Today I did a little Sunday-improv action with Upright Citizens Brigade over at Pan Theater.
It’s funny how I enrolled in the Level I improv class back at the new year just to “keep myself from getting rusty” while I had to take a little performing hiatus while I started my new job in January — and have ended up taking six, now, improv classes and workshops, from traditional improv games to long form to Action Theater.
So today I got pulled over by a cop. We both played out the scripted roles.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“I do.”
“And why’s that?”
“I was going too fast.”
“Yes, yes you were. Are you heading home?”
“No, I’m on my way to my teacher’s performance.”
“And you’re in a hurry because you’re late?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I just got my period and– Read more…
There is no stopping it. The light continues to bleed. It breaks open in an endless run, yoke to sun. There will only be more light. We are essentially alone.
Reaching up up up Read more…
So it seems that 29 is the lucky age where I get to become acutely aware of this whole “age” business — or, rather, the “stage of life” I’m in — or, rather, “should” [?] be in.
That is to say, I have been attending a shit-load of weddings and baby showers. Read more…
“What?!” I said, total disbelief splattered across my face. “How in the hell are you going to explain this–?” I glided my hand across and over the sloppyness below.
God just looked at me, slightly embarrassed.
“Well…?” I provoked. “Just try and tell me how the fuck you came up this.” I was trying to be gentle. I really was. But God had gone and done it again.
“How am I going to handle this one? How the fuck did I end up being reborn?!”
“I didn’t know it was going to be so… permanent.” God said, wincing. “It was just going to be a little love experiment — break me up into pieces, all loving each, each-to-all, and then add some pretty colors & fragrances & animals & experiences & stuff, and…” Suddenly God broke off crying.
The Mouth of God flung open like a yawning cave, 10-thousand furlongs wide and full of empty eternity. Tears crashed oceans. All of existence tumbled out, Bahagavad Gita-like.
“I didn’t mean to hurt nobody! ” God sputtered through sobs. “I just wanted to- to- play!”
Now I felt like a douche.
I reached for The Shoulder of God and touched it, gently. God flinched, at first, but then relaxed into my hand. We both breathed wide-lungs. I let a beat go by.
I softened my voice to a whisper. “I know you had good intentions. And I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just… you might have thought you were playing, but now I — we — have to live this. There’s so much suffering you spilled all over the Goddam place — (sorry) — and you made quite a mess.” God looked up. I sighed. And smiled.
“Here, here, darling — let me help you clean it up.”
27 minutes past my self-imposed bedtime (welcome to the life of a hypomanic-proclivitist*[1]) and I am keying-out some creative word-show. Read more…
New job.
New city.
New home.
New season.
Newly single.
New travels.
New sport.
New hair cut.
New music.
New hopes.
New dreams.
New Projects!
New gratitude.
New direction.
New story.
(almost) New year.
“Ambition is the last refuge of failure.“ – Oscar Wilde
One of the most amazing lessons of this adventure of producing my own show, is how to not only accept but enjoy every moment that comes my way. The Bahagavad Gita gently reminds us: Read more…
Dear Gigi,
Thank you for sending me an email at 6:53am to remind me that I should probably be posting on my blog right about now. Between walking for hours in the Phoenix heat to hang posters, selling my soul to get some publicity, and struggling to make some money with freelancing gigs so that I can once again lose it all on a production of BURST, I had neglected my most important responsibility: entertaining you with my words. So here is a post just for you:
I feel like a working single mother, slinging hash until midnight, then stumbling home with three little mouths to feed, in want of love.
Read more…
Wow.
I come back from Vietnam, don’t write about being home in California, skip right over my trip to Manhattan and almost forget that I’m preparing to return to New Mexico. I’ve been too busy being here to remember to write about all the “theres.” It’s been so long, Not Keeping Score, that I almost forgot what you looked like.
[Scene: a fancy restaurant. Dim lighting. Sounds of wine glasses clinking can be heard. SHANNON, 28, sits at a table across from BLOG.]
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 11 of Many)
Across the street a man is loading into a hand-drawn cart dozens of red bricks. Each brick has 4 cylindrical holes, and one by one, he lays them on top of their comrades, each singing a soft little clank as they fall. Read more…
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 10 of Many)
I’ve started Vietnamese language classes at University of Hanoi, and moved to Dong Da district, closer to the campus. I rented a room in a house, where the water is bottled and there is even a washing machine. So much for eeking it out local-style.
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 8 of Many)
More stories from my first couple of weeks…
* * *
It is Têt, and Bắc has invited me to spend this special new year’s week — a week so fantastic it is like New Year’s & Christmas & 4th of July & everyone’s birthday combined, I am told — with her family in Hai Phong.
On the bus we pass by fields green with rice paddies. The air is cold and bone-drilling. I do not want to write, but I have told myself I will write under all conditions. Read more…
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 6 of Many)
Still remembering my first days here…
* * *
The rest of my day was full of pot holes and mud. Everything I wrote smelled like eggs, and I got lost 7 times over. When I got back home to Bắc’s place, I swore I was buying my plane ticket home.
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 5 of Many)
I am sitting on the bed– on “my” bed for the next few months, I suppose. It is a little over a foot off the floor, made from dark mahogany-looking wood, with a woven grass mat on top. My friend and host, Bắc, has given me a couple of extra blankets to act as “mattress” and sheet. An old camping sleeping bag I’ve brought from home has already proved invaluable, as the weather took a dive toward cold for the week of Têt. I have come to love my bed, somehow cozy in it’s simplicity.
As I near three weeks having been here, I smile to remember all that has changed, and all that hasn’t: Read more…
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 4 of Many)
Of course, I am just as trusting of the Vietnamese family as they are of me.
Two hours ago I have stumbled in, following the signs for cafe and wifi, only to find myself sitting in someone’s dining room table cum coffee shop… and when I finally need to use the bathroom, I leave my laptop and bag (with wallet) in their living room as collateral. Read more…
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 3 of Many)
We made it.
3 hours later than I set out to write, I am sitting in someone’s living room drinking strong coffee and sugared lotus seeds. The Xe Om driver, knowing a shortcut, made his way beautifully through traffic and dropped me off in the Tay Ho district. I have come to this street because my friend Jenny lives nearby, my friend Aaron owns a wine bar down the street, and I am confident that if all else fails I can beg them for some pity. It is the only place in Hanoi from where I can find my way home.
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 2 of Many)
If you think that traveling halfway across the world to live in a busy Asian city where you don’t speak the language, don’t know your way around, and have a very thin grasp on where you’ll find your next meal will make it easier for yourself to write that elusive novel you’ve been dreaming about– I have some advice: it won’t. Read more…