The blind-singing-Victorian-eaten-by-a-werewolf-"look as attractive as possible"-audition...

Tomorrow I have to audition for a film.

I was just speaking about this to a few actor friends last week. Why is it that when a really palatable job presents itself to you, you inevitably have to achieve the impossible on camera. The things we do to get a job (sigh). My favorite instruction of the day was to "look as attractive as possible..." whatever that slightly worryingly insinuates. Here are a few choice remarks people have asked of or said to me in order to prepare for auditions:

1. "See. We're gonna need you to create the physical comedy of the donkey yourself..."

2. "There isn't actually a script, so... yeah ..."

3. "Oh! Yes of course I forgot to ask if you have Chinese heritage?"

4. "You'll have to fake an American accent. Can you do that?"

and my absolute favorite:

5. "Does you get cold sores in real life? Because that would be great..."

But tomorrow takes the cake. Tomorrow I am being asked to sing a song from the Mikado, portraying a blind, Victorian parlour room entertainer. Oh and by the way she is blind. Fine. Then, halfway through the song, I have to react (blindly) to an invisible (but rampant) werewolf who breaks through the glass ceiling of the party and rabidly chases after the guests who all run away screaming (which all must be imagined of course, because it will really be a major movie star dressed in a blue suit). Then I have to portray the imaginary werewolf will slowly stalking up and breathing upon me. And then act as if I am being eaten by said invisible werewolf. 

um, WHAT?

"I've come to look for America..."

"Kathy," I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
"Michigan seems like a dream to me now
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I've come to look for America..."

-- Paul Simon

A traveller. Perhaps that's it. Though my travels hardly feel worthy of comparison to those of the greats-- Rosalind's full circle to and from Arden, Bilbo Baggins' there and back again. I am no explorer like Vespucci, not romantic enough for a gypsy nor pious enough for a pilgrim. Ahh America. How I had forgotten you, and how I longed to remember. Was blind but now I see, (as they say). And though I know I am no great traveller of Shakespearean or Historical proportion, I share with them and with us all, a cardinal desire: all I have ever wanted is what we all long for-- a place in the world. A home. 

I feel perhaps like Marco Polo in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities... In Calvino's book, the great explorer Marco Polo entertains an aging Kubla Khan by recounting tales of 55 cities he has visited in his travels. As Marco Polo continues to impart his experiences, he, willingly or un, revels connections between the cities that leave the reader left to wonder whether the accounts of his destinations actually represent different aspects of a single city; a unique and unrivaled place, in Polo's case, his beloved Venice. 

Marco Polo thus embodies two classic symbolic travellers. First, Odysseus: the one who, either by force or by choice, denounces a home he does not realise he loves. He thus condemns himself to a life of wandering and homeless-ness, slowly losing sight and memory of the only place he longs to return to. 

"Memory's images, once they are fixed in words, are erased," Polo said. "Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little."

Second, Dorothy: the one who seeks adventure abroad, only to discover their heart's desire was "in their own backyard" all along. 

"Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Irene under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Irene."

Have I assumed myself the former only to discover I am, in fact, the latter? What bliss that truth would be! Have I travelled the world long enough? Have I in fact discovered home was always there, patiently waiting for me to earn and deserve it? Observing Calvino observing Venice is a reminder of how often the controlled, measured world of knowledge and assumption fails us. So much of life resists the facts. As Khan discovers: imagining a"Venice" is imagining yourself. And though an unsettling exercise, it is necessary, perhaps. I believe my trip to America and Home, was precisely that.

Welcome Home Al. 

I will return shortly. And new. 

"...what he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey, because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in waiting for you in foreign, not-yet-possessed places."

-- Italo Calvino

The Reese's Peanut Butter EGG.

Oh my GOODNESS.

Easter is not really a celebratory holiday, (even though it is the the most important religious feast in the Christian liturgical year), the crucifixtion of Christ is doesn't really get people jumping in the aisles, but hey. And the non-religious aspects of it have crept in like so many other traditional holidays, to open the season up to all people religious and non-religious alike: the celebration of Spring, accompanied by pastel-colored candies and chocolates galore, as well as a mythological rabbit bearing chocolate symbols of the equinox. (By the way, did you know the modern English term Easter developed from the Old English word Eastre, which itself developed prior to 899. The name refers to the goddess Eostre, who was celebrated at the Spring equinox? Amazing.)

Anyway! Now. Even though Easter is verrrrrry early this year (The Paschal Full Moon was early, thus the first Sunday after spring became Easter Sunday), and the 12 inches of snow Detroit received lat night isn't very SPRING-like, one can still enjoy the most important, the most momentous arrival of the Spring Season (and no it's not the new Vera Wang line). DRUMROLL PLEASE...

THE REESE'S CHOCOLATE EGG.
TA-DA!!!

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are magical, there’s just no question about it. We all have happy childhood memories of indulging in rich, peanutty treats at Halloween, birthday parties, or pressed into Christmas cookies? Yet I testify that Reese’s only reaches its apogee of peanut-butter-goodliness but once a year; hold onto your hats people, for Reese’s Egg season is upon us. Ohhhh yes.

That’s right. When the rest of the world watches for blossoming flowers and baby ducks, some of us know Spring has arrived when the stores stock a certain type of egg. An egg that promises sheer joy and decadence, all for under a dollar.

What is it about the Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg that makes it so vastly superior to other incarnations of Reese’s cups? It could be the perfect peanut-butter-to-chocolate ratio (some scientists claim that more chocolate is better); however, true Reese’s devotees usually agree that the savory, rich peanut butter ought to be the dominant flavor.

Perhaps it’s the shape of the egg. The inviting, soft curves are somehow more appealing than the standard, sharp-edged sides. Though the edges are very very tasty, doesn’t it always seem like little points of the cup always stick to the paper? NOT the egg - it just slides off that little tray and sighs its way into your mouth. [*sigh*]

Some people explain Reese’s Eggs’ irresistibility with the freshness factor. Well, how long ago do you think those Eggs were produced? We know they can’t have been made more than a couple of weeks ago (it wasn’t too long ago they were producing Valentine’s hearts, remember).

But really, the reason is irrelevant. The fact is, Reese’s Eggs are MADE OF MAGIC, and one of the most Candy Addictive pleasures of Spring. Thus, I honor the Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg with my highest praise and recommendation. Try them, and just try to get enough of The Egg, and you will see what I mean. Enjoy. Mmmm...

"Project C" ... an update...

It's official.

Dates and locations confirmed.
The principal cast.

[insert squeal of glee here]

Not in the press yet, so I can't reveal tooooo much. But I frustratingly offer you a cryptic image for you to agonize over.
It's a clue.
A tipoff. A hint. A conundrum, if you will.

Because sometimes it is fun to be a tease...
... in fact, sometimes it's really fun.

More to come.

Detroit, lift up your weary head

Ever heard of Sufjan Stevens? He wrote an incredible album about Michigan; the expansive and sometimes epic "Greetings from Michigan the Great Lake State", and it includes odes to cities including Detroit and Flint, the Upper Peninsula, and vacation areas such as Tahquamenon Falls and the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes. It's a collection of eloquent "folky" songs and instrumentals inspired by his home state. But, lying below the surface of his melodies, are scenic descriptions and characters, as well as his own declarations of faith in God, of sorrow, love and his passion for the regeneration of Michigan. If Philip Glass wrote pop songs, they might sound something like these. And I love them. They describe and evoke the feelings I experience for this tragic and beautiful place. As Brandon Stosuy said: "The record is stacked with impressive space for Stevens' shimmering geography, and it manages a melancholy beauty; Michigan is a frost-bound tone poem in which average people live out their victories and defeats with a shadowy, dignified grace."

Melancholy beauty. Yeeeees Brandon Stosuy, well put. It is an excellent description for this desolate place. It walks with sorrow. But it carries that sorrow with dignity and pride... perhaps that is why it feels familiar. I know what it is to walk with sorrow; and I attempt, though I do not always succeed, in carrying it with dignity. (No. Let's face it. Sometimes my sorrow is lugged around awkwardly like something out of Weekend at Bernie's Just with more snot. And less extraneous physical comedy). But what is it that draws us to ruination? What is the exact affinity? Why do we find it so compelling?

I admit I am always struck by the sadness Detroit evokes in people. Yes, there are abandoned buildings, yes there is extreme poverty; and OH yes, it is very, very cold. But the "ruins" of Detroit are as real as the ruins of Rome or Troy, and yet those are celebrated as the remains of pinnacles of civilization.

Perhaps Detroit's ruins are the symbols of what might have been, and that is why it strikes a chord with those of us who fear the presence of own own missed grasps at actualization? Our unfulfilled dreams? Our unrealized potential? Or worse, (and perhaps more accurate), we do not only experience the doubts. No. We feel and see our shortcomings as fully as anything. And Detroit embodies this fear. It forces us to confront the reality of disappointment. The snowblinding vision of what could have been. If only things had been different.

And yet, despite it all, out of nowhere and completely unexpectedly, Detroit has nuzzled it's dreary way into my reluctant heart. It says to the broken travelers of this world, Come, add your sorrow to my heavy load. I will carry it for you. I will lighten your burden. I will give it shape so you won't have to. Come. Lighten. Accept. Live. Ah Detroit. How I love you. And how I never thought I would yet here we are. Your voiceless character. Your will. Your tenacity. You have allowed yourself to be destroyed by lost, desperate, and clutching men and women. And this historic education is fixed in your throat like a snake, and spoken through a voiceless windpipe.

Detroit, lift up your weary head. There are those of us that will always love you.

"Ever will we conquer grief
and find it faster to resolve
the dead, to be absolved
and fed, to restore.
If the advantageous
reprimand misgivings,
We wont grow.
We will not ever know.
We will not!
(Lift my life in healthy places!)"

- Sufjan Stevens, Michigan

Michigan seems like a dream to me now...

Snowstorm.
Amazing.
Winter. Tthese images are proof that here, in the middle of a literal and metaphoric frozen winter, while the earth and all living things wait and germinate, that beauty is possible, nee, Present. Out of desolation, fruit. Out of stillness, splendor.

New York, New York

"I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York's skyline. Particularly when one can't see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need? And then people tell me about pilgrimages to some dank pesthole in a jungle where they go to do homage to a crumbling temple, to a leering stone monster with a pot belly, created by some leprous savage. Is it beauty and genius they want to see? Do they seek a sense of the sublime? Let them come to New York, stand on the shore of the Hudson, look and kneel."

And so. Enter the American cast of characters in my life. Ohhhh the larks! (and professional things of course... exciting and burdensome both). This was my first visit to La Grande Pomme, if you will, where I did not feel swallowed by the height of the city; the vertical pressure of the buildings, the frantic desire to escape the all-consuming insignificance the pace and landscape generated within me. No. This time it was a different place indeed.

Visits. With real people. Real friends who have known you since childhood, who know your insides, your workings, your heart. Dinner at a festive Mexican restaurant with 8 people laughing and sharing, confirmed my belief in a possible life in this strange and sometimes overwhelming city. People. Real friends to share one's life with. I sometimes marvel at the incredible bond of a place like Interlochen, of a group of people so gifted and focused and unique; and of friendships formed in the midst of adolescent turmoil from the mild to the exceptional. People struggling with the burdens of "success," whatever it means, and those struggling with the perceived absence of it. And still in together regardless. Every one of them could be their own poem. 

Portrait of a Friend: Frances

I love my friend (and former older sister) Frances Thorburn. She is not only an accomplished actress, but a gifted and unique musician and performance artist. And people, the lady knows how to live.

As you will see, she is playful, creative, intensely focused about her art, and she can effortlessly shift from childlike exuberance to the darkest depths of the human spirit in the blink of an eye. She's had some difficult times: a few things that could have devastated even the most ferociously stoic among us. But her incredibly strong and tenacious soul chose instead to see those circumstances as a gift, a chance to re-start, to live bigger and fuller and brighter, the way she does today: in good health, in love, relishing in gorgeous food!

Franny is passionate about her art, but she’s even more passionate about the dirty business we call life. I always thought I was pretty good at appreciating things, at scraping every drop of sauce, so to speak, from my plate. But this lady, I swear! If I’m scraping the plate, she’s licking the thing. She’s going after life with both hands. She lights up the room.

Here are some totally delightful pictures we took together for her music publicity. 

Check. Her. Oot.

I adore her in every way. 

Upper Class (and Laughing Last)

There is nothing like indulging in, and embracing the time one must spend at the airport. A good book. Browsing the inane little shops. Reading your chosen book, your travel companion (Atlas Shrugged today, a large but delicious book, and pertinent as Rand loved New York so).

However, today I find I take issue with the notion of Transatlantic travel. I find it insidious that a person shows up early for a flight they books six weeks ago, and gets kicked off their flight because the airline cancelled the previous flight, and has thus put all of the displaced passengers in the seats of those who could not check in online. I could not check in online because my internet was scuppered, and thus, even though I arrived two and a half hours early for my flight, I lost my seat. Madness!

It was at this point, in a relatively calm and collected mood myself, that Neil shows up. Neil is a defenseless, quintessentially English functionary. An anemic-looking, sloped-shouldered, jut-toothed, slightly balding boy shoved into a suit by the oppressive and irrational Airline he 'works like a lackey from rise to set' for. He creeps over to the crowd of angry travelers and squeaks out the unpleasant news to us all surrounded by a bevy of siren-y "beauties" in heavy make-up and domineering red coats to protect his mousey self from the wrath of the crowd. He tells us to wait. He tells us we'll have to move to the side with all our bags. He tells us to wait another hour until boarding closes. He runs away each time to the protection of the red ladies.

It was at this point that a thought arises within me. Slowly, calmly, and much less offensively than the angry mob behind me. I approach the desk and say so quietly and calmly the Sirens themselves are seduced,

"Excuse me. I don't mean to be any more of a bother than that angry mob already has, but I'm just sitting here, on the cold hard ground and thinking to myself that the reason all of us aren't on the flight we booked is because you have overbooked your flight, as well as filled our seats with people from a flight you cancelled. And yet, if we had checking in online, we'd be fine. What has really occurred here is a preference towards those with a dependable, working, internet connection. that is a Socioeconomic issue. It's actually soooooort of a form of prejudice."

And no sooner had the words exited my lips than a flurry of Airline sirens and functionaries alike were hustling like headless chickens, getting all of the angry mob on to Upper Class....

... starting with me.

The End.
(...Moral of the story pending...)

PS) FYI: you're involuntarily bumped off your flight and the airline can't get you to your destination within an hour of the original arrival time, federal law requires that you be paid the equivalent of your one-way fare up to $200 or $400, depending on the length of the delay. This compensation is woefully inadequate and hasn't been adjusted for inflation since first introduced into law. (And no, you won't be compensated for the mega business deal you weren't able to close because you weren't there.) Passengers should insist on cold hard cash instead of a travel voucher since they come with restrictions and can be difficult to redeem. Also, here's a helpful website about being "bumped."

I hate to say it...

... but I had an awfully hard time getting here the last few days. Not only have I been a tad overwhelmed with birthdays and Valentine's and The Closing, but also packing, and last minute "thingys" one must get done when one goes away for six weeks. And it’s not that I didn’t want to stop by and say hello! It’s just... despite everything one has come to expect from dear ol' London's weather, it has been excruciatingly beautiful of late, in fact, far too pretty to be sitting inside at the computer. Apologies.

As I type this, the windows are open wide and an enormous, and a gauzy swatch of sunlight has stretched itself along the wall. Yesterday afternoon, when the light was glowy and gold, D's flight to Kenya (??!! I know, how timely...?!!) was mercifully cancelled, and we experienced a blissful stolen day together basking in the glows of sunlight and Fiddler freedom (yes, a euphemism for unemployment). That’s all I ever want to do, really. Just sit in the glow of sunlight all day, maybe with a blanket for extra warmth, and a large thermos of hot chocolate. I’m not sure where Rainy Old February has gone, but I hope it stays there for a little while longer.

Until tomorrow, at least.

The Last One

For the record... it was perfect... 

Coming to the end...

"...Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place

searching for an old familliar face

from Anatevka..."

So much to feel. Saturday is the final performance of Fiddler on the Roof, and the little village that has been my home since October 2006 will disappear in to the ether, to exist only in memory. Ah, the ephemeral nature of the theatre is naturally what makes it so beautiful, and makes the days like these so bittersweet and reflective.

The real loss of course, is the people one has grown to love and hate and understand, as if they really were part of a community. My wonderful sisters Frances and Natasha have, completely unexpectedly, grown to become some of the most beautiful friendships in my life. We have laughed and laughed, been through both the dark days and the triumphant. I have spent every day, sharing a room with them, and I will miss it profoundly.

And Hodel of course...
Oh Hodel, how I love you. How much you have given, rewarded and fulfilled me. Thank you. I will keep you always right by my heart as I have never kept another character. Your strength and sense of purpose, your complex feminine spirit, your wit and determination, your devotion and loving heart. You have given me a chance to find all of these things within myself, and to grow with them. I will miss you most of all...

"God alone knows when we shall see each other again..."

"Then we will leave it in his hands..."