.

During our first week of school, a group of us were standing in a line on the corner of 16th and Girard waiting for the #2 SEPTA bus to take us home to South Philly, or Center City, or the train station, or wherever. A trolley went by and a group of young kids hung their heads out the window, yelling and screaming at us. Someone said, "they're from the school for bad kids. Don't mess with them." We stood there, waiting.

Suddenly, the group from the trolley turned the corner. They had gotten off at the next stop. They started going down the line taking money off of kids, stealing watches, tossing bags, instilling fear. One of them came up to me and lifted up the sleeve of my sports jacket, eyed my watch and then walked by. What? Didn't he want a Phantom of the Opera time piece? None of us said anything or moved a muscle at first. But then, as if on cue, we all ran down the block and back into the school. That half a block was as far as I had ever run and I was panting, but I was safe. Our parents were called to come pick us up.

I didn't care. This was better than grade school. I was surrounded by new people, which excited and terrified me, and there was theatre here! The entrance to the theatre was located right in the lobby of the building and if I was lucky enough to have Dad drop me off in the morning, I would walk in the main entrance and sneak into the theatre just to look at it. Intimate, red-bricked walls and a small stage, this is where my dreams of performing would come true. "Into the Woods", look out!

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the priest who was head of drama left the school. But..but...that's why I came here! I was going to star in musicals for him! I was going to be the person I always wanted to be by pretending to be different people! I had made friends with this priest, speaking with him after all three performances of 'Evita' we had come to see. Gone.

The Cape and Sword players had been taken over by a middle-aged English teacher by the name of Mr. Griffin. I didn't know him. When auditions were announced for 'Our Town', I wondered what kind of musical that was. Much to my dismay, it wasn't a musical at all. It was a play. An ooooold play. People standing around talking? So boring. Being on stage means singing! But I would audition anyway. There was talk of a musical in the Spring and I would have to be in that.

I was terrified when the audition day actually came around. I made my way into the theatre with my heart in my throat and my stomach churning. Other students were scattered throughout the theatre but no one I knew. Girls and boys giggled in groups together. I recognized some from the cast of 'Evita.' I recognized other boys from the hallways. But no one I knew. I made my way down the aisle and took a seat.

I must have signed up for an audition spot. I can't recall. I must have prepared something for the audition. I can't imagine what. Perhaps we had to read from the play; a speech of the Stage Manager's? That sounds right. I'm sure my body trembled as I stood downstage center proclaiming lines in my young voice over which I had no powers of modulation. I was always either extremely loud or quiet as a mouse. There was no in-between. And I was loudest when I was singing. It was like God had deposited a microphone in my voice box. Self-amplification.

So there I stood, center stage, script in one hand the other hand waving wildly butchering the words of Mr. Thornton Wilder. I wonder if my voice shook as hard as my leg most likely did. I probably adjusted my weight from side-to-side in an effort to stop from shaking or because I was nervous. This was my first time actually doing it. Outside of my bedroom. But there was no nuance. No drama. Just youth and fire.

I finished. Was that a smattering of applause I heard? In my head there was a roar; the relief of getting it over and done with.

I walked to the back of the theatre where Mr. Griffin was sitting. I stood by him as he talked to someone else. I snuck a look at his notepad. Under my name he had scribbled: Potential. Not yet.

My heart broke. I knew write then and there this was not to be My Town. I also knew there was a ton to learn. But tears in my eyes, I shook his hand and thanked him. I walked out the door and into the library. I had work study to complete.

Free Ride

There was some drama surrounding which high school I would attend.

Most all of the boys from grade school assumed they would attend the local all-boys high school, St. John Neuman. Most of the girls attended the sister school, St. Maria Goretti.

My parents had bucked the trend seven years earlier by sending my brother to St. Joseph's Preparatory School, an all-boys Jesuit run high school in north Philadelphia. You went to the Prep with the expectation that you were going to college. The Prep was a better school than Neuman. The focus on academics was fierce. The classes were small. Not many from grade school would be attending. I was pretty much sold.

Then I was given a full scholarship to Neuman. What would we do? There was a big dinner/ceremony at a local hall. I attended with my parents and the principal of my school, Sister Something Something. Nuns always had two names. When we first started school, they had a man's name (Sister William Anthony, Sister Bob Jim). Then there must have been some kind of Papal decree allowing them to feminize themselves and suddenly they were women again (Sister Mary Rita, Sister Clair). I don't remember the name of my principal but she was very sweet and very proud and it was very awkward going to a dinner with my parents and her.

At the same time, I was making numerous trips to the Prep to test it out. These trips mostly consisted of dragging my parents to see their Spring production of "Evita", that's right I said "Evita" at an all-boys Jesuit school, three times and talking endlessly with the priest who was in charge of drama there, The Cape and Sword Players. I was thrilled to learn that he was planning on doing "Into the Woods" next year. There really was no decision, the Prep it was to be.

A few days later Mom received a phone call from Neuman. They wanted to confirm my attendance for the Fall. "Actually," Mom said "He'll be attending St. Joseph's Prep." I was sitting on the living floor in front of her, doing homework. All I heard from the other end of the line was yelling. Finally Mom said, "Yes, I know. Thank you very much and hung up." Then she burst out laughing. "That man just yelled at me! 'Are you crazy, lady? Do you know how much that school costs?! You'll be paying it off forever. He's got a free ride here!'"

Well, there are no "free rides" anywhere. And I would have had to pay dearly had I attended Neuman.

So alternating between playing Eva Peron and the Witch in my bedroom, I prepared for high school.

Bedtime Stories

As obsessed as I currently am with reading 'Columbine' by Dave Cullen, I can't seem to allow myself to pick it up once I'm home at night.

I can read it in the morning.

I can read it on the subway to work.

I can even read it on the subway home after work.

But once I walk in my front door, I have to put it down. The Loved One is still out of town and I think the book causes anxiety in me. Maybe I fear someone will come in and gun me down in the middle of the night? Maybe I fear I'll be plagued with bad dreams in which I'm gunned down? I don't know. I just accept it. The book is a fascinating study of the events that surrounded the shootings. Previously I was unaware that the two shooters had planted three bombs around the school that, if successfully had detonated, could have killed more than 2,000 students and teachers. Thankfully, Eric Harris was not so adept at wiring. But still, to think that they planned it for a year and half and got away with as much as they did especially when there were so many signals blaring in their direction that help was needed.

Be more aware of signals.

So at night I climb into bed with my dad's old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales illustrated by Maurice Sendak. I take comfort in each story as the main character triumphs over their many obstacles. Of course I haven't reached the truly violent or scary stories yet so maybe they too will plague my dreams. At the moment, I'm comforted by them and they remind me of when I would grab the fairy tale book my mother had as a child (in my possession now but too fragile to read) and crawl into my father's lap and make him read to me at night. One story was never enough. There was one I made Dad read to me over and over. The name escapes me but it's about a young boy who's perceived as dumb by his father and older brothers. There is a contest to win the hand of a princess in marriage. The silly young boy wins each and every contest through his creativity. There's something involving a dead bird and mud in a wooden shoe...I'll have to look at it again. Along with the traditional Rapunzel and Cinderella story. Although not Grimm, I recall these tales as being dark and violent as well.

Stymied by more rejections this week. I would start keeping track of them but that would be too overwhelming. Also overwhelming is the amount of people saying, "I know something will happen. I can feel it." No, you don't know that. So stop saying it. In this business, it could never happen. And that's the risk we take. Blah blah blah.

Had drink with the Muse last night. She's trying to push me to finish the play. So close. But then it needs a revision. And then it needs to be sent out. Meaning, more risks need to be taken.

I'd like my life to be like a fairy tale, though.

And he lived happily ever after...

Another Weekend in the Country: Part 2

Sunday was quiet and lovely.

The Loved One and I went on a long drive.

A garden store/nursery amused us with their sign:

Spring

Is

Here

Pansies

How'd they know? We laughed over that for a while.

Sunday evening on the drive back to Albany, we passed a store that had a long, confusing sign. All I made out was "specializing in Church septic systems."

I yelled out "Holy Shit!"

Another Weekend in the Country

The Loved One was sent to Vermont for eight days to open up a store.

I was going to let the time pass, lonely and depressed, but after suffering an unwarranted amount of self-imposed stress and anxiety at work, I decided it might be best to get out of town and join him. Unfortunately, this meant missing "Ruined" with the Muse on Sunday; a play I still have to make a point to see (and which, I'm expecting, will be announced as a Pulitzer Prize winner in just about an hour).

I left work early on Friday evening to catch a 5:43pm train to Albany, the closest station to Manchester, VT. I actually had some work to do last week, intermittently, and was trying to negotiate a deal pertaining to an industrial that my company is producing in the Bahamas in June. The details of the negotiation are pointless and boring but the factors around it were completely unmanageable and I was convinced, in my crazy head, that the deal would fall apart (it did, today) and that I would be held responsible (I wasn't). But in my head I was. And it kept repeating like a broken record. And I was negotiating in my head. And I was thinking of what I could have done differently. And the Producer was out of the country so we'd only been going over the details of the negotiation over email. Thus, my stress. I can't gauge her mood or state-of-mind through written word. So I heap these feelings and thoughts upon myself. Unhealthy, yes. But out of my control at the moment.

Perhaps, I thought, a weekend in Vermont would be good. It would be nice to be with the Loved One and not alone. And I secured a dog sitter at the very last moment. I was off.

Amtrak was slow. It seemed to take forever to get from Penn Station to Poughkeepsie. It was obvious we were running 15 to 20 minutes late. The Loved One would already be on his way to meet me though, so to call and warn at this point was pointless. I restlessly paged through Mary Roach's "bonk" and stared at the setting sun through the dirty train car window. I didn't feel like listening to music. So the noise of the machine on the tracks and the conversations of strangers around me where my soundtrack. When the final bit of sunlight disappeared I put on my iPod.

The Loved One was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. He had been working without much time for food all day so he was starving. I was dealing with never really being hungry as a result of the anti-depressant. It was late though and something needed to be done. The restaurants in the Vermont hotel, over an hour away, would be closed by the time we got there. We decided to eat in Albany.

God bless the citizens of this city. We drove around for almost as long as my train ride looking for a parking space -- Friday night in a college town. The streets themselves though were oddly quiet and empty. We went to a Mexican restaurant, whose name escapes me, that the Loved One had been to before. Another symptom of my depression is that details are fuzzy. I'm unfocused and not quite here most of the time. I can get through the days but I function on a different plane; one somewhere above the level my body inhabits. I'm assuming its a protective measure. If I'm too present, I'll feel too much. And if I feel too much, I won't be able to function. So, I float in a fuzzy hemisphere, in a fog.

Where was I? Mediocre Mexican food! Yes, and a margarita. So much for not drinking when on the anti. Then the long car ride to Vermont. I can't describe the scenic drive because it was pitch black outside the car window and so nothing to see. The Loved One and I made infrequent conversation and I tried to quell the voice in my head that kept repeating "Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece.

Miss Reece is the former athlete whose presence I was trying to negotiate for the industrial. A week ago, I had no idea who she was. I'm still not entirely sure. But she was on "repeat" mode in my brain.

The Loved One had described the Equinox Spa and Resort as "The Hotel Fauchere but on a bigger scale." As we drove up to it, he was right. The long white columns stretched up to the heavens. Green rocking chairs were lined up on the porch, matching green shutters graced both sides of every window. We drove around the front entrance, past the town houses the Equinox rents and to the back parking lot. As we wrapped around the property I was able to see just how big it really was. Three floors in some places, four in others, the Equinox's arms wrapped around the property like the piazza in front of the Vatican in Rome. It also reminded me of the Dreams Tulum hotel the Muse and I stayed at for a few days while in Mexico. The pool, gym and spa area were housed separately from the main building in a complex all their own. A huge bubble-like enclosure a few feet away housed tennis courts. The falconry school was to our left.

The Loved One was exhausted from working all day and had to be up early the next morning to be back at the store. We went to bed, my mind still racing (Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece) and the anti-depressant keeping my awake. A few hours later as I was drifting in and out of a dream-like state, I was awakened by a loud noise above me. It sounded like a stampede that was moving furniture on their way. I was shocked by the severity of the noise because the carpet was so thick. It took a lot of energy to be that loud. I looked for the clock but realized the Loved One had turned it over, face down, because it was so bright. I put a pillow over my head and tossed and turned til daybreak.

With the Loved One off to work, I took a walk. The streets of Manchester are, oddly, paved in marble. I was fascinated by this as I followed the trail away from the hotel, down past beautiful houses and into the woods. The marble ended abruptly and I found that the path I was on ended at a private home. My shoes covered in mud, I headed in the other direction. People in cars stared at me as they drove past, as if no one walks in the suburbs when you can drive. But I'm a walker. I said hello to the few people I passed. I stopped in a home store that sold some of the brightest, ugliest home furnishings and decorations I've ever laid eyes upon and went back the hotel. It not even 11am yet but I assumed the stores in Manchester Village would be opening soon. First a bite to eat.

I had walked around earlier looking for breakfast, which I was told was in the Marsh Room but wasn't. On my walk around the property I had seen the room where in fact breakfast was. I had pulled a random book off my shelf as I was running out the door that morning because I knew I was almost finished 'bonk'. So I had Martha Quest by Doris Lessing in my hand as I walked into the bright breakfast room. But much like the title character in the first few pages, I was restless and couldn't concentrate on anything. And I wanted attention. I ordered some waffles at the grill station and waited. It was late for breakfast and few people were in the room. A couple and their 20-something child who struck me as not a very nice young woman. I couldn't hear what she was saying but the know-it-all tone of her voice carried through the room. Waiters carried tray after tray out the door. I guess a lot of people order room service. A waiter finally came by and asked if I wanted orange juice. Then disappeared.

My waffles were ready. I piled them high with fresh fruit and then some warm Vermont maple syrup. They were slightly undercooked but I was hungry. A few strips of bacon and I was set. I passed on coffee when the waiter finally came around. My eyes ran over the words in the book in front of me but nothing really computed internally. Finally, I finished and I wanted to leave. The waiter and the grille chef were having some sort of argument, not even behind closed doors, so I packed up my bag and stood around awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Story of my life. Finally I was seen and the waiter came over with the check. "One breakfast buffet," he said. Well, not really. I just had waffles. I opened the bill. $25! For waffles and fruit! That's more money then I spend on two meals in the city! I grudgingly handed him my ATM card and made a note to avoid that mistake again. $25 for undercooked waffles, bacon and a glass of OJ? Ridiculous.

I asked the concierge for a ride into town. The staff here were no where near as friendly as at the Fauchere. I was greeted cordially, but not warmly. My request was weighed heavily as if I had asked for something out of the ordinary, not clearly defined in the amenity section of the hotel's information guide. Each concierge tried to push off the duty to another until, finally, a crazed looking man with an orange toupee on top of some white tendrils came bounding towards me. "I'll take you, sir!" Thanks, I said. And please don't call me sir. I looked at his name tag. Howard.

Howard opened the door for me and bounded around the SUV like an excited child off to playtime. "Where in town do you want to go? Do you have a coupon book?" Oh, anywhere really. No, I don't have a coupon book. "You can't go out without one!" And before I could stop him, crazy Howard was out of the SUV and bounding into the hotel. He was more like a baby golden retriever actually; all energy and eager to please, limbs akimbo. He came back down the stairs with things in his hand. I couldn't find the button to put the window down and he opened the door, instead of just going around to his side of the car, getting in and handing me the papers. "Coupon book and a map!" Great. Thanks.

He bounded around the SUV again and took a seat beside me. "Now. Where did you say?" Uhm, I think there's an old bookstore in town, kind of in the center. I think I'll start there.

"Well, it's not actually an old bookstore. It sells mostly new things. There's a nice cafe inside as well. I'll point out some things on the drive..." And he kept talking but I tuned him out, finding the safer shores of my invisible depressive plane a welcome respite from Howard's conversation. Every once in a while, I would tune back in. "There's the Maidenform outlet. But I guess you don't need anything there, huh? Ha ha ha ha ha." Away again.

When we pulled up to the bookstore Howard handed me a card. "Call us when you want a ride back. Just tell us what store you're at and give us about five minutes or so to get there." Ok. He made a move to open his door and come around to get me but I stopped him. You don't have to do that Howard. I'm perfectly capable.

I offended him. "We're a four star hotel. We like to provide four star service." I appreciate that. But I've got it.

And to offend him even more I said, Listen. I don't have any cash on me so can I leave you a tip at the front when I get back?

"That's not why I was doing it," he said, puppy dog eyes and wounded ego.

Thanks, Howard. And I got out of the car. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wasn't assuming anything about him. Besides the fact that he was a little off-center. But, so am I. A bookstore would remedy that. The Northshire Bookstore is very large. It's badly laid out and difficult to find anything specifically. Luckily, I wasn't being specific so I lazily browsed the shelves and made mental notes about books I'd want to buy at a later date, when used copies go on-sale on B&N.com. But I did need something to read. I picked up a few things but still couldn't concentrate. My depression had locked me in limbo and not even books could break me out.

I walked down to the Loved Ones store and he took me on a quick tour. From there, I hit the J. Crew outlet. Suddenly, shopping became the sole cure. Stacking my arms full of clothes, I wandered the second floor like a man on a mission. These deals were too good to pass up. $29 for a shirt regularly priced at $69? I'll take two. Shorts for $30 a piece instead of $70? I need three pair. Oh! Blue-striped pants. I can't have enough of those. $25! Add them to the pile. I've always wanted a pair of Seersucker pants. I'll try those on too!

Luckily I was able to ween down the pile of clothes once in the dressing room. Mostly because some things did not fit me and I refused to go out in search of a larger size. This medication had better take some weight off of me.

At the register I remembered the coupon book Howard at given me and I paged through it to see if a J. Crew one was in there. Score! $10% off purchases over $150. Done. And I walked out with a bag overflowing with summer clothes. Now, I needed shoes. I crossed the street to the shoe store and picked up a pair of Clarks. Nothing in Ralph Lauren. Nothing in Michael Kors. Nothing in Maidenform...

I called the Loved One and asked if I could dump my purchases in the car before heading back to the bookstore, by way of the GAP outlet. I picked up a short-sleeved button down shirt at GAP and a pair of jeans for $12. Nice. Thrifty. And as I carried those things to the bookstore I suddenly had the thought, It's probably not the smartest idea in the world for someone thinking of quitting their job to be going on a shopping spree.

The realities of retail therapy far outweigh the high of buying. And never had it struck so quickly and decisively. I retreated to my plane, happier (?) in the hazy hemisphere.

I remembered reading something about a memoir that sounded interesting. I thought it was called "If You Find This Letter..." or "If You Find This Note..." or something like that. I had picked it up a few times at Barnes and Noble in Union Square and then read about in a magazine recently. It's about a woman going through a terrible divorce and in the midst of it she learns that her sister has been murdered by her boyfriend. The relatives find a letter that basically says, "if you find this that means that X has killed me..."

But I wasn't certain that was the title. I didn't know the author. And I couldn't find paperback non-fiction. I asked one of the clerks who said, "They sometimes get mixed in with Fiction, actually. Also you could try the Biography section." I had to bite my tongue from saying not every memoirist is James Frey. They don't belong in fiction. And you have about 100 shelves of fiction, I can't possibly go through each and every one. Instead I huffed over to Biography because it was a smaller section. Book by book I went though to no avail. The entire time I was listening to two men on the other side of the stacks talking about the local theatre scene. One of the men was in Blithe Spirit somewhere in town and the other was asking why he wasn't in some musical at the other theatre in town. "Well," the first man said, "They asked me to do it. But I'm just so happy working at the other theatre and the artistic director really gets me that I don't know if I wanna work at the other place anymore." And I thought, could I possibly make a life in the theatre for myself in a town like this? In Vermont? Is that even possible. The Loved One and I spend lots of time of moving to the country, opening up a store or a B&B or both. Would I be directing Community Theater at the local Rec Hall and would that be enough? It would be more than now.

I couldn't find the book. I walked over to new non-fiction and kept picking up a new book on the Columbine shootings but it was $26 and did I really want to immerse myself in that. I really wanted the 10th Anniversary edition of Nerve photos and essays but that was $40...and not after a $25 breakfast. Columbine weighed heavy in my hand. I looked at my watch. I had hours before the Loved One was free. My bag was in the car and I didn't feel like going back to get it to write. I picked up a copy of a book called The Kindly Ones that sounded fascinating. But it was huge and $29. So, Columbine it was.

I grabbed a coffee, pulled up a chair in the cafe and started reading about an American massacre.

Generic Meds

Today is my second day on Wellbutrin. I'm still depressed, lonely, defeated, isolated and shut down. So it's obviously not working.

Upon closer inspection of the pill bottle, it seems that I am NOT taking Wellbutrin. Rather, I'm taking something called Bupropion, which must be a generic version of the medicine I had asked for, which must be why it's not working. Upon even closer inspection of the pill bottle, I find that I'm not supposed to drink while taking this medication (good luck with that), and that it may cause dizziness so I shouldn't operate any heavy machinery. In my mind that translates to: Do NOT go to the gym and try to pick up a weight. Right? Also, after three days of taking ONE pill a day, I switch to TWO pills a day; one in the morning, the other in the evening. I think they do that to give depressives something to look forward to.

My instinct at the moment, which is deeply ingrained in my personality, is to run and hide. It's totally reactive. It's to NOT write on the blog. The easy excuse is to say, I don't want to write about myself or revisit past memories or focus on me. The true reason is because I think if I stop writing all of you phantom readers out there will write me and say: Where are you? We need more blog! Come back to us JV!

The need to be wanted.

But don't do that! No, faithful phantom readers, this is a part of my self-imposed therapy. To write even in the face of defeat. I will do my best not to copy and paste old stories here out of laziness. I won't post sequential scenes from the play I'm writing as a way to avoid myself. I will not hide and beg for attention through silence. I will right about the goddamn depression whilst in the midst of it. Take that.

I said the instinct was to hide and seek attention through absence. It was an old trick I played in high school and probably even earlier than that. When I wanted to feel needed or wanted, I would lock myself in bed room and read or sing or play games and wait for the phone to ring. On free periods in high school I would walk the lonely halls by myself, humming Indigo Girl songs in my head and waiting, praying for a friend to come running up behind me and take my loneliness and isolation away from me. But they couldn't, could they? It's mine. And perhaps it's always going to be present in some way, in some sense. It's when it gets this deep that it gets...most difficult. It's overwhelming.

Last night I got home to an email from the job I was waiting to hear from saying thank you and that they felt it best to look inside the company for someone to take over the position. Again I was disappointed. Again I was faced with rejection. And although I've always told people in this business that you can't be stymied by rejection, how do you deal with it on an almost daily basis? And then I go to thinking about the position and how RIGHT I'd be for it and silly they are not to give me a chance to meet with them and talk more about it and I realized that, again, it comes down to change. They are afraid of change. By keeping it inside, they don't risk anything. It's safe and known. But they also stay static. They won't, perhaps, move backwards but will they move forward? Although they handled it better than the situation with TVI Studios, it's the same thing. By bringing a strong, smart, unknown presence into the mix the balance of power is upset. So be it. And I have to tell myself that if it didn't happen then it wasn't the place for me. But, neither is this. This...stuckness is overwhelming. And everyone keeps telling me something is going to happen soon, they can feel it. I don't believe it. I HOPE for it, but I don't believe it.

Even my dog is afraid of change. When I dropped him off at my dear neighbor's house this morning because she is going to watch him this weekend when I escape, he freaked out. He started crying and squirming in her arms. He tried to run out the door when I opened it. He only wants his home, with or without me. He's only comfortable there. It's where he feels safe; it's his den. And perhaps that's partly my fault because I've made it my den as well; running home directly after work to the safety of what's known and familiar instead of seeing friends, going to the movies or theatre, etc...Instead of going to the gym in the morning I sit on the couch and watch the Today Show and VH1 as the hours tick by, because I'm up at 6am so I'm only seeing the same news over and over again, until it's finally time to get in the shower and get ready. Get ready to come here and sit.

So, where is the place for generic meds in my life when the causes of my depression are so damn specific?

Darkness, Car Crashes, Therapy, Wellbutrin Are a Few of My Favorite Things

The darkness that has been ebbing and flowing around the house of me decided to let itself in and settle down last night. Much like Ripley, it sat on my lap, curled itself up and fell asleep like dead weight.

A few weeks ago I received a rejection letter from the Williamstown Theatre Festival's Boris Sagal Fellowship. Last night I came home to a two-page (!) rejection letter from the NEA/TCG Director Fellowship. First of all, don't make any rejection letter two pages. It confuses the opener of the envelope. Secondly, I spent over two weeks working on the essays for that grant and thought I would have at least made it to the second round. It wasn't devastating but it was another blow that seems to follow a series of hits determined to keep me down.

I'm waiting to hear about a second interview for a job that is supposed to take place on Monday evening. But no word yet. This all comes after a ridiculously insane interview process with TVI Actor's Studio. It went on over the course of a month; an interview a week. And, in the end, I fear my chain was being yanked. I feel defeated and stuck.

This darkness is certainly not unfamiliar. It played with me in high school. I managed to keep it at bay most of the time in college. Out here though, in the "real world", it courts me more regularly. It first reared its ugly head during my initial stint in Casting. There was no way 'round it and the only way to shake it was to shake the job. The next time it visited was during grad school in the post-9/11, post-Present Ex break-up, post-Gram's death days.

I became stunningly reckless about myself. I would conduct myself just fine during the week, able to concentrate on school work and such. But once the weekend came, I was lost. My evenings would be spent at bars or parties. I would drink more than I should. I would drive home, stopping at the local 7-11 for a box of Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. Once home, I would pull out the sofa-bed in the living room (if my roommate wasn't home) because the darkness and emptiness of my bedroom was too much for me to bear. I would pull out the sofa bed, pour a large glass of red wine and eat the donuts watching reruns late into the night, falling into a fitfull sleep.

I was driving my dad's Honda Accord at the time. In the mental state I was in I was seriously unfit to drive. One night while trying to pull into a parking spot in downtown New Brunswick I swiped the car along the side of a truck ripping off the entire back bumper of Dad's car. Shocked and horrified my lack of persepctive (literally, I had no idea I was too close to the truck), I tried to think quickly and pulled out some rope in the trunk to tie the piece on until I could get it to a shop. Dad was very particular about his cars and I had just pretty much destroyed it.

A few weeks later, on a rainy Sunday morning in late October, I was up at the crack of dawn. I decided to go to a 7:30am yoga class at the studio a few towns away. On the curved exit ramp that led to Route 1 Dad's Honda Accord hit a wet pile of leaves, spun around in circles and slammed into the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hubcap fly over the car and when I tried to back the car up and drive onto the highway, the wheel started to shake so violently I couldn't hold on to it. Upon slamming in to the curb, I had knocked the axle straight out of alignment. I had really done it. I called and called the apartment until the roommate finally picked up. I apologized for waking her and told her she needed to come and get me at the garage I was now all too familiar with.

My life was a car crash. Not being a fool, I decided to take advantage of the school's counseling programs. I went into therapy for the second time in my life. The first was after Present Ex and I broke up, round one. The woman looked like Doctor Ruth and had an office in a swanky Upper East Side apartment building. She was very short and sat in one of those 1960s egg chairs with her legs up on an ottoman in front of her. I lay down on the leather sofa and talked for 45 minutes. The therapist never said anything. She scribbled in her pad from time to time, but mostly listened. The problem was, I didn't need someone to listen. I needed someone to help me ACT. I needed guidance.

Our last session came after I had had a particularly vivid dream. These were the days when I was waiting to hear about grad school acceptances and planning an Italian retreat, should grad school not be a reality. In my dream, I was walking down a dark, unfamiliar city street. There was a blue wash over everything filtered by a yellow glow from the streetlights. In my dream, I was Tom Ripley. I had just murdered someone but no one knew it yet except for me. As I was walking down the street, I passed a group of police officers heading in the direction of my murder. I didn't make eye contact, but I nodded and continued walking on.

I was shaken by this dream. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I had knowingly, willingly, killed someone with my bare hands. I couldn't let it go and it haunted me for days. Upon recounting the dream to Dr. Ruth she asked, What have you done wrong?

I called her service the next day and left a message saying I wouldn't be returning.

So going back into therapy in grad school was a big step. My therapist was a young, Indian woman who was most likely a student. Like the Theo Huxtable's teacher, Mrs. Westlake, on The Cosby Show played by Sonia Braga, this therapist wore her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. One day I came in and her hair was falling in beautiful waves around her shoulders. When I sat down in the chair across from her in her little, cluttered office I commented on it. She immediately asked if I was ok with it and should she put it back up? I said, No. It was fine. There must be some practice taught in therapy school that says do not change your appearance or your patient might go mad. Unlike most people, I'm ok with change and, often, welcome it.

This therapist, whose name escapes me, immediately saw my need and was a great help. She also referred me to the psychiatrist who saw me immediately and sent me on my way, arms piled high with sampled of Wellbutrin. This was my first experience with an anti-depressant. But it was necessary. One of the unfortunate side effects of this drug, I soon learned, was insomnia. So I was also taking sleeping pills. I felt like Neely O'Hara or LIza Minelli. Especially on those nights when I would come home from parties and add sleeping pills on top of my diet of red wine and Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. After a few weeks, I was able to adjust to the Wellbutrin and ween myself off of the sleeping pills. After a few months, I was able to ween myself off of the Wellbutrin. I didn't want it to be a crutch; a necessity. I needed it when I needed it and then I had to let it go. I was able to cope, finally, with the loss of my grandmother and the loss of Present Ex as a lover. I kept them both in my heart in different ways.

The second round of Wellbutrin came a few years ago upon the loss of the Mormon followed immediately by the death of Present Ex's mother. I couldn't function for all the losing. And with aggressive therapy and the pills, I once again battled the darkness.

Since then, as always, the darkness comes and goes. I'm usually able to hold it at bay. But with it settling down, and the fear of me settling into it, it needs to be dealt with. This time, there's no loss to point to its strength. What is feeding it is an overwhelming sensation of inertia. Only it seems like the world around me is inert and I keep running into walls.

So, Wellbutrin, third time's a charm.

Fleet of Hope

Was finally able to write another scene in the play today.
I guess that means something's been accomplished.

The walls are closing in on me here.
Keep listening to the new Indigo Girls cd:

"The fleet of hope is so pretty
As she's shining in the port
And the harbor clings to the jetty
For protection and support.
Out in the choppier water
The sharks swim and play.
You're all washed up as Poseidon has his day."

I see the fleet of hope and it scares me.

Speaking of the Indigo Girls, tomorrow night I'm going to see them at the Highline; me, Present Ex, and two friends.

When Present Ex and I broke up the first time, I had tickets to see IG at the Beacon. I also had tickets to Bette Midler at Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Both concerts were around my birthday. Present Ex and I were living together in the 95th Street Apartment. I asked if he wanted to attend either or both with me. Bette Midler would also include my parents, on my actual birthday. Present Ex said yes, even though he wasn't too familiar with IG.

That night, he was converted. While on cd the IG can appear to be low key and folksy, in person they can really rock.

Who would have thought that a few years later Present Ex would be coloring the hair of an IG and I'd be one degree of separation from them. When they come to town, they often supply Present Ex with comps. Once, in New Jersey, we even got to go backstage after a show and meet them. I was so nervous. Unfortunately, Emily -- who sings all the sorrow in my soul -- didn't come out. So while it was cool to meet Amy Ray, I didn't meet the particular woman whose songs had gotten me through so many hard times.

And I was ok with that. Sometimes it's best to keep your heroes at a distance.

I'm unfocused now. People keep telling me not to give up. That something is going to happen. But how do they know? How can they be so sure? And if so, when? I can't wait much longer.

From Up There

As we drove into the city last night after a weekend in High Falls, Ripley asleep on my lap and the Loved One at the wheel, I looked out over the night sky and said, "I hate that I dread coming back to the city."

When did that happen? When did love turn to fear/anxiety/defeat? I would never say 'hate.' I couldn't hate this island at the end of the world. It's made me who I am today. And though often frustrated, scared, overemotional, anxious, defeated and still hopeful, I like who I am. But the city is bringing me down.

I try to remember the way I felt on the family bus trips, straining my eyes for the first glimpse of the skyline.

I even try to remember the first time I came in after 9/11. To be absent from the city for that event broke my heart. Although I was mere miles away in New Brunswick, I felt I should be here. Be home. And although I didn't know what it could possibly mean, I felt that I should be helping somehow. Of course, for the first few days after it was all but impossible to get in to the city. Present Ex finally managed to catch a train out and join me in New Jersey. We went through a day or so on the phone as his roommate was in one of the towers and went unheard from for hours. In my memory, it feels more like days. Finally, the roommate was able to call. He had survived. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I also remember that day getting my father on the phone. We had left Movement Class (that's another story) and went to a friend's house to watch the events unfolding. On my way to school that day I had heard on the radio that a plane had flown into to the Towers but theorizing it was only a single engine aircraft. Someone came in to class with the bad news and we rushed into our clothes and to the nearest house. People broke off into groups. People tried to make calls. People smoked. Crazy Director refused to watch, even though we were in his house, and opted to clean the place from top to bottom. I sat for a while huddled in my friends bedroom trying to make certain everyone was alright.

Finally getting my dad on the phone, he broke into tears. He works in a highly classified government building but the government would not clear them for evacuation. Dad just kept saying over and over, "We're sitting ducks. We're sitting ducks." At this point, we knew about the Pentagon. We knew it was a terrorist attack. We did not know what to expect next. So crying hysterically on the phone I tried to convince Dad to just leave. While on the phone with him, they were given clearance to do so.

A few days later, I took the train in to the city. I didn't want to drive for fear of my reaction upon seeing the empty space where the Towers had once stood.

I was a frequent visitor to the Towers when I first moved here. I would often go to the top just because I couldn't get enough of the view from up there. I would find any excuse to go, taking visiting friends along with me. If I happened to find myself at the TKTS booth in the south tower. Mostly I would go by myself. First looking down from the highest floor through the windows and then on to the Observation Deck. From up there, it was like I owned the city. And, at 17-years-old, I did. It was a city filled with possibility. And I was on top of it.

As the New Jersey transit train crept its way from Edison to NYC, it was mostly quiet especially for a Saturday morning. It was cloudier than it had been the past few days. The threat of rain hung in the air. The small towns eventually gave way to marsh and meadowlands, railroad tracks converging from all over the state to, finally, enter the long tunnel to Penn Station. And as the train left Newark I held my breath for the close up view. How do you describe emptiness? What was once there, was gone. The smoke had cleared and, from all these miles away, was a hole in the sky.

I gasped.

But I didn't cry.

I stared. I couldn't not. And the few other people on the train with me did the same. No one pretended to not be looking. It was devastating. And as I looked out at the empty space until our train disappeared in to the tunnel. I tried to brace myself for what the city would look like, what it would feel like when I stepped out into it.

The long hallway from the train to the street was filled with posters and flyers, pictures of people missing since the attack. I looked but I didn't take in. It was too much. To stare at each individual face would have been too overwhelming, too personal. The pictured stretched out like an endless collage. And all I could comprehend was the enormity of the situation. When I stepped out, into the grey light of the city, the first thing I saw was a man at a table hocking picture postcards of the Towers burning. My gut instinct, like Jesus in the marketplace, was to flip his table over and push him wailing rock opera at the top of my lungs. How could he be turning a profit off of this tragedy? America. I swallowed it and walked away.

I don't remember what else I did that day besides a lot of walking. I wanted to see the places and things that were still there, still mine. I wanted to sit in the now-defunt, beautifully asymmetrical and run-down Washington Square Park -- how could someone approve spending millions of dollars to ALIGN the fountain and the arch?! When has the Village ever been about symmetry?

I miss the way I felt about the city then. And when I started coming here. I don't own it any more. It owns me. And I think, perhaps, having a job I care about would make a difference. Having something to do every day that has an effect on the way people think, see things, react, treat one another MEANS something. I'm still foolish enough to believe that creating theatre is a way of doing that.

I remember what the view was like from up there and I wish I could recapture it.

Good Friday

It always seems to rain on the day Jesus died.

In grade school, we would have off on this day. I wouldn't have to put on my stifling suit jacket and tie. The grey wool trousers could rest in the closet until Monday morning. And with the coming of warmer weather came me dreading the time when the suit jacket was no longer necessary. By the time I was eight, my natural tendency to avoid any kind of athletics had caught up with me. I wore glasses as a result of reading all the time. And my baby fat was multiplying exponentially -- to the point where it could no longer be considered just baby fat. It was, in fact, too much eating fat. My days and nights of pizza, stromboli, pierogies, fried dough and raw pasta (yes, you heard it here, raw pasta) had caught up with me. My black suit jacket provided a shield against the fat, or so I thought. In just my white shirt sleeves and tie I was vulnerable, easy to defeat.

With Mom at work, Good Fridays would be spent at Gram and Pop's cooking and reading. We strictly honored the no meat on Fridays during Lent edict. So that meant fish for Mom and Dad, Gram and Pop and Uncle Al. And pizza for me and my brother. It was my job to roll out the pizza dough and then when it had risen (much like the Saviour) and rested (like God on Sundays) I would top it. Not like that.

Of course after rolling the dough out, while Gram watched her soaps, I would go in and pick off tiny pieces of the raw mass and eat it. It was salty, chewy and delicious. I would then pour a big glass of coke and go back to whatever book I was reading. Sometimes I would help Gram bread the fish but I found that to be boring, especially if I was deeply engrossed in Christopher Pike. PS: Why have none of his young adult books translated to the big screen?

On Good Fridays Catholics aren't supposed to talk for an hour (usually between the hours of two and four -- pick one). Instead they're supposed to sit and reflect on the passing of Jesus (we were taught to bow our heads every time we said his name) and what his ultimate sacrifice meant to us. Well, to me, it meant I couldn't talk, read or watch TV for an hour. It meant sitting on the front porch with Gram one hand in mine the other with a cigarette, Isis the German Shepard/Husky mix curled at my feet, and the people on the street walking by.

It was quiet time.

Now there's too much quiet time. I forget, sometimes, how impossible it was to shut me up most of the time. As I got older I started to think that I didn't have anything worth saying.

Stalked

One summer night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to go out in the East Village.

This is before the Loved One, before the Actor, before the Mormon. Post-Arkansas. Post Present Ex (for those keeping track).

This is when I lived on Scholes Street, on the south side of Williamsburg. The Scholes Street apartment was serviceable. You walked in to the kitchen. The appliances were new, nothing else was. The bathroom was to your right. If you looked up to the right there was a wall and a window in that wall. Why? To let light in from the bedroom, of course. That bedroom, mine, was a pretty nice size. It fit my queen-sized mattress and a chest of drawers and a book shelf. I had painted one wall a very deep, Ralph Lauren navy blue. The two windows to the outside overlooked the parking lot of the projects across the street. Two streets beyond that was the apartment of Arkansas, which I could not clearly see. But tried. Many times.

My roommates bedroom was right next door to mine and the same size. Her bedroom also had a window in the inside wall to let light in to the coffin-sized living room. In this room we had a faded, high-back, scalloped yellow chair that had sat in my grandmother's bedroom for years and a small love seat that was direct from the 70s and covered in yarn flowers. Over the couch hung my autographed poster of "How To Marry A Millionaire." That, indeed, should have been the goal. For we were living in the projects.

Our next door neighbors on our floor almost always kept the door open and sitting out front, guarding the place, was an extremely large female pitbull. She was well-behaved but menacing looking, constantly panting, with a spiked leather collar. Perhaps it was her calmness that scared me more than anything. Her ears would perk up as you entered the building and she would just stare at you as you climbed the stairs. She would make no move to get out of your way as you stepped over her to reach the front door of our apartment. Across the stairwell from her, also cast off from this apartment, were a stack of Domino's pizza boxes of various shapes and sizes. I marveled at how one family could consume so much Dominos. But if you saw them, you would believe it. On weekend mornings the door would be open, music would be playing and the enticing smells of some far away Latin country would come drifting out of the kitchen. The residents might nod a polite hello but in two years of living there, we never spoke.

Our superintendent was a short, dyed-redhead, pencil-thin moustachioed Latin spitfire by the name of Mario. We, of course, called him 'Super Mario." On weekends he would be spotted late at night (or early in the morning) decked to the nines, in a sleek suit avec pocket hanky and fedora. He was going or coming from dancing. Where? we wondered but never asked.

The neighborhood was dirty, smelly, loud and scary at night. I hated it. Especially when I stumbled home drunk from the Metropolitan at 3 in the morning. Nothing sobers you up faster than a walk past two projects with a bunch of teens smashing bottles at the time of the night. But did I stop? No.

So one night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to hang out in the East Village. The Blonde requested The Hole because there would be lesbians there. The Hole took the place of the Cock when the Cock closed. But they moved the neon Cock sign to the Hole so now it was the Cock in the Hole? Or something. Never having been to the Cock, I was keen to visit its relocation. It was...uhm...dirty. It smelled like piss and alcohol. The walls were covered with graffiti. There was one working bathroom. The drinks were served in plastic cups that littered the floor for the rest of the night. The music was loud.

We drank. A lot. At least, I did. And we danced. The floor was so crowded it was less like dancing and more like jumping up and down in place, shaking your head from side-to-side, and carefully lifting your cup of booze to your lips without someone knocking it over. The necessity of plastic cups became very clear. Safer for everyone. Somehow, across the crowded room and flashing lights, my eyes made contact with a tall, handsome, dark haired stranger. Now, I was fairly drunk and I can't imagine how my eyes were able to focus on anything. More than likely, my blurry vision probably focused on him as a spot while I tried to bring the alcohol to my lips. Whatever the case, before I knew it, the stranger had crossed the room, introduced himself (as if I could hear him) and we were locked in a passionate kiss my hands exploring places they wouldn't have had I been sober. Or sane. I was suffering from an acute lack of sanity at this point in my life (among others).

The Blonde and the Bartender must have been aware of my state because before I knew it there they were gently prodding me to go home. It was late and they were tired. I motioned them away and said I'd be with them shortly. In the meantime I was able to gather that my newfound friend was an artist, Israeli and HOT. I gave him my business card (which had my name, email and phone number but the address of the Texas theatre company) and -- against my drunken judgement -- I allowed myself to be taken home.

Well, when I got off the subway I already had two messages from the Painter saying he wanted to see me again. I smiled at his chutzpah and saved the messages. I went home and collapsed into a deep, drunken, restless sleep. The next morning I awoke to another message. Wow. Ok. I don't usually play by conventional dating rules. I think if you're interested you should make it known. Don't have to wait a day to call, etc. But this was something else. I was also a little disconcerted because in the messages he kept calling me "Stevie" instead of "JV" and the card obviously said "JV." But, he's foreign, I'll forgive it. I called the Painter back and, surprisingly, got his voicemail. Obviously he wasn't THAT keen to talk to me. He called back not two minutes later. I let it go to voicemail. I was hungover.

Later that night I met the Blonde at Metropolitan for a couple of drinks but wanted to make it an early night. As I made the long walk down Union Street to Schole, I stared longingly up Arkansas's block and the phone rang. It was the Painter. Hey, how are you.

"Stevie. I've been thinking about you all day. You're so hot. Where are you?"

Actually I'm on my home.

"In the Brooklyn?"

Yes. Early night.

"I am with friends in the East Village. I want to see you. Come out with us."

Aw. That's nice. I'd like to see you too. But I'm going to bed.

"No. It's too early. I want to see you. I will come there."

You're with your friends.

"I don't care. I will come in a cab. It will take 10 minutes. I just want to kiss you again."

Well, that's sweet.

And I thought about it. For a second.

But not tonight. Let's get together later this week.

"Pleeeease, Steeeevie. I neeeed to see you."

Uhm. Well...

Need? He needs to see me. Weird.

Let's talk tomorrow. You have fun with your friends.

"Ok. But we'll go out this week?"

Yes. Fine. This week. Great.

And I hung up the phone and thought , Well. I'll never call him again.

The next morning, Monday, I had three missed calls from the Painter in my sleep and two messages. Ok, this is a little crazy. I went to the gym (because in those days I could still work out hung over) and hopped on the subway to Times Square. When I got off the train that little voicemail light was blinking insistently. Who else would call me that early on a Monday? I listed to the message: "Steeeevie. It's me. Why do you not answer your phone or call me. I need to see you. Pleeeeease. Have lunch with me, coffee, anything. I just need to see you."

Fine. Lunch. Throw the dog a bone. I called him back while waiting in line at Starbucks for my iced coffee. Told him to meet me there at 12:30 for lunch.

"It will not come soon enough."

Yes, it will.

When I went down at lunch to meet him I was desperately trying to remember what he looked like. I certainly remembered other aspects of his physical person but my vision, as I mentioned earlier, was a little blurry when we were face-to-face. When I saw the tall, gangly body walking toward me I wasn't unhappy. When I saw the broken, craggy, crooked, smiling face leering down at me my heart plummeted. This was going to be work. He bent down and tried to pull me into him but I sidestepped and held out my hand. Hi.

"Steeeevie. I missed you."

Uh huh. Well. There's a pizza place around the corner. Let's go grab a slice. I'm going to keep my phone on me, sorry, because things are really busy at work and my boss might need me.

He tried to put his arm around my shoulder on the way over. I pulled away. He talked, I'm sure about something. I asked about his work, not uninterested in his life as a painter. When he asked me questions I skillfully turned them around. He didn't order food. And he stared at me the entire time, a look between in his eyes somewhere between lust and obsession. I'm familiar with that look. I see it all the time. Just usually not turned on me.

I put away two slices of pizza faster than a contestant on the Biggest Loser and pretended like me phone was vibrating. I then proceeded to have a hurried and stressful pretend conversation with my boss and told the Painter that I was needed back at the office ASAP. He was very understanding and asked if I wanted him to walk me back and I said, No. I have to run.

And run I did; four blocks across Times Square and into the safe arms of 1450 Broadway. Of course by the time I got back I had a message from the Painter. I didn't listen. Over the course of the next week or so, he continued to call. I would delete his messages without even listening to them. These persisted for over a week until I finally convinced my Texas friend, the Artistic Director, to call the Painter, posing as my wife. And threaten the painter to stop calling and harassing me as I was married. She did. But she forgot to block her called ID so the Psycho, I mean, the Painter started calling Texas. And more calls to me.

"Stevie," his tone was decidedly different. "Who is this woman who calls saying to be your wife? I do not understand. You must call me, Stevie. It is important. I need you."

Uhm. I'm not calling.

Then a few weeks later, I get a call from the Artistic Director. A painting has shown up for me. What is she to do? Throw it away. Burn it. I don't care. Just get rid of it. Although I kind of wanted to see it. But the Painter had stopped calling. And I would never visit the Hole again.

Writer's Block

I'm experiencing a severe bout of writer's block.
Not here, on the blog. Apparently there's no end to stories about my life.
But I'm sick of writing about me all the time.

I started writing a play a few weeks ago. About a year ago or so, the Muse and I went to see the Caryl Churchill play "Drunk Enough to Say I Love You?" After the play we slowly wandered up to Nowhere Bar on 14th Street and 1st Avenue, talking about the play and what we were doing theatrically/artistically. The answer, as all too often is the case, was nothing. And so I took on the challenge to write a screenplay with the Muse in mind. Why a screenplay? Well, I was sick of theatre and I had some ideas and most of them seemed more cinematic than theatrical. Also, the idea of writing something fairly localized and contained that we could then shoot on our own time with a camera somewhere seemed more accessible than renting rehearsal space, renting a theatre, finding PR money, finding an audience, etc. Foolish boy. Over the course of a month or so I did write the screenplay, finishing it in Mexico when the Loved One and I were on vacation. I haven't touched it since. I had wanted to do a reading of it before tackling a second draft but I got scared...lazy...yeah, that about covers it. And I hadn't touched it. Until last week when the Muse filmed a scene from it for personal reasons and it re-lit the spark.

Anyway, the Muse and I have been talking about other ideas that's I've had. I gave her two books I'm fascinated with and want to turn into plays. One, a memoir, really touched my heart and I think can be turned into a stellar one-woman or small cast show. I can't seem to get the publisher or agents to return my faxes. Its times like this an agent of my own would be extremely helpful. And a trust fund. The other story, a non-fiction tale, is utterly compelling but very close thematically to Grey Gardens. In fact, one of the women is even named Edie. So that remains on my list of "To Be Done." In the meantime, I focused my attention on another story I found in the New York Times some five years ago or so.

Based on a true story, I did try for a short while to obtain the rights from the Times. Then I realized that being based on real life events, this probably wasn't entirely necessary. After a few months of emailing back and forth with the Times and with various agents it seemed to have gone away. In the state I was in, I let it. But the story kept coming back and knocking, annoyingly, in my head. It wanted to get out. It wanted to be told. It needed a voice. In fact, I had started writing it a few years ago as a novel not as a play. But in its heart, it wanted to be a play.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was going to veer dramatically from the real life events it was based on so I started writing. And I was writing every day. I would spend an hour or so in the morning on the blog and then an hour or so in the afternoon on the play. But now the play seems to have gone away. I didn't really plot it out beforehand; I would just sit down and write. The more I wrote, the more the voices of the character came through. Much like the more I wrote on this blog, the more my own voice came through.

But now the voices in my head seem to have gone away for a short time and I'm in limbo once again.

The play, written once again with the Muse in mind, has turned into something of a cross between 'All About Eve' and 'The Talented Mr. Ripley.' I know where work is needed in what I've written already but I don't want to do that work until I've finished a draft. But the characters have slipped away. It's symptomatic of my current mental state. I find it hard now to sit at this desk and write every day. There's no inspiration. I find it hard to communicate what I'm feeling, thinking and wanting; let alone what imaginary characters in my head feel/think/want. I'm frustrated. I don't know how to be a working artist/writer/director. I want to commit to something and see it through. I need to unblock myself. Perhaps some Activia will work. It restarted Jamie Lee Curtis's career.

A Tiny Piece of Texas

After the break-up with the Mormon, I dove head on into rehearsals for "Icarus" by Edwin Sanchez, produced by Amphibian Production in Fort Worth, Texas.

Texas is a funny place. The first time I went out there to direct a play was the summer after grad school. I got a call from a former classmate saying they had lost their director and would I be interested. At that point, I was interested in directing anything, anywhere. We were told, at school, to never turn down a job. (I have come to learn that this is not the case. If you don't like a show, or experience a violent reaction upon reading it, turn it down. You will only do it more harm.) So I said, Yes! Email me the script.

The play was titled, The True History of the...wait, I have to google it; the real title is so goddamned long: The True History of the Tragic Life and Triumphant Death of Julia Pastrana, the Ugliest Woman in the World. Intriguing? Pretentious? Yes. And the catch, it's written to take place entirely in the dark. I love a challenge. And I've never been to Texas. The show was precast with some actors I didn't know and two I knew from grad school. With one part free I happily cast my cousin, the Actress. If I was going to Texas, she was coming with me.

During the time, I was going through a rough time (ie: broken heart) over Arkansas. I alluded to this relationship earlier and at some point I will try to write about it but I was in full blown, psycho-stalker mode. Emails, poetry, phone calls. It didn't help that he lived around the corner from my house so I had to walk by his apartment every day. We would also, indubitably, run into each other on the L, on the street or at Metropolitan. Awkward. And enervating. After four weeks of rehearsal in NYC, I stepped off the plane in Dallas/Ft Worth. The first thing I remember seeing was a big billboard; yellow with a the black silhouette of a house on it, on top of which is the white outline of a body. It was an ad for a company that will come and clean up your home after a murder, death or suicide. I thought it fitting for my welcome to Texas.

But I quickly fell in love with the state, the city and its people. Sure, most of them would string me up to the nearest tree or rear fender of their pick-up truck if they knew I was gay, but they were friendly and welcoming as long as they didn't know I was. And I loved the August heat. It cut right through me and energized me. I loved walking in it. I loved lounging in the tanning the at the TCU sports facility in an inch of water while the sun beat down on me and sweat dripped off any unsunken skin. The joy of rehearsing this particular play was that we needed complete darkness so we couldn't rehearse in the theatre during the day, too much ambient light.

But my heart was still broken and all I could think about/talk about was Arkansas. When we got back from the gym one day, I turned on CNN to see streams of NYers walking across bridges to the outer boroughs. Apparently, there had been a city-wide power outage. The first person I called? Arkansas. Really, JV? Really. He, of course, didn't answer. Why should he? I wouldn't have. And then I called everyone else I loved.

This time, three years or so later, I stepped off the plane again with a broken heart; this time it was for the Mormon. Once again, the hot August heat washed over me and, once again, I took comfort in its warm, healing arms.

I was staying, as I had in the past, with My Dear Ones in their comfortable, friendly home. My room there was like a cave. No matter how bright it was outside, the dark wood shutters kept everything out. And although usually a morning person, I found myself sleeping until 9 or 10am. Practically unheard of for me. I would wake up, make coffee, eat an english muffin with peanut butter and jelly then put on some work out clothes, leave a note for the Muse (also staying with My Dear Ones) and head for the hiking trails not too far from the house.

With my iPod on shuffle, I would walk the trails in the blazing sun until I was so sweaty it was as if I was melting. But I loved it. My legs and arms cut up from thistle, branches and thorns, the pain and blood made me feel real. Alive. I was not tentative as I ran up a rocky slope to reach the top and look out over the cars rushing by below me and the flat Texas horizon beyond. I would stand there and sing along to my iPod at the top of my lungs, unseen and unheard. And isn't that how I felt most of the time? Unseen and unheard. In the shadows, watching. Waiting. To what end?

One day, I took a different trail, one I had not noticed before. It took me down further and further than I had thought possible and I lost sight of the large television towers that served as my mark for whenever I got lost. But I figured if the trail went down, it must come up somewhere. The shad felt cool and nice against my sunburnt face and shoulders. The air was moist down here from an unseen body of water. I came across a little crick and easily jumped over it. Then going even deeper, I had to duck to make it through the overgrowth. My too long hair caught in branches and pulled not so gently. I cursed and wished I had worn a baseball cap. Suddenly the growth cleared and on the path before me, shimmering like newly spun satin were blankets of spider webs draped over ankle-high bushes. They spread in front of me for over twenty to thirty feet. It was as if an angel or something had come and lay down a cloak for later, so perfectly did they lie there. I stood in awe, it was a beautiful sight with the vivid green of the bushes lying beneath them.

I carefully tread the small path in between them, trying to leave them undisturbed and study them at the same time. Looking in at them, they were far more complicated than I had initially thought. Rows and rows of thin threads interlaced, one on top of another to create a tapestry. It was truly breathtaking. It made me remember that moment on Bear Mountain when the Mormon and I watched the tiny caterpillar make its way along the tree branch. Look at what one little creature could accomplish, I thought. I wanted him there, beside me again. I wanted to show him this achievement. Look at what can happen when you come together, I thought. But I was alone. And my heart throbbed, a ghost pain I suffered from the hole he left inside of me. I walked slowly through the shadowed path and further along until I could once again see light breaking in through the overhead trees. I needed to be in the light. I needed to feel the heat. I needed to sweat the pain and sickness out of me. I was too comfortable in the shadows.

But these trails were mine. Never had I run into any one else on them. Once in a while, the bark of a dog would echo through the valley. I would stumble across animal tracks and pray that I wasn't prey to a mountain lion or some such wild cat that would no doubt provoke an allergy attack as well as a brutal clawing. No, these trails were mine when I was on them. They were my piece of Texas.

It was time to wake the Muse and sip another cup of coffee and smoke cigarettes and commiserate about rehearsal.

On death and dying

Ruminating on loss and loneliness too much these days.

Too much time spent to myself. Too much time in my own head. I write these blog posts, remembering times in my life with the clarity of 20/20 hindsight. The present, however, is much more blurry. The Therapist and I dug into this on Friday evening and I'm still reeling from the session. The point being, change is needed; big, massive, earth -shattering change. The question is: how do I affect this change? I don't have the answer, just questions. Always questions.

In my second year of grad school I was deep in rehearsals for Douglas Carter Beane's play 'As Bees In Honey Drown.' I saw the original production off-Broadway and had been fairly unimpressed with it. However, I was keen to direct a comedy; this play was highly castable in a grad school environment; and I was drawn to its themes of ambiguity, masks and fairy tale. Which of us doesn't want to recreate ourselves on a daily basis? I was also fascinated by its portrayal of the 80s art scene in NYC. A world that, through Tama Janowitz's 'Slaves of New York', I had hoped to be a part of upon my arrival. Needless to say, that world was gone by the 90s. But it still fascinated me.

And like Beane's main character, Alexa Vere de Vere, my personality and sense of humor had been shaped by leading women in the entertainment world: Roz Russell in 'Auntie Mame', Tallulah Bankhead in 'Lifeboat', Audrey Heburn in 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', anything starring Marilyn Monroe, and any old Bette Midler recording. How do these icons find us in our youth? What is it about them that calls the young gay boy? What is their allure? I would think it's something in their ability to be tough and vulnerable; to say what's on their mind in a funny, off-the-cuff kind of way; their ability to reinvent themselves while still retaining something that is essentially and viscerally them. I aspired to that. Perhaps, I still do.

So there I am. In New Jersey. Directing Beane. A week before tech and opening. My grandmother had fallen a few weeks before. She had been taken to the hospital with a fractured hip. A fractured hip turned to pneumonia. Pneumonia, after a lifetime of smoking and several bouts of struggling with lung cancer led to the inevitable. Gram was transferred to hospice and I had to go home to see her, immediately because it wouldn't be long now.

They say bad things come in threes. Gram's impending death was the third event to prove that theory true. 9/11 had rocked all our worlds that September. An indirect result of that event was the final break-up of my romantic relationship with Present Ex. Still on wobbly feet, I was forced to confront the end of the life of a woman who touched me and meant as much to me as my mother. Gram lived around the corner from us my entire life. She took care of me when Mom started working. She taught me to cook, to clean. She bandaged my cuts when I fell. She took me shopping. She took me, every summer, to the farm on which she grew up. She taught me compassion. She tried to teach me to be tough. She chased me around the house, wielding a wooden spoon to whip my behind when I misbehaved. And she made me laugh.

I don't know when it is that people become aware of their own mortality and the mortality of those close to them. I assume it's different for everyone and I would also assume that some never do. In undergrad, on visits home, my heart would ache at the sight of my grandparents framed in the white doorway of their front porch, waving to me as we drove away. I was convinced every time that I wouldn't see them again. And I was filled with joy every time I came home and there they were, waiting for me to return. Pop on the porch. Gram in the kitchen, putting food down on the table in front of me the minute I walked in.
And nothing bet Gram's cooking. Raised in a large Polish family on a farm in upstate Pennsylvania, she had moved to Philadelphia to become a nurse. She met my Italian grandfather, an Army Sergeant, and they fell in love. What was a Polish girl to do? Learn how to cook Italian! And she did. Kick ass.

She and my grandfather also loved and accepted their gay son. And loved and accepted me and Present Ex.

When Mom called me at Rutgers and told me to come home, my heart dropped. I had thrown myself into my work at school in an effort to not think about it. Sometimes I was successful. Sometimes I wasn't. But with Gram in hospice, there was no way to avoid it anymore. Mom, of course, wanted me to take the train in. She didn't want me to drive to Philly in an emotional state. While I understood this, the plan was to skip classes and drive in for the day so I would be back in time for rehearsal that night, knowing I would miss important time at school soon for the funeral. So I opted to drive, blasting the Indigo Girls all the way. In times of trouble, lesbian harmony is a lifesaver.

The hour-long ride went by too quickly and as I approached St. Agnes Hospital on Broad Street I had to pull over. I was hyperventilating, my hands were shaking and I could barely see for the water welling up deep in my eyes. I didn't want o do this. I didn't want to see her here. I wanted her to die quickly and without my having to "prepare" for it. But here I was and Gram was conscious and aware. I needed to see her. Being a former nurse, she knew that things were coming to an end.

I drove my car up and up the long, winding ramps of the hospital parking lot. There wasn't a space to be had, except on the roof. I thought, How many people are here? How many people are dying here? How many people are being born here? And wasn't it fitting that she had come back to the place where she worked for so many years for her own care. I parked the car and tried to force the tears out but they wouldn't come. Sometimes the amount of control I exert over myself is beyond even my own understanding. The tears were there, but they wouldn't come.

I took the cold, steel elevator to the hospice level. The smell of the hospital made my stomach turn. The sounds of ventilators and heart monitors echoed in my head and I walked blindly through the automatic doors. When they closed behind me, the sounds abruptly stopped. This place was quiet. The machines hummed silently but they weren't set to work as hard as possible to keep patients alive. These machines were set to maintain. I stood in front of the nurse's station and saw my mom and my grandfather silhouetted in front of the window and the cold grey sky beyond. A nurse asked me a question but all I could hear were the sounds of her voice, not the words. Mom looked up and saw me. She wiped tears from her eyes as she came out and she hugged me hard. "Try not to cry," she said. "She knows it's bad but seeing you is going to reinforce that. We don't know how much longer she'll last."

Is she awake? Is she aware?

"Yes. Talk to her. She knows where she is."

I don't want to go in. I can't go in.

"For her."

And, like a little boy again, Mom took my hand and led me into the room. There was another patient in the first bed, an African American woman who looked worse than I thought a person could. She was surrounded by family members and the hospice nurse who was cracking jokes and taking pictures. I wanted to punch her. She had short, spikey red hair. She floated around the room as if nothing was wrong. She put her arms around people as if she knew them. She whispered intimacies in their ears. She cajoled them into taking pictures with the stick-figure loved ones in their bed. And then there was Gram. She was in bed, hardly raised, her hair white and whispy and her figure as close to emaciated as I'd ever seen it. Gram had always been weirdly solid and wiry. Now she was weak and old. Her glasses were too big for her face. Her life was too small for her body. She smiled when she saw me and I bent down to kiss her on the cheek. The skin was rough and dry, malleable like an old rubber band. I made myself not pull away. I went around the bed to hug and kiss Pop who looked at me sadly but full of strength. "I'll go get you a coffee," he said.

"Talk to her," Mom said.

And I sat down beside her, and I took her hand and I babbled. I looked in her eyes and talked about school and rehearsal. And all the while, her thumb rubbed the back of my hand. It didn't matter what I said. She wasn't listening to me and either was I. it was just about being there.

After a while, my brother showed up and Mom took us to lunch at the local diner. We weren't yet at the point where we could laugh and smile and share funny Gram stories. We were each of us alone in our private grief. And I wondered how alone was Gram? What was she thinking? Was she replaying her own life events over and over in her head? Was she scared? Was she ready for it to be over? What did she see when she looked at me? The last time I had seen her, I kissed her goodbye as she sat on her chair in the living room, watching TV. She said. "I don't want to die until I see you settled." I laughed and said, Then you're never going to die. I work in the theatre. I'm never going to be settled.

But here we were. She was dying. I was farther from settled then I ever had been.

After lunch I hugged my brother goodbye and watched him, suited up for business, get into his car and drive to the bank. Then I walked Mom back to the hospital. I didn't want to ask the question and, blessedly, she answered it for me without my having to ask, "You don't have to come back up." I hugged her hard, whispered 'I love you' and told her I'd call her when I got back to Jersey.

On the ride home, I tried to make myself forget what had just happened but I kept sensing Gram's thumb stroking my hand. I wished as I had a thousand times before when she was struggling with cancer that I could somehow transfer my health into her sick body. I wish I could have given her the gift of my life, even if it meant forsaking some of my own. I would have.

I went to rehearsal that night. I smoked too many cigarettes even though my grandmother was dying as a result of lung cancer. I opted not to talk about what was going on. I couldn't call Present Ex and cry. We weren't at that point yet. I had nowhere to go but into my work. Fortunately my work involved direct contact with other people. My self-destructive, hermitted nature could appear later, at home. I thought about the play; the play, the play. The play was, indeed, the thing. It was healing to disappear into the crazy world of Alexa Vere de Vere and her schemes.

The next day, my grandfather procured a hospital bed for the house. Gram didn't want to be in hospice any longer. The day after that, she was discharged. The next day, she passed away quietly at home at six in the morning.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 4

We all tumbled into the awaiting van, exhausted and exhilarated. If anything, thought, I felt even more alone. I was in awe of the power these artists had managed to hold over the crowd of 45,000. To hold that many people in the palm of your hand, to make them feel something so powerful, to somehow achieve transcending us out of our bodies while making us feel so very present and aware. That was power. That was art.

The ride back was quick. We pulled up to the hotel and rolled into the bar for the after party. Surprisingly, it was a small room and a small party but everyone was there. I shook hands with a Pet Shop Boy. I got cruised by a still sunglass-wearing George Michael. As I saddled up to the bar I came face-to-face with Rufus Wainwright, TV Actor by my side.

"Rufus!" She yelled. "You were fantastic." She introduced me and he introduced his sister, Martha.

NIce to meet you both.

We talked for a while, I can't imagine what about now. I remember he leaned in very closely, so close I was a little uncomfortable. His hair was greasy and unwashed. In fact, his entire aura was that of "unwashed." I also thought he was a little high on something. I was tired, hungry and getting drunk quickly. After a while I politely excused myself, shook his hand and went in search of TV Actor. I finally found her sandwiched between Chaka Khan and George Michael.

Hey, I'm running up to the room. I'll be back in a few.

She blew some smoke in my face, smiled and said 'OK.'

As I left the room I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders. I didn't have to smile anymore. I didn't have to be charming. I didn't have to talk to people who were more successful than me. I didn't have to worry about saying the right thing. I didn't have to tell anyone how fantastic they were. I could breath. And I could be alone. It was about 2am and the elevator was empty as it shot up to my floor. I let myself into the room and collapsed on the bed, falling asleep fully clothed. Alone again.

***

The next morning I woke up early. I had to eat something. I was starving, had a headache and needed coffee.

I crept in to the living room. TV Actor's door was closed but I knocked lightly. We had to rouse ourselves and gather to meet one more time downstairs for the Millenium March. Ellen and crew were leading the parade. We'd be directly behind them.
I knocked again. There was a groan and I cracked the door.

Wake up, sleepy head.

"What happened to you last night?"

I had a headache and I was exhausted. I came up, got into bed and fell asleep.

Truth to tell I've always been notorious for disappearing from parties and events. After a while, I get fed up and usually overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and desolation at big events. I find it easier to just leave without saying anything than to find everyone and say goodbye and make excuses for my leaving, etc. Also, the feelings usually become so strong that I just need to jet. Even if I've had a part in whatever event we're celebrating, I leave the same way. I get disgusted by the phoniness of the situation.

"We missed you. Rufus sought me out later and asked about you."

Rufus was drunk and high.

"And dirty."

Yes, and dirty.

"I thought you liked that."

Not last night. Ok, I'm gonna go get us some coffee and snacks and you get showered and dressed. Meet me in the lobby.

I ran to Starbucks and get us the appropriate caffeine and sugar products to sustain us through the mornings events. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday; a perfect Spring day in DC. I got back to the hotel and the camera crew was milling around. Ellen, Anne and Ellen's mom, Betty DeGeneres, were talking to the cameras. I sat, sipped my coffee and watched. TV Actor made a grand entrance. Someone must have tipped her off to the cameras rolling. I heard someone say that Melissa and Julie were staying in and skipping the march, they were too tired. We piled into the van, cameras rolling the entire time. No one said hello or good morning to me.

The van driver wasn't told where exactly we were supposed to go. We drove around for quite some time and came across one closed street after another. The driver was getting angry and Ellen and Anne were getting on edge. The march was supposed to start at any minute and we were nowhere near where we needed to be. Finally, Anne yelled out 'Just let us out here.' We were somewhere along the National Mall.

The van driver stopped, the doors opened and we poured out; cameras rolling. We knew the general direction we were supposed to be going in, but nothing specific. The Mall was packed with marchers getting ready. We only got a few feet before we were spotted and immediately, terrifyingly, the crowd started to close in. Hundreds of men and women were calling out Ellen's name. She tried to be gracious. She tried to shake hands and smile at people. It soon became impossible. People wanted to touch her, to talk to her, to devour her. We formed a protective circle around the couple and made our way back to the van, people shouting, screaming and rushing us. People threw themselves into our hands and arms to try and break through. We pushed Ellen and Anne in and quickly followed, closing the door harshly on a crowd of people quickly angered by our denial.

The van took off. We came to another blocked street but this time a cop was stationed at the barricade. We pleaded our case and he let us through, still too far from our destination. The street, of course, dead ended. But we could hear the March and we knew we were that much closer. Unfortunately, we also had to climb a wall and scale a hill to get there. Ellen and Anne ran ahead leading the pack. At one point, Ellen looked back in concern for her mother. I waved and said, I've got her. Don't worry. I took Betty's hand and I led her up the hill and there, below us, was the March.

I can't even begin to describe how many people were there. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, all colors, all walks of life, led by a simple banner proclaiming equality for all. When they saw Ellen running towards them they let out a great roar. She and Anne kept running, their hands over their heads in exaltation, a cloud of dirt and rocks being kicked up in their wake. They each ran to one side of the sign and grabbed it. They were both glowing with pride.

Betty let go of my hand and I trailed behind her until we caught up with the crowd. Ellen smiled and nodded at her mother and we took our places behind the banner. And we marched. We marched for equality. We marched for the under-represented. We marched for each other. And we marched for ourselves. It was truly overwhelming.

After a while the crowd, once again, started to push and pull their way closer to Ellen. I found myself getting further and further behind the group. I let them march ahead of me. Slowly, I found my way outside of the marchers and made my way in the sun back to the hotel. I packed my bag, left the TV Actor a note and headed for the airport.