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.
10 April, 2009
09 April, 2009
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.
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.
08 April, 2009
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.
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.
07 April, 2009
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.
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.
06 April, 2009
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.
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.
02 April, 2009
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.
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.
01 April, 2009
Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 3
It was early afternoon on April 29, 2000. I was in the lobby of the hotel waiting for TV Actor to come down. The plan was to head to RFK Stadium for sound check and then just hang out there for the concert. As I waited in the large, cold marble lobby and interesting group of people began to assemble. First a three or four person camera crew, followed by a blonde woman who I knew to be Anne Heche. Shortly thereafter she was joined by Ellen Degeneres. I hung back and stood in awe. A few seconds later, Melissa Etheridge and Julie Cypher exited the elevators. Melissa in tight tight black leather pants and silky, flimsy rocker shirt. Julie in a summer dress, looking tan and pretty. A tall blonde woman was talking to them and when she turned toward me I realized it was Laura Dern.
I was getting more celebrity sightings in five seconds in the lobby of a DC hotel than I'd ever had in New York. Ok, that's not true. But these were real, big-time celebrities. Not just theatre people.
The elevators dinged and I looked up expectantly. The TV Actor came out and screamed. She hugged Ellen and Anne, Melissa and Julie and then Laura -- who was on her cell phone and proceeded to walk outside to continue the conversation. Then the TV Actor saw me and waved me over. One by one she introduced me and I could only say 'hi' and stand there, transfixed with my mouth agape. I'm not usually star struck but I was beyond at this point. Ellen's coming out had touched so many men and women of...well, I was going to say MY generation but really wasn't it every generation? It wasn't only gay people who crowded around their television screens to watch the coming out episode three years ago. My parents watched. My grandparents watched. My brother even watched. Ellen had made a huge impact on how America sees and accepts gays.
And Melissa Etheridge's music was playing on my car radio the afternoon I came out to mother.
All I could do was shake hands and smile. We piled into a white van, film crew and all. TV Actor explained to me that Julie Cypher was directing a documentary about Ellen, Anne and their life together. Do you know who the head cameraman was? Coley Laffoon, the man Anne would leave Ellen for only a short time later. Melissa Etheridge was to be the Emcee of the concert tonight: Equality Rocks sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign to promote the equality and safety of all people. The tag line was "Dream. Hope. Rock." The line-up of performers included Etheridge, George Michael, Garth Brooks and the Pet Shop Boys. The next morning all the same people would lead the Millenium March for Equality.
My head was spinning. Etheridge was asking the van for trivia question suggestions about her. People who answered correctly would be able to come back stage and meet her. A handsome, long-haired blonde man who must have been her assistant was making a list and throwing out ideas. He turned to me and I couldn't pay attention to him because I was fascinated by the sight of Etheridge's long blonde hair bouncing up and down in the seat in front of me. The TV Actor took my hand and I turned to her and mouthed "Oh My God." She threw back her head, laughed and looked out the window. The van pulled into RFK Stadium and I saw the flashing lights of the billboard announcing tonight's concert. I had in no way been prepared for the magnitude of this event unfolding before me.
The van pulled in. We were given our all-access passes which immediately went around our necks. Laura Dern immediately got on her cell phone and disappeared on to the stadium floor. The TV Actor and I wandered out aimlessly to watch the other performers finishing their sound check. A Canadian singer with a funny name who I'd never heard of was finishing his set. "That's Rufus Wainwright," the TV Actor said. His nasal tenor reverberated through the empty stadium and I couldn't tell if I loved or despised his voice. He walked off as Etheridge walked on with her band and she gave him a warm hug. I sat down to watch Etheridge in action but she didn't perform. She strummed a little, talked a little, and wandered around the stage checking out the venue. Laura Dern appeared again from seemingly nowhere and exited in a hurry to the backstage area. The TV Actor turned to me, "Billy Bob and Angelina are getting married. She's a mess." Well, that explained that.
"I have to find the bathroom," TV Actor said and disappeared backstage.
I got up to follow but didn't want to be a pain in her ass. I walked around the stadium floor. Soon, 45,000 people would fill this place all in support of one cause. I felt out of my element and completely alone. As cool as this was, these weren't my people. There was no one to truly share this moment with. It meant something, but what? I felt a darkness fall over me and I tried to fight it but I knew it would ebb and flow for the rest of the weekend on its own accord. I was in limbo with Present Ex, who would kill to be with my at this moment if he knew what was going on. I was now in limbo with casting and grad school. I was going to have to move to New Jersey for three years. Everything was unsettled and here I was surrounded by TV, movie and rock stars. It didn't make any sense. I didn't want to be there.
I began to head backstage when I ran in to Julie Cypher. She was alone and standing watching Etheridge on the stage. I introduced myself again and we stood and talked for a shirt time. She was distant, cold and wanted little to do with me. I tried to ask questions about the documentary but she seemed unsure of its actual purpose or where it was going to be shown. I recognized that my presence with her was not required so I moved on.
Backstage was relatively quiet. As Etheridge was the headliner, they had held her sound check til the end. So it was quiet in the green room. Couches of all shapes, sizes and colors were littered everywhere, most in various states of disrepair. A home basketball free throw machine was tucked in a corner. Caterers were coming in to lay out the food for the artists and crew. I heard my name and the TV Actor was behind me. "Let's take a walk around," she said.
As the sun set we made our way through the back parking lot. "My shirt ripped and I want to see if I can fix it. Ellen's trailer is this way. Let's see if there's a sewing kit in there." The lot was a maze of trailers glowing orange and pink in the fading light. I didn't know where we were going but followed closely behind, smoking a Nat Sherman. Someone ahead called the TV Actor's name and we both looked up. Sitting in the doorway of a trailer right in front of us was k.d. Lang. "Hey, k.d.!" TV Actor shouted. "What's going on?"
k.d. smiled and leered at TV Actor whose ample bosom was beginning to spill out of her shirt. "I ripped a strap and I'm trying to fix it."
"I can help hold those up for you," k.d. said.
"A needle and thread would be more helpful, thanks."
"Honey, I don't know how to use either. But take a look around and see if there's anything in there that helps." TV Actor kissed k.d. on the cheek and made her way into the trailer. I said Hi and stood outside watching the setting sun. The two women laughed and chatted outside and finally TV Actor reappeared. "Nothing. Let's find Ellen's."
We waved goodbye and k.d., standing in the doorway yelled out, "If you can't find anything my offer still holds."
We turned a corner and found Ellen's trailer. TV Actor walked right in. "They went back to the hotel. The place is ours." We walked in and it looked like a love shack. An orange and yellow couch straight out of the 70s took up most of the room. A shag rug lay like a dejected beast on the floor. There were plates of half-eaten food on every surface. I sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch while TV Actor dug through whatever she could find. "I'd settle for a goddamned safety pin!" She screamed. I laughed.
I wish I could help, I said with a sigh.
She went into the bathroom and screamed, "Voila!" She stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, holding up her shirt in one hand and a safety pin in the other, a twinkle in her eye. "Got it. Ready?" She sat next to me on the sofa and i took the thin silk strap in my hand and tried to lightly bunch the fabric around her back in a tastefully simple way to attach the two pieces again. "Just don't pin me."
I'll try my best.
After a few attempts, I succeeded and she ran to the bathroom to view the results in the mirror. "I can get away with it if I wear my jacket over it," she said. "And at least the ladies won't be falling out all over the place." She lifted her boobs under the purple silk for effect.
I think they're safe.
"I'm going to fix my make-up and then we'll go."
As we opened the trailer door I was struck by a sound almost like the ocean. In the short time we had left the interior of the stadium, it had filled up. The excitement of the moment washed over both of us and we ran to the concert floor. Whereas earlier the stadium had been empty, the sunlight reflecting off the back of thousands of unoccupied chairs, the area was now dark and filled with people. The excitement of the crowd was palpable and contagious. It was almost overwhelming as I felt it rush over me from my head to my toes.
This is insane, I shouted. But TV Actor didn't hear me. She had already made her way out to the concert floor to watch the action on the stage. I flashed my badge to a security guard and ran to join her. Ellen was on-stage and the crowd would not stop cheering. It went on for what seemed like forever and it drew tears of joy from her eyes. "We shouldn't have to have a concert like this!" she yelled into the mic and the audience roared even louder.
And then followed a string of performers and speakers. As the night went on, I wandered back and forth between the stadium floor and the green room. I liked Rufus Wainwright and his sister enough. George Michael, in his purple satin suit and dark sunglasses, was amazing. The Pet Shop Boys played a long fun but redundant set. Chaka Khan was really fat.
I sat on one of the green room couches munching on a piece of fried chicken, watching an older man help a young child play basketball. A quiet, middle-aged woman with short straight redish hair sat next to me and smiled. The older man came and sat down next to the woman. He smiled and I said, Hi and put out my hand to introduce myself.
"I'm Dennis Shepard," he said. "This is my wife, Judy."
Oh. Wow.
I'm...I'm...so sorry for your loss. And I'm glad you're here. You two have been so important to this cause.
Dennis looked at the little boy still trying to play with the basketball machine and smiled wistfull. "It's very important to us. Matthew was very important to us. We just do everything we can to make the message clear. Like, see that little boy over there, I want him to grow up in a world without hate."
A runner came in and called Dennis to the stage. "It was nice meeting you."
Likewise.
I ran out to the stadium floor just as Melissa Etheridge was introducing Dennis. Judy stayed backstage. The crowd jumped to its feet again and cheered so loud the stadium shook. Once again, Dennis talked about the importance of this event and the necessity of equality in the world today, tomorrow and forever. When he was done speaking, Dennis waved to the crowd and walked off. Etheridge tore into her song about Matthew's death, "Scarecrow." You could hear a pin drop in the stadium while she performed. When she was done, there was a moment of silence. Many people, including myself, wiped tears from their eyes and then burst into a collective scream.
I was overwhelmed.
I was getting more celebrity sightings in five seconds in the lobby of a DC hotel than I'd ever had in New York. Ok, that's not true. But these were real, big-time celebrities. Not just theatre people.
The elevators dinged and I looked up expectantly. The TV Actor came out and screamed. She hugged Ellen and Anne, Melissa and Julie and then Laura -- who was on her cell phone and proceeded to walk outside to continue the conversation. Then the TV Actor saw me and waved me over. One by one she introduced me and I could only say 'hi' and stand there, transfixed with my mouth agape. I'm not usually star struck but I was beyond at this point. Ellen's coming out had touched so many men and women of...well, I was going to say MY generation but really wasn't it every generation? It wasn't only gay people who crowded around their television screens to watch the coming out episode three years ago. My parents watched. My grandparents watched. My brother even watched. Ellen had made a huge impact on how America sees and accepts gays.
And Melissa Etheridge's music was playing on my car radio the afternoon I came out to mother.
All I could do was shake hands and smile. We piled into a white van, film crew and all. TV Actor explained to me that Julie Cypher was directing a documentary about Ellen, Anne and their life together. Do you know who the head cameraman was? Coley Laffoon, the man Anne would leave Ellen for only a short time later. Melissa Etheridge was to be the Emcee of the concert tonight: Equality Rocks sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign to promote the equality and safety of all people. The tag line was "Dream. Hope. Rock." The line-up of performers included Etheridge, George Michael, Garth Brooks and the Pet Shop Boys. The next morning all the same people would lead the Millenium March for Equality.
My head was spinning. Etheridge was asking the van for trivia question suggestions about her. People who answered correctly would be able to come back stage and meet her. A handsome, long-haired blonde man who must have been her assistant was making a list and throwing out ideas. He turned to me and I couldn't pay attention to him because I was fascinated by the sight of Etheridge's long blonde hair bouncing up and down in the seat in front of me. The TV Actor took my hand and I turned to her and mouthed "Oh My God." She threw back her head, laughed and looked out the window. The van pulled into RFK Stadium and I saw the flashing lights of the billboard announcing tonight's concert. I had in no way been prepared for the magnitude of this event unfolding before me.
The van pulled in. We were given our all-access passes which immediately went around our necks. Laura Dern immediately got on her cell phone and disappeared on to the stadium floor. The TV Actor and I wandered out aimlessly to watch the other performers finishing their sound check. A Canadian singer with a funny name who I'd never heard of was finishing his set. "That's Rufus Wainwright," the TV Actor said. His nasal tenor reverberated through the empty stadium and I couldn't tell if I loved or despised his voice. He walked off as Etheridge walked on with her band and she gave him a warm hug. I sat down to watch Etheridge in action but she didn't perform. She strummed a little, talked a little, and wandered around the stage checking out the venue. Laura Dern appeared again from seemingly nowhere and exited in a hurry to the backstage area. The TV Actor turned to me, "Billy Bob and Angelina are getting married. She's a mess." Well, that explained that.
"I have to find the bathroom," TV Actor said and disappeared backstage.
I got up to follow but didn't want to be a pain in her ass. I walked around the stadium floor. Soon, 45,000 people would fill this place all in support of one cause. I felt out of my element and completely alone. As cool as this was, these weren't my people. There was no one to truly share this moment with. It meant something, but what? I felt a darkness fall over me and I tried to fight it but I knew it would ebb and flow for the rest of the weekend on its own accord. I was in limbo with Present Ex, who would kill to be with my at this moment if he knew what was going on. I was now in limbo with casting and grad school. I was going to have to move to New Jersey for three years. Everything was unsettled and here I was surrounded by TV, movie and rock stars. It didn't make any sense. I didn't want to be there.
I began to head backstage when I ran in to Julie Cypher. She was alone and standing watching Etheridge on the stage. I introduced myself again and we stood and talked for a shirt time. She was distant, cold and wanted little to do with me. I tried to ask questions about the documentary but she seemed unsure of its actual purpose or where it was going to be shown. I recognized that my presence with her was not required so I moved on.
Backstage was relatively quiet. As Etheridge was the headliner, they had held her sound check til the end. So it was quiet in the green room. Couches of all shapes, sizes and colors were littered everywhere, most in various states of disrepair. A home basketball free throw machine was tucked in a corner. Caterers were coming in to lay out the food for the artists and crew. I heard my name and the TV Actor was behind me. "Let's take a walk around," she said.
As the sun set we made our way through the back parking lot. "My shirt ripped and I want to see if I can fix it. Ellen's trailer is this way. Let's see if there's a sewing kit in there." The lot was a maze of trailers glowing orange and pink in the fading light. I didn't know where we were going but followed closely behind, smoking a Nat Sherman. Someone ahead called the TV Actor's name and we both looked up. Sitting in the doorway of a trailer right in front of us was k.d. Lang. "Hey, k.d.!" TV Actor shouted. "What's going on?"
k.d. smiled and leered at TV Actor whose ample bosom was beginning to spill out of her shirt. "I ripped a strap and I'm trying to fix it."
"I can help hold those up for you," k.d. said.
"A needle and thread would be more helpful, thanks."
"Honey, I don't know how to use either. But take a look around and see if there's anything in there that helps." TV Actor kissed k.d. on the cheek and made her way into the trailer. I said Hi and stood outside watching the setting sun. The two women laughed and chatted outside and finally TV Actor reappeared. "Nothing. Let's find Ellen's."
We waved goodbye and k.d., standing in the doorway yelled out, "If you can't find anything my offer still holds."
We turned a corner and found Ellen's trailer. TV Actor walked right in. "They went back to the hotel. The place is ours." We walked in and it looked like a love shack. An orange and yellow couch straight out of the 70s took up most of the room. A shag rug lay like a dejected beast on the floor. There were plates of half-eaten food on every surface. I sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch while TV Actor dug through whatever she could find. "I'd settle for a goddamned safety pin!" She screamed. I laughed.
I wish I could help, I said with a sigh.
She went into the bathroom and screamed, "Voila!" She stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, holding up her shirt in one hand and a safety pin in the other, a twinkle in her eye. "Got it. Ready?" She sat next to me on the sofa and i took the thin silk strap in my hand and tried to lightly bunch the fabric around her back in a tastefully simple way to attach the two pieces again. "Just don't pin me."
I'll try my best.
After a few attempts, I succeeded and she ran to the bathroom to view the results in the mirror. "I can get away with it if I wear my jacket over it," she said. "And at least the ladies won't be falling out all over the place." She lifted her boobs under the purple silk for effect.
I think they're safe.
"I'm going to fix my make-up and then we'll go."
As we opened the trailer door I was struck by a sound almost like the ocean. In the short time we had left the interior of the stadium, it had filled up. The excitement of the moment washed over both of us and we ran to the concert floor. Whereas earlier the stadium had been empty, the sunlight reflecting off the back of thousands of unoccupied chairs, the area was now dark and filled with people. The excitement of the crowd was palpable and contagious. It was almost overwhelming as I felt it rush over me from my head to my toes.
This is insane, I shouted. But TV Actor didn't hear me. She had already made her way out to the concert floor to watch the action on the stage. I flashed my badge to a security guard and ran to join her. Ellen was on-stage and the crowd would not stop cheering. It went on for what seemed like forever and it drew tears of joy from her eyes. "We shouldn't have to have a concert like this!" she yelled into the mic and the audience roared even louder.
And then followed a string of performers and speakers. As the night went on, I wandered back and forth between the stadium floor and the green room. I liked Rufus Wainwright and his sister enough. George Michael, in his purple satin suit and dark sunglasses, was amazing. The Pet Shop Boys played a long fun but redundant set. Chaka Khan was really fat.
I sat on one of the green room couches munching on a piece of fried chicken, watching an older man help a young child play basketball. A quiet, middle-aged woman with short straight redish hair sat next to me and smiled. The older man came and sat down next to the woman. He smiled and I said, Hi and put out my hand to introduce myself.
"I'm Dennis Shepard," he said. "This is my wife, Judy."
Oh. Wow.
I'm...I'm...so sorry for your loss. And I'm glad you're here. You two have been so important to this cause.
Dennis looked at the little boy still trying to play with the basketball machine and smiled wistfull. "It's very important to us. Matthew was very important to us. We just do everything we can to make the message clear. Like, see that little boy over there, I want him to grow up in a world without hate."
A runner came in and called Dennis to the stage. "It was nice meeting you."
Likewise.
I ran out to the stadium floor just as Melissa Etheridge was introducing Dennis. Judy stayed backstage. The crowd jumped to its feet again and cheered so loud the stadium shook. Once again, Dennis talked about the importance of this event and the necessity of equality in the world today, tomorrow and forever. When he was done speaking, Dennis waved to the crowd and walked off. Etheridge tore into her song about Matthew's death, "Scarecrow." You could hear a pin drop in the stadium while she performed. When she was done, there was a moment of silence. Many people, including myself, wiped tears from their eyes and then burst into a collective scream.
I was overwhelmed.
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