....how long 'til my soul gets it right/can any human being ever reach that perfect light...
Today I head for the first time in fifteen years to the Lovely Landlocked Land of Indiana, home of my conflicted childhood. Here on the crime-ridden frightening East Coast, I have never had a knife held to my throat on the schoolbus. Don't talk to me about the Mild Midwest; I won't believe you.
Yesterday, I cross the bay, gaping at the sparkle of water, the rush of a young egret across a shallow inlet, the soar of a sea hawk, the expanse of farmland that reminds me of the fields of Indiana.
Lined up like gravestones, one after another, derelict farm implements, each more ancient than the next, stand in neat rows. There may as well be a sign reading Rust Home For Retired Tractors.
There IS a sign. It says Registered Holsteins.
I did not know you needed a permit to carry a cow.
City girl.
09 May, 2004
08 May, 2004
Positive Outlook
....I feel good in a special way/I'm in love and it's a sunny day/ Good day, Sunshine....
It's cooler today than yesterday, but as yesterday was so perfect, I would be embarrassed to complain.
I took the yellow bikini out for a test dive at Lisa's. No, no- only the children were brave enough to go in the pool. I contented myself with basking, basted in the first sweet summer sweat. I am so fond of this group of women, even though they are trying to tag me with a Bipolar label. Hah, it won't stick. True, I have very little truck with equilibrium, but I rarely get anything worthwhile out of even keel emotions. I'd go so far as to say Never, but I hate to box myself in.
The phone call I hoped for came, and I am encouraged and optimistic. The day was productive, and ends with a performance of a world premier musical, Songs For My Daughter. Though it's verboten to review a show, any show, on Opening Night, and especially one that's brand new, I have ignored rigid stifling standards, broken with tradition and plowed full stream ahead. (These trite expressions, they're a bit like donuts, aren't they? You get started and have trouble stopping, even thought you know they're empty and stale. Adkins for writing: just the meat.)
So here's the review, which I may submit somewhere or other, if I can find anyone who's interested.
Musical Artists Theatre presents Songs For My Daughter at the Chesapeake Arts Center.
While it is hardly fair to review a world premier show on its opening night, Musical Artists Theatre's newest offering, Songs For My Daughter, is equal to the challenge.
Veteran playwright Michael Hulett wrote and directed this multi-layered, evocative show, which is two hours of intrigue and delight. The cast members are obviously dedicated to the production, and their levels of commitment make their performances shine. Peggy Dorsey does a remarkably subtle job of portraying Amy, the main character, the daughter in question. Jose de la Mar has wonderful timing as Amy's lover, TJ- though this relationship is underplayed- and gets all the laughs in the show. Ruth Hulett, as Kim, has a voice that would break the hearts of angels. The supporting cast members, in ensemble roles, are to be commended for their versatility.
The set is as wonderful as you can imagine, because you have to. There is none. Two platforms, the actions of the cast and some clever sound work create all the scenery for this show.
Action moves fluidly between present and past as Amy embarks on a search for her absentee mother after finding a cassette filled with songs of love. The characters are well-developed and believable. The recorded music, arranged and performed by Tim King and Jason Brown, provides a satisfyingly full sound, blending well with Ms. Hulett's live guitar.
A few if the fifteen musical numbers seem contrived or too long, and the introduction of a new character towards the end of the second act is confusing rather than illuminating. The ending is a bit abrupt, coming as it does on the heels of a couple of teajerking songs without proper denouement, but I was too busy groping for a tissue for that to matter very much.
This show should resonate with people of a certain age (can we say ex-hippies?) as well as strike a chord with anyone who has ever loved and made a sacrifice for a child.
Songs For My Daughter plays at the Chesapeake Arts Center's Studio Theater weekends through May 23rd.
It's cooler today than yesterday, but as yesterday was so perfect, I would be embarrassed to complain.
I took the yellow bikini out for a test dive at Lisa's. No, no- only the children were brave enough to go in the pool. I contented myself with basking, basted in the first sweet summer sweat. I am so fond of this group of women, even though they are trying to tag me with a Bipolar label. Hah, it won't stick. True, I have very little truck with equilibrium, but I rarely get anything worthwhile out of even keel emotions. I'd go so far as to say Never, but I hate to box myself in.
The phone call I hoped for came, and I am encouraged and optimistic. The day was productive, and ends with a performance of a world premier musical, Songs For My Daughter. Though it's verboten to review a show, any show, on Opening Night, and especially one that's brand new, I have ignored rigid stifling standards, broken with tradition and plowed full stream ahead. (These trite expressions, they're a bit like donuts, aren't they? You get started and have trouble stopping, even thought you know they're empty and stale. Adkins for writing: just the meat.)
So here's the review, which I may submit somewhere or other, if I can find anyone who's interested.
Musical Artists Theatre presents Songs For My Daughter at the Chesapeake Arts Center.
While it is hardly fair to review a world premier show on its opening night, Musical Artists Theatre's newest offering, Songs For My Daughter, is equal to the challenge.
Veteran playwright Michael Hulett wrote and directed this multi-layered, evocative show, which is two hours of intrigue and delight. The cast members are obviously dedicated to the production, and their levels of commitment make their performances shine. Peggy Dorsey does a remarkably subtle job of portraying Amy, the main character, the daughter in question. Jose de la Mar has wonderful timing as Amy's lover, TJ- though this relationship is underplayed- and gets all the laughs in the show. Ruth Hulett, as Kim, has a voice that would break the hearts of angels. The supporting cast members, in ensemble roles, are to be commended for their versatility.
The set is as wonderful as you can imagine, because you have to. There is none. Two platforms, the actions of the cast and some clever sound work create all the scenery for this show.
Action moves fluidly between present and past as Amy embarks on a search for her absentee mother after finding a cassette filled with songs of love. The characters are well-developed and believable. The recorded music, arranged and performed by Tim King and Jason Brown, provides a satisfyingly full sound, blending well with Ms. Hulett's live guitar.
A few if the fifteen musical numbers seem contrived or too long, and the introduction of a new character towards the end of the second act is confusing rather than illuminating. The ending is a bit abrupt, coming as it does on the heels of a couple of teajerking songs without proper denouement, but I was too busy groping for a tissue for that to matter very much.
This show should resonate with people of a certain age (can we say ex-hippies?) as well as strike a chord with anyone who has ever loved and made a sacrifice for a child.
Songs For My Daughter plays at the Chesapeake Arts Center's Studio Theater weekends through May 23rd.
07 May, 2004
Moments of Joyful
...it makes me proud, so proud of you/I see innocence shining through...
Yesterday was a dull and lifeless bowl of limp lettuce, punctuated by bits of deliciousness.
The lettuce represented my attitude, which was poor, though it had no reason to be so.
The weather is fine, fine. Unfortunately, I must spend it indoors, teaching most all of the day. However, the classes begin well, and then my mind is forever altered by an incident with a fifteen year old boy.
Before I fetch my children for our final theater class, I use a computer at the Center to generate a sample column and a cover letter. (My computer having stopped working without warning, I'm in the process of finding a solution that won't require me selling my soul or body.) When I emerge with the documents, I find BuddahPat hanging around in the office, chatting with the staff. He holds me long and hard- we've missed each other more than we knew. He promises dinner soon, soon, and we make a date for p.'s Opening Night, which is now tonight.
I drop the cover letter and sample column to a sweet faced editor at the oldest newspaper in the state, and she promises to call within 24 hours.
The little play we do for the parents of my Young Actors On Stage class goes very well, except for the bit about saying goodbye to my students. I get a little teary, as do some of the parents, which is sweet.
"I've never seen my mom hug anyone other than my grandma," Nicole says. I feel a clench in my chest, knowing that S. has become as fond of me as I have of her.
After a brief run home and a tasty encounter with an avacado, back I go to the Center for a meeting. The meeting is dull and painfully prolonged by bombasticity, but I survive. As I drive away, I notice Sergei and many lovely young ladies all in and around an odd, trailer-like structure. I wonder what it is, as I smile and wave back to Sergei. Perhaps I'll ask D. in the morning. Or perhaps not. A mystery is always so delicious.
Yesterday was a dull and lifeless bowl of limp lettuce, punctuated by bits of deliciousness.
The lettuce represented my attitude, which was poor, though it had no reason to be so.
The weather is fine, fine. Unfortunately, I must spend it indoors, teaching most all of the day. However, the classes begin well, and then my mind is forever altered by an incident with a fifteen year old boy.
Before I fetch my children for our final theater class, I use a computer at the Center to generate a sample column and a cover letter. (My computer having stopped working without warning, I'm in the process of finding a solution that won't require me selling my soul or body.) When I emerge with the documents, I find BuddahPat hanging around in the office, chatting with the staff. He holds me long and hard- we've missed each other more than we knew. He promises dinner soon, soon, and we make a date for p.'s Opening Night, which is now tonight.
I drop the cover letter and sample column to a sweet faced editor at the oldest newspaper in the state, and she promises to call within 24 hours.
The little play we do for the parents of my Young Actors On Stage class goes very well, except for the bit about saying goodbye to my students. I get a little teary, as do some of the parents, which is sweet.
"I've never seen my mom hug anyone other than my grandma," Nicole says. I feel a clench in my chest, knowing that S. has become as fond of me as I have of her.
After a brief run home and a tasty encounter with an avacado, back I go to the Center for a meeting. The meeting is dull and painfully prolonged by bombasticity, but I survive. As I drive away, I notice Sergei and many lovely young ladies all in and around an odd, trailer-like structure. I wonder what it is, as I smile and wave back to Sergei. Perhaps I'll ask D. in the morning. Or perhaps not. A mystery is always so delicious.
06 May, 2004
Can't Take Rejection
...don't tell me no, don't tell me no, don't tell me, I don't want to know....
I don't take rejection well.
Why should I have to? That Girl expects (and rightly so; have you SEEN her?) that any wish she may have now or at any time in the future will be immediately and enthusiastically met with YES.
I expect Yes pretty often myself, with mumble mumble more years of mileage on me. And often get it.
But not this time, oh, no.
So if anyone would like to alleviate my yawing sense of worthlessness, please go and grace with some of your iron-rich hemoglobin your nearest Red Cross Donor Center.
The standard is thirty-eight whatevers. I came in at thirty five, and walked away as crushed as the bag of cookies the sympathetic volunteers apologetically pressed upon me.
Do let me know if you donate.
I don't take rejection well.
Why should I have to? That Girl expects (and rightly so; have you SEEN her?) that any wish she may have now or at any time in the future will be immediately and enthusiastically met with YES.
I expect Yes pretty often myself, with mumble mumble more years of mileage on me. And often get it.
But not this time, oh, no.
So if anyone would like to alleviate my yawing sense of worthlessness, please go and grace with some of your iron-rich hemoglobin your nearest Red Cross Donor Center.
The standard is thirty-eight whatevers. I came in at thirty five, and walked away as crushed as the bag of cookies the sympathetic volunteers apologetically pressed upon me.
Do let me know if you donate.
Red and Blue
...sometimes I wish that I could STOP you from talking when I hear the silly things that you say....
She doesn't answer. And who else am I to call at eleven PM when I'm low? That Girl needs to hurry up and graduate so she can come relieve my lonely nights. It's going to be another prowler, I can tell.
*******************************************
"I'd rather have coffee than breakfast," he says.
It's startling that he speaks thoughts straight from my head, complete with phrasing and intonation. Not the first time, nor the last, I suspect.
"How are you?" he asks. Which is extremely nice, considering.
(It was the wrist slashing ledge jumping point of heartbreak line, wasn't it? That was figurative. Well, mostly.)
How am I?
Uneasy. Awkward. Tentative
All unfamiliar territorry.
This should be entertaining.
At least.
*************************************
The weather threatened to be less than gorgeous but at the last relented, consenting to be Nearly Perfect. Alaina asks to stay out while I cook. "I want to feel the beawtiful weather," she says, tipping her face towards the sun, arms spread wide.
Go, little goddess. Be embraced by the goodness of the Universe.
********************************************
The red underthings, sadly, do more to boost my bustline than my spirits.
She doesn't answer. And who else am I to call at eleven PM when I'm low? That Girl needs to hurry up and graduate so she can come relieve my lonely nights. It's going to be another prowler, I can tell.
*******************************************
"I'd rather have coffee than breakfast," he says.
It's startling that he speaks thoughts straight from my head, complete with phrasing and intonation. Not the first time, nor the last, I suspect.
"How are you?" he asks. Which is extremely nice, considering.
(It was the wrist slashing ledge jumping point of heartbreak line, wasn't it? That was figurative. Well, mostly.)
How am I?
Uneasy. Awkward. Tentative
All unfamiliar territorry.
This should be entertaining.
At least.
*************************************
The weather threatened to be less than gorgeous but at the last relented, consenting to be Nearly Perfect. Alaina asks to stay out while I cook. "I want to feel the beawtiful weather," she says, tipping her face towards the sun, arms spread wide.
Go, little goddess. Be embraced by the goodness of the Universe.
********************************************
The red underthings, sadly, do more to boost my bustline than my spirits.
05 May, 2004
Sunny On The Outside
...will you stand by me against the cold night/or are you afraid of the ice...
The stark silver eye of moon gazed at me from shimmery darkness last night. I wondered if anyone far from my side but close to my heart was standing under the moon with me.
**********************************
"So, would you ever cheat on him?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't THINK so? What the hell does THAT mean?"
"Well, what's he been doing? How drunk am I? Is Sean Connery in the room?"
*************************************
It's Wednesday again, in case anyone's counting. Go visit my friends at CityPaper.
Here's your astrology link.
Here's your brainy-socio-political-topical punditry link.
And here's your hysterically funny and possibly way over your head comic link.
(Actually, only two of them are my friends. But I imagine Rob Brezsny would like to be, if he knew about me.)
Can I mention Tim's book again, or is that overkill?
The stark silver eye of moon gazed at me from shimmery darkness last night. I wondered if anyone far from my side but close to my heart was standing under the moon with me.
**********************************
"So, would you ever cheat on him?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't THINK so? What the hell does THAT mean?"
"Well, what's he been doing? How drunk am I? Is Sean Connery in the room?"
*************************************
It's Wednesday again, in case anyone's counting. Go visit my friends at CityPaper.
Here's your astrology link.
Here's your brainy-socio-political-topical punditry link.
And here's your hysterically funny and possibly way over your head comic link.
(Actually, only two of them are my friends. But I imagine Rob Brezsny would like to be, if he knew about me.)
Can I mention Tim's book again, or is that overkill?
Cinco de Mayo
....who's joining me for a Mexican beer?
WITH lime, of course.
I'd say tequila, but I get stinkin' ass drunk on one shot of tequila.
WITH lime, of course.
I'd say tequila, but I get stinkin' ass drunk on one shot of tequila.