Bitches, Bitches, Bitches.
It has been far too long since I've checked in and there is so much to tell. This Artist Warrior has spent life in a maelstrom of Music and Theatre since last we spoke. Well, that and a craptacular day job.
And the other prominent facet of my Life lately has been...well...Death. I lost two incredible close sympatico friends at the end of last year and beginning of this one: Jorge Maldonado and Brad Davis, soul mates each in their own right.
I'm sure I'll get everyone up to speed eventually. But the following thoughts of today needed to be shared with the world - or they were big enough in my mind that I felt compelled to break my Salty silence.
It is a New Moon today and according to the We'Moon (the Witchy artsy fartsy daily calendar I have), the theme for this month is Imagine ! Create. I find that highly appropriate. It is very funny how that seems to be the trend among many of my friends these days, and I know I've been moving toward that myself, following the impulse to Imagine ! what kind of life I would like to ! Create for myself. I love when little serendipities dovetail into and reinforce our experience.
Yesterday, in my Morning Pages (a daily(ish) ritual journal where I basically try to dump all the mean nasty counterproductive hypercritical thougths that hinder my Artist and let new and more healing productive thoughts flourish - often producing pages and pages of unintelligible but incredibly therapeutic chicken scratch), I found myself, quite inadvertently, starting a list of what I would actually want out of a job, since my current position has become (or rather has always been) untenable. Then this morning as I was searching for the next blank page to start my brain drain, it fell open to something I hadn't remembered writing at all...a list of wants detailing my ideal life. At the top of the page, an admonition to myself to "Remember your power. Be the change you wish to see in the world." and under that a quote of the refrain from a song I don't really know and I can't quite remember the context for but I know it struck me at the time as quite significant when I'd heard it (randomly, on the radio?) the day before: "What do you want?/What do you need?/So how're you gonna get it." And under that the list.
When was this? I asked myself. When did I write this? And more importantly, what happened to that Imaginative Creative impulse?
I checked the date of the preceding entry. December 20, 2007.
The next entry?
Titled "Mourning Pages, 12/23/07." Above that, simply "Jorge is gone."
You know what? The past six months have been crap. And yeah I probably have been floundering/adrift/aimless/inert for much of it. Perhaps sometimes beautifully so, but still.
But ok, New Moon...I accept the challenge. Fuck Retrograde Mercury. I'm beginning to remember my power. I'm starting to Imagine ! I'm going to ! Create.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Sunday, February 4, 2007
The Bitch is Back: Safe At Home
Friday February 2 into Saturday February 3
The Barter theatre in Abingdon, VA is one of the oldest regional theatres in the country, and among the most famous tales from its quirky history is the story of how it got its name. When the theatre was started during the Depression, the founder decided to allow his patrons to barter food, liquor and even livestock in exchange for admission. I did not have an audition in Abingdon – the folks there, in the process of rehearsing two shows at once, were understandably too bogged down to squeeze me in – but I was going there to check out the theatre and see my good friend from Riverside days, Mary Lucy Bivins (who also happens to be the Associate Artistic Director) in the first preview of her new show.
I had been holding out a small hope that some time might be found during the day on Friday for me to come in and at least meet the casting director, or even just to have a meal with Mary Lucy, but it was not to be. While they were getting ready to open the new play THE QUILTMAKER this weekend, they were also in rehearsals for the next show, Noel Coward’s BLITHE SPIRIT. The Barter is a repertory company. Eventually, the runs of THE QUILTMAKER and BLITHE SPIRIT will coincide; they will share the stage, alternating performances from night to night.
Left with nothing to do on a day that was quite miserable with cold grey overcast skies and an unpleasant mixture of rain and snow, I decided to have a drive around town to explore a bit after checking out of my hotel room.
Abingdon’s historic district is a very pretty stretch of quaint Americana, the crown jewel of which is the theatre. The surprisingly large outlying areas boast the regular array of strip malls. I nipped into the Starving Artist Café for lunch and had a delicious sandwich, then went to the local movie house to see PAN’S LABYRINTH. I enjoyed the interplay between fantasy and “reality” and the imagery used to tell the story was quite beautiful. Throughout the movie, however, I felt antsy…shouldn’t I have found something more productive to do with my time while I was still on the road? Perhaps. Part of me had toyed with the idea of going over to the theatre and volunteering for the day. Surely, with two plays in production they could use a set of skilled hands. But I dismissed that idea because I thought it would be silly to do that (fear speaking? Maybe). I was alone at the end of my journey in a strange place with nowhere comfortable to be until later that night. The movie provided a decent distraction.
Afterwards I went over to a local coffee shop that had WiFi and checked my email before having a long conversation with my friend from college/big sister Kay Daly.
Heading over to the theatre, I stopped to get gas and discovered that the door to my gas tank had frozen shut! With no one else around to help, I couldn’t pull the lever to release it (which was under the driver’s seat) and push on the little door at the same time to help break the ice, so I drove to the theatre on the dregs of my gas.
Made it there just in time for the curtain. I sat next to Duke, Mary Lucy’s partner, who I hadn’t seen in years and who had just driven up that day from Charlotte, NC. He looked great and is seriously one of the nicest human beings on the planet.
The show was wonderful! Mary Lucy played the foul-mouthed grandmother of an Appalachian family, and she along with the rest of the cast deftly maneuvered the play’s turn-on-a-dime shifts from comedy to drama. It is always so hilarious to me to hear Mary Lucy swear onstage, since it is so anathema to her in normal life. She would regularly use the terms shazbut! and shootfire! instead of the other “sh” word. In addition to her incredible comic timing, MLB is a powerful dramatic actress as well, and this role offered her an opportunity to show off both aspects of her artist.
When the show was over, Duke helped me get my gas tank door open before we headed to the Barter’s café to grab some coffee with MLB when she was done getting notes. Eventually Mary Lucy arrived and we had a frantically quick conversation before closing down the place. We lingered as long as possible in the parking lot in the freezing cold, hating that our time together had to be so short on this visit. At length, we said our warm goodbyes in the chilly air and went our separate ways.
I filled up the gas tank and Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and I began our final journey together – the nine hour voyage home to New York City. It was midnight when I got on the highway.
Initially, I had planned to drive for about three hours, then sleep briefly before getting up to continue the trip. But once I was driving, spurred on by the powerful urge to be home, I kept challenging myself to go a little further, and eventually just made the decision to drive through the night.
I once again had beautiful nighttime views of the mountains lit up by the large glowing moon, and as I admired one such view I suddenly noticed that the mountain I was looking at had seemed to simply vanish into the night. I shortly discovered the reason for this effect, as I plowed headlong into a blizzard. The interstate was suddenly covered in snow and my visibility went down to nil. Still, Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, trusty steed, didn’t miss a step and guided me safely through this eerie experience.
The rest of the night continued without incident. From Virginia I passed into West Virginia, then Maryland, which became Philadelphia for what seemed like forever before New Jersey (where, driving East, the sun began to rise before me, filling the sky with a spectacular kaleidoscope of colors) and finally, crossing the lordly Hudson on the majestic George Washington Bridge just after 8 o’clock in the morning, I found myself home at last in Manhattan!
With the manic energy of the overexhausted, I had a very productive day. After hurriedly transferring his contents to my apartment, I bid farewell to Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, noting with indignation that the clerk at Alamo had described the car as a “grey” Toyota Corolla on my intake ticket. Grey. How dare you, Philistine! Grey. There is no magic left in the world.
I then had a cathartic trip to Whole Foods for groceries, and returned home where I spent the day cleaning my apartment, unpacking my bags and doing a few administrative organizational duties on my life.
I retrieved Faneuil (pronounced: Fanny), my original cello, from Peter Lewy’s apartment, and had a brief session introducing her to her new brother Homer, playing back and forth on each one and testing the quality of the sound. I will continue to experiment with each of them and am so excited by the presence of two cellos in my apartment.
And I spent oodles of quality time with my two cats, Lulu (AKA The Down and Dirty Diva, AKA Felein Sally Bowles, AKA Mona Lulu, AKA Aida, AKA Barbarella, AKA Droolcilla) and Carter, who were alternately relieved angry chastising and joyful at having me back.
It truly was wonderful to be home and I felt a huge sense of accomplishment at finally having completed the trip. I relaxed in the evening, ordered in pizza from a local spot and, eventually, slept.
And that, dear bitches, concludes the Tale of the Great Salty Roadtrip of ’07. Thank you all so much for taking this journey with me. My heartfelt love and gratitude goes out to all of you who have shown your support throughout this life altering endeavor.
But this salty, salty bitch is not finished having his say – there are many more Tales on the pursuit of La Vie Boheme to be told and the Salty Blog is far from done. Please continue to check in here, dear bitches, for your regular fix of salt and bitchery.
The Barter theatre in Abingdon, VA is one of the oldest regional theatres in the country, and among the most famous tales from its quirky history is the story of how it got its name. When the theatre was started during the Depression, the founder decided to allow his patrons to barter food, liquor and even livestock in exchange for admission. I did not have an audition in Abingdon – the folks there, in the process of rehearsing two shows at once, were understandably too bogged down to squeeze me in – but I was going there to check out the theatre and see my good friend from Riverside days, Mary Lucy Bivins (who also happens to be the Associate Artistic Director) in the first preview of her new show.
I had been holding out a small hope that some time might be found during the day on Friday for me to come in and at least meet the casting director, or even just to have a meal with Mary Lucy, but it was not to be. While they were getting ready to open the new play THE QUILTMAKER this weekend, they were also in rehearsals for the next show, Noel Coward’s BLITHE SPIRIT. The Barter is a repertory company. Eventually, the runs of THE QUILTMAKER and BLITHE SPIRIT will coincide; they will share the stage, alternating performances from night to night.
Left with nothing to do on a day that was quite miserable with cold grey overcast skies and an unpleasant mixture of rain and snow, I decided to have a drive around town to explore a bit after checking out of my hotel room.
Abingdon’s historic district is a very pretty stretch of quaint Americana, the crown jewel of which is the theatre. The surprisingly large outlying areas boast the regular array of strip malls. I nipped into the Starving Artist Café for lunch and had a delicious sandwich, then went to the local movie house to see PAN’S LABYRINTH. I enjoyed the interplay between fantasy and “reality” and the imagery used to tell the story was quite beautiful. Throughout the movie, however, I felt antsy…shouldn’t I have found something more productive to do with my time while I was still on the road? Perhaps. Part of me had toyed with the idea of going over to the theatre and volunteering for the day. Surely, with two plays in production they could use a set of skilled hands. But I dismissed that idea because I thought it would be silly to do that (fear speaking? Maybe). I was alone at the end of my journey in a strange place with nowhere comfortable to be until later that night. The movie provided a decent distraction.
Afterwards I went over to a local coffee shop that had WiFi and checked my email before having a long conversation with my friend from college/big sister Kay Daly.
Heading over to the theatre, I stopped to get gas and discovered that the door to my gas tank had frozen shut! With no one else around to help, I couldn’t pull the lever to release it (which was under the driver’s seat) and push on the little door at the same time to help break the ice, so I drove to the theatre on the dregs of my gas.
Made it there just in time for the curtain. I sat next to Duke, Mary Lucy’s partner, who I hadn’t seen in years and who had just driven up that day from Charlotte, NC. He looked great and is seriously one of the nicest human beings on the planet.
The show was wonderful! Mary Lucy played the foul-mouthed grandmother of an Appalachian family, and she along with the rest of the cast deftly maneuvered the play’s turn-on-a-dime shifts from comedy to drama. It is always so hilarious to me to hear Mary Lucy swear onstage, since it is so anathema to her in normal life. She would regularly use the terms shazbut! and shootfire! instead of the other “sh” word. In addition to her incredible comic timing, MLB is a powerful dramatic actress as well, and this role offered her an opportunity to show off both aspects of her artist.
When the show was over, Duke helped me get my gas tank door open before we headed to the Barter’s café to grab some coffee with MLB when she was done getting notes. Eventually Mary Lucy arrived and we had a frantically quick conversation before closing down the place. We lingered as long as possible in the parking lot in the freezing cold, hating that our time together had to be so short on this visit. At length, we said our warm goodbyes in the chilly air and went our separate ways.
I filled up the gas tank and Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and I began our final journey together – the nine hour voyage home to New York City. It was midnight when I got on the highway.
Initially, I had planned to drive for about three hours, then sleep briefly before getting up to continue the trip. But once I was driving, spurred on by the powerful urge to be home, I kept challenging myself to go a little further, and eventually just made the decision to drive through the night.
I once again had beautiful nighttime views of the mountains lit up by the large glowing moon, and as I admired one such view I suddenly noticed that the mountain I was looking at had seemed to simply vanish into the night. I shortly discovered the reason for this effect, as I plowed headlong into a blizzard. The interstate was suddenly covered in snow and my visibility went down to nil. Still, Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, trusty steed, didn’t miss a step and guided me safely through this eerie experience.
The rest of the night continued without incident. From Virginia I passed into West Virginia, then Maryland, which became Philadelphia for what seemed like forever before New Jersey (where, driving East, the sun began to rise before me, filling the sky with a spectacular kaleidoscope of colors) and finally, crossing the lordly Hudson on the majestic George Washington Bridge just after 8 o’clock in the morning, I found myself home at last in Manhattan!
With the manic energy of the overexhausted, I had a very productive day. After hurriedly transferring his contents to my apartment, I bid farewell to Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, noting with indignation that the clerk at Alamo had described the car as a “grey” Toyota Corolla on my intake ticket. Grey. How dare you, Philistine! Grey. There is no magic left in the world.
I then had a cathartic trip to Whole Foods for groceries, and returned home where I spent the day cleaning my apartment, unpacking my bags and doing a few administrative organizational duties on my life.
I retrieved Faneuil (pronounced: Fanny), my original cello, from Peter Lewy’s apartment, and had a brief session introducing her to her new brother Homer, playing back and forth on each one and testing the quality of the sound. I will continue to experiment with each of them and am so excited by the presence of two cellos in my apartment.
And I spent oodles of quality time with my two cats, Lulu (AKA The Down and Dirty Diva, AKA Felein Sally Bowles, AKA Mona Lulu, AKA Aida, AKA Barbarella, AKA Droolcilla) and Carter, who were alternately relieved angry chastising and joyful at having me back.
It truly was wonderful to be home and I felt a huge sense of accomplishment at finally having completed the trip. I relaxed in the evening, ordered in pizza from a local spot and, eventually, slept.
And that, dear bitches, concludes the Tale of the Great Salty Roadtrip of ’07. Thank you all so much for taking this journey with me. My heartfelt love and gratitude goes out to all of you who have shown your support throughout this life altering endeavor.
But this salty, salty bitch is not finished having his say – there are many more Tales on the pursuit of La Vie Boheme to be told and the Salty Blog is far from done. Please continue to check in here, dear bitches, for your regular fix of salt and bitchery.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
The Salty's Over - The Final Audition: Washington, DC to Roanoke, VA to Abingdon, VA
I woke up very early, parted ways with Jackie, who was returning to Philadelphia that day, and Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and I began the trip to Roanoke.
We were driving into a winter storm that had everyone on all the news and weather stations abuzz. But in spite of the trepidation this generated in me, the day’s drive proved to be quite lovely. The sky was overcast, but for the most part the snow held off except for an occasional sprinkling, and I was able to enjoy the rolling hills of Virginia as they gave way to mountains that eventually revealed my destination.
Downtown Roanoke is a vibrant collection of restaurants and shops. The city’s Market Square has a comfortable and welcoming feel to it, and is pervaded with a youthful energy. An area of a few blocks is covered by what was the country’s first free WiFi hotspot. In the middle of all of this, the Mill Mountain Theatre makes its home.
My audition was for Patrick Benton, the Artistic Director, a large kindly man who peppered me with questions about my trip and my past as we made our way to their second stage. I would audition on the set of their current production of FULLY COMMITTED (a one-person show I would love to have the opportunity to attempt myself). Once there, I launched into my pieces, undaunted by an incredibly annoying and distracting noise coming from the nearby scene shop.
Partway through Doris’ monologue, I accidentally inhaled the wrong way and dissolved into a coughing fit that robbed me of my voice. Sounding far more verklempt than even Doris could have intended, I valiantly finished the monologue, much to Patrick’s delight. Touchstone’s blustery turn brought more praise, and Patrick not only discussed the possibility of using me in their production of the musical BIG RIVER this summer, but intimated that there might be some good possibilities for me in their next season (which was as yet undecided).
It wasn’t until it was over that I realized I had completed the last audition of the Audyssey! I was pleased that it had ended on such a high note (in spite of my esophageal gaffe) and felt a great sense of accomplishment.
I decided to stay in Roanoke for the evening to see FULLY COMMITTED. I spent the afternoon in a local coffee shop catching up on the blog, and ate dinner at a delicious Thai restaurant before the show, celebrating my achievements with a yummy Thai feast and toasting myself with Thai iced tea.
I was quite pleased to discover that the show (directed by Patrick) was very good. I enjoyed the actor quite a bit, although I kept wishing I was watching my friend Vince Gatton play this part (a brilliant actor in his own right, he is in fact about to open in a production of this play in the Berkshires).
The show ended early enough that I felt comfortable continuing on to my penultimate destination, Abingdon, VA. Again the weather and news outlets all had dire predictions for the entire area, but the night proved to be beautiful, with perfect weather for a drive. A full moon pierced the clouds and illuminated the mountainous countryside, keeping me company and bathing the weathered, tree-covered peaks in magical purple iridescence.
We were driving into a winter storm that had everyone on all the news and weather stations abuzz. But in spite of the trepidation this generated in me, the day’s drive proved to be quite lovely. The sky was overcast, but for the most part the snow held off except for an occasional sprinkling, and I was able to enjoy the rolling hills of Virginia as they gave way to mountains that eventually revealed my destination.
Downtown Roanoke is a vibrant collection of restaurants and shops. The city’s Market Square has a comfortable and welcoming feel to it, and is pervaded with a youthful energy. An area of a few blocks is covered by what was the country’s first free WiFi hotspot. In the middle of all of this, the Mill Mountain Theatre makes its home.
My audition was for Patrick Benton, the Artistic Director, a large kindly man who peppered me with questions about my trip and my past as we made our way to their second stage. I would audition on the set of their current production of FULLY COMMITTED (a one-person show I would love to have the opportunity to attempt myself). Once there, I launched into my pieces, undaunted by an incredibly annoying and distracting noise coming from the nearby scene shop.
Partway through Doris’ monologue, I accidentally inhaled the wrong way and dissolved into a coughing fit that robbed me of my voice. Sounding far more verklempt than even Doris could have intended, I valiantly finished the monologue, much to Patrick’s delight. Touchstone’s blustery turn brought more praise, and Patrick not only discussed the possibility of using me in their production of the musical BIG RIVER this summer, but intimated that there might be some good possibilities for me in their next season (which was as yet undecided).
It wasn’t until it was over that I realized I had completed the last audition of the Audyssey! I was pleased that it had ended on such a high note (in spite of my esophageal gaffe) and felt a great sense of accomplishment.
I decided to stay in Roanoke for the evening to see FULLY COMMITTED. I spent the afternoon in a local coffee shop catching up on the blog, and ate dinner at a delicious Thai restaurant before the show, celebrating my achievements with a yummy Thai feast and toasting myself with Thai iced tea.
I was quite pleased to discover that the show (directed by Patrick) was very good. I enjoyed the actor quite a bit, although I kept wishing I was watching my friend Vince Gatton play this part (a brilliant actor in his own right, he is in fact about to open in a production of this play in the Berkshires).
The show ended early enough that I felt comfortable continuing on to my penultimate destination, Abingdon, VA. Again the weather and news outlets all had dire predictions for the entire area, but the night proved to be beautiful, with perfect weather for a drive. A full moon pierced the clouds and illuminated the mountainous countryside, keeping me company and bathing the weathered, tree-covered peaks in magical purple iridescence.
The Winter Of My Discontent: Washington, DC
Wednesday January 31
Day two in Washington proved to be a frustrating experience, indeed.
In the end, I was incapable of booking any auditions at any of the Washington theatres on this tour. Schedules prevented, people were traveling, beginning rehearsals or just unwilling to meet me. The timing just seemed to be completely off. I started the day feeling very down and disappointed. Since the Signature audition had not happened, and nothing else had materialized, it seemed that I had come to the area for no reason. Feeling that I was wasting two valuable days of my trip, I began to regret the decision to come to Washington.
For the first half of the day I wallowed in this disappointment, and received more disturbing news: apparently a huge snow and ice storm was going to be blowing through the Southeast over the next couple of days, just in time for some of my heaviest driving days.
To complicate matters, I was feeling slightly under the weather, my throat sore and my body achy. And the full weight of my exhaustion was setting in along with a sense of despair. I missed my bed. I missed my cats. I missed my time with the cello. I dreaded the idea of coordinating another day of driving and throwing myself in people’s faces. I hated living out of a suitcase. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the length of my departure from New York, and a powerful homesickness developed.
How had it come to this? The trip until now had been incredibly successful. But the shut-out of this whole market felt like an enormous setback. And with only one audition left this week, I was feeling let down. It was as though last week I’d had all the excitement of an opening night gala, an audience full of celebrities and love letters from the New York times…and now I was suddenly playing my final performance on a Sunday matinee for an audience of three people.
For the first time, I considered cutting the rest of the trip short and leaving that day for home.
But this bitch ain’t called Salty for nothing, dear readers.
I began to think of my Dad on his long rigorous business trips, endlessly toiling to sell his product to new clients. I remembered all the times I heard the exhaustion, the disappointment in his voice, and yet in spite of those days (and at times they seemed more frequent than others), he was able to pull himself through it and continue in his attempts to realize his dreams.
Summoning my last remaining reserves of energy and strength I reminded myself of the great work I had done thus far, and resolved to snatch myself and the rest of the day from the jaws of defeat.
I ventured forth into downtown Washington, searching out first the Shakespeare Theatre and then the Studio, hunting down the contacts I had made there via email to introduce myself in person and get my face in their heads. True, this was not as good as if I’d managed to book auditions at these places, but it was definitely a bold, solid networking opportunity, a good use of my time, and a Salty deed of derring do.
After spending forever looking for parking, I also went to see Shakespeare Theatre’s production of RICHARD III. I am intimately familiar with this play, having done an adaptation of Shakespeare’s four War of the Roses plays (of which RIII is a part) into THE ROSE WAR, a trilogy to be performed by nine actors.
I was disappointed in the production. To me that play is electric; this version lacked the pace and energy and vitality I feel is innate to the verse. This was all the more egregious considering that the play is being performed a scant few blocks from the White House, where our very own perversion of nature usurps the throne. It should have been earth shattering and life/mind/spirit/climate/attitude changing. It fell far short of this, in spite of some nice moments here and there.
On the way back to the hotel, after driving along the Mall and getting shivers at the sight of the reflecting pool and the site of Martin luther King, Jr.’s speech, I was forced to stop along the highway to allow a group of deer to cross the roadway.
Sleep was welcome and too short.
Day two in Washington proved to be a frustrating experience, indeed.
In the end, I was incapable of booking any auditions at any of the Washington theatres on this tour. Schedules prevented, people were traveling, beginning rehearsals or just unwilling to meet me. The timing just seemed to be completely off. I started the day feeling very down and disappointed. Since the Signature audition had not happened, and nothing else had materialized, it seemed that I had come to the area for no reason. Feeling that I was wasting two valuable days of my trip, I began to regret the decision to come to Washington.
For the first half of the day I wallowed in this disappointment, and received more disturbing news: apparently a huge snow and ice storm was going to be blowing through the Southeast over the next couple of days, just in time for some of my heaviest driving days.
To complicate matters, I was feeling slightly under the weather, my throat sore and my body achy. And the full weight of my exhaustion was setting in along with a sense of despair. I missed my bed. I missed my cats. I missed my time with the cello. I dreaded the idea of coordinating another day of driving and throwing myself in people’s faces. I hated living out of a suitcase. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the length of my departure from New York, and a powerful homesickness developed.
How had it come to this? The trip until now had been incredibly successful. But the shut-out of this whole market felt like an enormous setback. And with only one audition left this week, I was feeling let down. It was as though last week I’d had all the excitement of an opening night gala, an audience full of celebrities and love letters from the New York times…and now I was suddenly playing my final performance on a Sunday matinee for an audience of three people.
For the first time, I considered cutting the rest of the trip short and leaving that day for home.
But this bitch ain’t called Salty for nothing, dear readers.
I began to think of my Dad on his long rigorous business trips, endlessly toiling to sell his product to new clients. I remembered all the times I heard the exhaustion, the disappointment in his voice, and yet in spite of those days (and at times they seemed more frequent than others), he was able to pull himself through it and continue in his attempts to realize his dreams.
Summoning my last remaining reserves of energy and strength I reminded myself of the great work I had done thus far, and resolved to snatch myself and the rest of the day from the jaws of defeat.
I ventured forth into downtown Washington, searching out first the Shakespeare Theatre and then the Studio, hunting down the contacts I had made there via email to introduce myself in person and get my face in their heads. True, this was not as good as if I’d managed to book auditions at these places, but it was definitely a bold, solid networking opportunity, a good use of my time, and a Salty deed of derring do.
After spending forever looking for parking, I also went to see Shakespeare Theatre’s production of RICHARD III. I am intimately familiar with this play, having done an adaptation of Shakespeare’s four War of the Roses plays (of which RIII is a part) into THE ROSE WAR, a trilogy to be performed by nine actors.
I was disappointed in the production. To me that play is electric; this version lacked the pace and energy and vitality I feel is innate to the verse. This was all the more egregious considering that the play is being performed a scant few blocks from the White House, where our very own perversion of nature usurps the throne. It should have been earth shattering and life/mind/spirit/climate/attitude changing. It fell far short of this, in spite of some nice moments here and there.
On the way back to the hotel, after driving along the Mall and getting shivers at the sight of the reflecting pool and the site of Martin luther King, Jr.’s speech, I was forced to stop along the highway to allow a group of deer to cross the roadway.
Sleep was welcome and too short.
Moments in the Woods: Norfolk, VA to Washington, DC
Tuesday January 30
The day began well.
I got up at a decent hour, and as I was getting the car ready for the trip, I got a call from Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, who said that they were going to try to squeeze me in to be seen while I was in town, but that it wasn’t looking good. Still, I was excited to have gotten a response from them and emailed them my headshot and resume as requested. Again. That made three times I’d sent my calling card this month.
I finished packing everything back into Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and bid farewell to Norfolk.
I was just past Colonial Williamsburg when the phone rang. It was the NY casting director for Triad Stage in Greensboro, NC, calling to invite me in to audition for Triad’s next show in NYC next week. Thrilled to have such immediate, concrete results from one of last week’s auditions, I confirmed a time with her.
I hung up with the casting folk and had just finished scribbling the date and time on a little piece of paper when I realized I hadn’t really been paying attention to my speed. As I started to slow down (damn that lead foot of mine!), I looked up and saw that I was passing a police speed trap. And so, speeding ticket number two was bestowed upon me. Now, bitches, I will admit that I fully deserved the first ticket – I was flagrantly and actively speeding. But this one really burned my ass because the whole day to that point I had really been careful about my speed, keeping up with traffic but not racing by any standards. Ah, well.
The rest of the drive to Washington went smoothly, but I was feeling less than Salty when I arrived.
After a quick snack at a nearby Panera, where I eagerly checked my email, searching in vain for news of any possible additional DC area auditions, I changed into my audition costume in their restroom (it’s SuperActor, able to spout Shakespearean verse in a single breath!). I then made the short jaunt over to the Signature Theatre, which is located in a brand spanking new complex in a brand spanking new, posh-looking area of Arlington, VA.
I had a short wait (no Homer time) and eventually was shown into the office of Artistic Director Eric Schaeffer. Eric and I had a common thread, which I pulled on to get some time with him. Eric has had a close collaborative relationship with Cameron Mackintosh over the years. I worked in Cameron’s office for two years about a million years ago. During the time I was there, Cameron was involved in two shows with Eric. I had no illusions that Eric would remember me, as I was merely a lowly office whipping boy at the time…and to be honest I didn’t remember him either.
But there we sat in his office, each of us grasping at that pitiful common thread until I feared it would fray. Why, I kept wondering, are we still sitting here making small talk? Why isn’t he asking me to do my monologues? Fortunately we had enough people and experiences in common and Eric and I are each personable enough that the conversation never got completely awkward, but I felt incredibly uncomfortable because it slowly became clear to me that somehow wires had gotten crossed and he did not intend to audition me. Through no fault of my own (I had been very clear about my intentions from the first), I felt, as Pinata Head Alison so accurately described it later, as though I had shown up to work with no pants on.
A few more uncomfortable minutes of banter later, Eric took me on a full tour of the new theatre complex. It was truly impressive, with two theatres and ample backstage areas, along with technical shops and rehearsal studios and a heckuva lot of steel ducts. Eric’s excitement with the space mollified any lingering awkwardness. Back in his office, I mentioned that I was definitely interested in working there and offered to do a monologue for him. He said I should come in when they have their general season auditions in DC in April. Rebuffed.
Our meeting ended and I went back to the car, frustrated and feeling foolish, determined to leave there and never come back, find the hotel I was to share with my aunt Jackie and hole up for the night eating copious amounts of comfort food. However, a long conference call conversation with the Triplets ensued as I sat there in the parking lot. As was so often the case with the three of us, we all seemed to be having similar or complementary life circumstances and each of us benefited from the venting and the others’ input. It was an alchemical conversation. After this, emboldened by my Trips, I marched back to the theatre and bought a ticket for that evening’s performance of INTO THE WOODS, directed by Eric.
Ascending the stairs to the lobby, I found Eric poised as greeter at the top, schmoozing with patrons (their new production of CRAVE by Sarah Kane was having its first preview that night in their smaller space). He caught my eye and we shared a brief recall of an inside joke about testy patrons from our earlier conversation. We laughed; I moved on – literally and figuratively.
The show was OK, though the PBS broadcast of the original Broadway production was so fundamental to the development of my young Artist that any unsuspecting WOODS I encounter seems to be doomed from the start. But I did find it appropriate to be seeing this particular show during the course of my journey. The scene in the second act between the Baker and his father’s spirit snuck up on me and I wept a bit thinking about Dad.
Afterwards, I began the trip to Bethesda to set up camp with my aunt, Jackie Palac, who was in Washington on business and whose dates seemed magically to have coincided with my own. A small crest in the highway revealed a stunning view of nighttime Washington, monuments aglitter – a dazzling period to a strange day of wandering in the woods.
The day began well.
I got up at a decent hour, and as I was getting the car ready for the trip, I got a call from Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, who said that they were going to try to squeeze me in to be seen while I was in town, but that it wasn’t looking good. Still, I was excited to have gotten a response from them and emailed them my headshot and resume as requested. Again. That made three times I’d sent my calling card this month.
I finished packing everything back into Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and bid farewell to Norfolk.
I was just past Colonial Williamsburg when the phone rang. It was the NY casting director for Triad Stage in Greensboro, NC, calling to invite me in to audition for Triad’s next show in NYC next week. Thrilled to have such immediate, concrete results from one of last week’s auditions, I confirmed a time with her.
I hung up with the casting folk and had just finished scribbling the date and time on a little piece of paper when I realized I hadn’t really been paying attention to my speed. As I started to slow down (damn that lead foot of mine!), I looked up and saw that I was passing a police speed trap. And so, speeding ticket number two was bestowed upon me. Now, bitches, I will admit that I fully deserved the first ticket – I was flagrantly and actively speeding. But this one really burned my ass because the whole day to that point I had really been careful about my speed, keeping up with traffic but not racing by any standards. Ah, well.
The rest of the drive to Washington went smoothly, but I was feeling less than Salty when I arrived.
After a quick snack at a nearby Panera, where I eagerly checked my email, searching in vain for news of any possible additional DC area auditions, I changed into my audition costume in their restroom (it’s SuperActor, able to spout Shakespearean verse in a single breath!). I then made the short jaunt over to the Signature Theatre, which is located in a brand spanking new complex in a brand spanking new, posh-looking area of Arlington, VA.
I had a short wait (no Homer time) and eventually was shown into the office of Artistic Director Eric Schaeffer. Eric and I had a common thread, which I pulled on to get some time with him. Eric has had a close collaborative relationship with Cameron Mackintosh over the years. I worked in Cameron’s office for two years about a million years ago. During the time I was there, Cameron was involved in two shows with Eric. I had no illusions that Eric would remember me, as I was merely a lowly office whipping boy at the time…and to be honest I didn’t remember him either.
But there we sat in his office, each of us grasping at that pitiful common thread until I feared it would fray. Why, I kept wondering, are we still sitting here making small talk? Why isn’t he asking me to do my monologues? Fortunately we had enough people and experiences in common and Eric and I are each personable enough that the conversation never got completely awkward, but I felt incredibly uncomfortable because it slowly became clear to me that somehow wires had gotten crossed and he did not intend to audition me. Through no fault of my own (I had been very clear about my intentions from the first), I felt, as Pinata Head Alison so accurately described it later, as though I had shown up to work with no pants on.
A few more uncomfortable minutes of banter later, Eric took me on a full tour of the new theatre complex. It was truly impressive, with two theatres and ample backstage areas, along with technical shops and rehearsal studios and a heckuva lot of steel ducts. Eric’s excitement with the space mollified any lingering awkwardness. Back in his office, I mentioned that I was definitely interested in working there and offered to do a monologue for him. He said I should come in when they have their general season auditions in DC in April. Rebuffed.
Our meeting ended and I went back to the car, frustrated and feeling foolish, determined to leave there and never come back, find the hotel I was to share with my aunt Jackie and hole up for the night eating copious amounts of comfort food. However, a long conference call conversation with the Triplets ensued as I sat there in the parking lot. As was so often the case with the three of us, we all seemed to be having similar or complementary life circumstances and each of us benefited from the venting and the others’ input. It was an alchemical conversation. After this, emboldened by my Trips, I marched back to the theatre and bought a ticket for that evening’s performance of INTO THE WOODS, directed by Eric.
Ascending the stairs to the lobby, I found Eric poised as greeter at the top, schmoozing with patrons (their new production of CRAVE by Sarah Kane was having its first preview that night in their smaller space). He caught my eye and we shared a brief recall of an inside joke about testy patrons from our earlier conversation. We laughed; I moved on – literally and figuratively.
The show was OK, though the PBS broadcast of the original Broadway production was so fundamental to the development of my young Artist that any unsuspecting WOODS I encounter seems to be doomed from the start. But I did find it appropriate to be seeing this particular show during the course of my journey. The scene in the second act between the Baker and his father’s spirit snuck up on me and I wept a bit thinking about Dad.
Afterwards, I began the trip to Bethesda to set up camp with my aunt, Jackie Palac, who was in Washington on business and whose dates seemed magically to have coincided with my own. A small crest in the highway revealed a stunning view of nighttime Washington, monuments aglitter – a dazzling period to a strange day of wandering in the woods.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Yellow and Cello: Norfolk, VA
Got up and made some final follow-up efforts with DC area theatres, thus far to no avail. I also did some research into other options in the DC market. All of this is time consuming work and before I knew it I had to leave for my next audition. I went back through the Midtown Tunnel and found a parking spot…discovering once I went to pay the meter that someone had left me with a whopping 45 minutes of free parking!
Virginia Stage Company’s offices are housed in an unassuming building in downtown Norfolk, up a creaky flight of uneven stairs. No decoration adorns the beat up white walls of the hallway. In the claustrophobic waiting area, I was asked by numerous passersby if I had been taken care of, and I responded each time in the affirmative. After a short time, my auditor came out. Chris Hanna, Artistic Director, reminded me a little of a slightly gayer version of a psychology teacher I had in school mixed with a dash of Harold Prince. He asked me questions about my trip and about Homer (who was, of course, strapped to my back) and we engaged in friendly conversation as we walked through the plain white halls, down stairs and through a set of doors. Before I knew it we were standing in the theatre, which was lavishly and richly ornamented, in sharp to the rest of the building. The theatre took my breath away. The stage killed me.
They are currently running a play called INDOOR/OUTDOOR by Kenny Finkle. I have no idea what the play is about, but the set was intriguing and made me want to read it – the entire stage was covered in plush yellow carpet - garish primary Big Bird yellow. Upstage a cutout of a house and a large moon were resting, and from the flies hung various objects, all of which were also covered in the same plush yellow carpet. It was ghastly and hilarious and somehow thrilling.
Chris paused while telling me the tale of their difficulties with the ridiculous and sublime set: the expense involved in yellow carpeting, getting just the right shade and maintaining it throughout their run (which was in its final weeks). He then offered me a choice. He said if I preferred we could do the audition in the lobby, or we could do it on the stage but I would have to take off my shoes in order to preserve the ghastly gorgeous carpeting –
My shoes were off before he finished his sentence!
The stage felt so good, in spite of its coloring. Throughout this Audyssey, I’ve noticed that my auditions bump up to a new level and are just a few notches more fun when I’ve been fortunate enough to be onstage. A special strain of adrenaline kicks in. Surely, the auditor sees me up there and realizes, as I do each time, that I belong on a stage!
I had planned to do the Doris/Touchstone combo. I usually perform Doris’ monologue sitting down, and here there were no sitables, just that vast expanse of yellow. So, moved by the spirit of Judy Garland, I sat myself right down on the edge of that stage, legs crossed and dangling over the side, and launched into a full fledged Doris, luxuriating in the sound of Doris’ raspy voice as it bounced through the perfect acoustics of that space. Chris was thoroughly entertained and enthusiastic. I then jumped up and in my stocking feet used the entire stage for a big long cross during the very animated Touchstone snippet. Again, Chris seemed to really enjoy my work, called it wonderful, and asked me if there was anything else I wanted to show him, since I had come all this way.
What to do? I asked if there was anything specific he wanted to see and he didn’t say anything. So I decided to do my Chekhov piece. It went well and Chris seemed to really like that one, too.
I hopped down from the stage and Chris guided me back through the building to the street entrance once I was re-shod. He said that they were just winding down their season, but that once they decided on next season he would surely keep me in mind for anything he thought might suit me.
I returned to the car after a brief walk up the street to find that I had one minute left on the meter. Sweet!
I drove back to the motel to check email but still had no responses about DC. I ate leftover pizza and then played the cello for a good solid productive two hours.
Homer has been playing tricks on me – he seems temperamental. Part of the problem is that I have not spent enough time playing, and part of it is probably the shifting temperatures and the newly arid climate after years on the gulf coast, but some days he sounds great and some days he really doesn’t. He also doesn’t seem to be staying in tune consistently as he was when I was playing on him in November in Florida. I’m anxious to get him back to NYC and have him checked out by Peter Lewy, my incredible cello teacher, who will likely be able to help. This afternoon, Homer sounded full and warm and gorgeous no matter what I was playing. Then I took a break, wrote yesterday’s Salty entry and had dinner. When I returned to the cello later in the evening, an odd buzz had somehow developed on the D string. Mysterious.
Tomorrow Mr. Shattner goes to Washington!
Virginia Stage Company’s offices are housed in an unassuming building in downtown Norfolk, up a creaky flight of uneven stairs. No decoration adorns the beat up white walls of the hallway. In the claustrophobic waiting area, I was asked by numerous passersby if I had been taken care of, and I responded each time in the affirmative. After a short time, my auditor came out. Chris Hanna, Artistic Director, reminded me a little of a slightly gayer version of a psychology teacher I had in school mixed with a dash of Harold Prince. He asked me questions about my trip and about Homer (who was, of course, strapped to my back) and we engaged in friendly conversation as we walked through the plain white halls, down stairs and through a set of doors. Before I knew it we were standing in the theatre, which was lavishly and richly ornamented, in sharp to the rest of the building. The theatre took my breath away. The stage killed me.
They are currently running a play called INDOOR/OUTDOOR by Kenny Finkle. I have no idea what the play is about, but the set was intriguing and made me want to read it – the entire stage was covered in plush yellow carpet - garish primary Big Bird yellow. Upstage a cutout of a house and a large moon were resting, and from the flies hung various objects, all of which were also covered in the same plush yellow carpet. It was ghastly and hilarious and somehow thrilling.
Chris paused while telling me the tale of their difficulties with the ridiculous and sublime set: the expense involved in yellow carpeting, getting just the right shade and maintaining it throughout their run (which was in its final weeks). He then offered me a choice. He said if I preferred we could do the audition in the lobby, or we could do it on the stage but I would have to take off my shoes in order to preserve the ghastly gorgeous carpeting –
My shoes were off before he finished his sentence!
The stage felt so good, in spite of its coloring. Throughout this Audyssey, I’ve noticed that my auditions bump up to a new level and are just a few notches more fun when I’ve been fortunate enough to be onstage. A special strain of adrenaline kicks in. Surely, the auditor sees me up there and realizes, as I do each time, that I belong on a stage!
I had planned to do the Doris/Touchstone combo. I usually perform Doris’ monologue sitting down, and here there were no sitables, just that vast expanse of yellow. So, moved by the spirit of Judy Garland, I sat myself right down on the edge of that stage, legs crossed and dangling over the side, and launched into a full fledged Doris, luxuriating in the sound of Doris’ raspy voice as it bounced through the perfect acoustics of that space. Chris was thoroughly entertained and enthusiastic. I then jumped up and in my stocking feet used the entire stage for a big long cross during the very animated Touchstone snippet. Again, Chris seemed to really enjoy my work, called it wonderful, and asked me if there was anything else I wanted to show him, since I had come all this way.
What to do? I asked if there was anything specific he wanted to see and he didn’t say anything. So I decided to do my Chekhov piece. It went well and Chris seemed to really like that one, too.
I hopped down from the stage and Chris guided me back through the building to the street entrance once I was re-shod. He said that they were just winding down their season, but that once they decided on next season he would surely keep me in mind for anything he thought might suit me.
I returned to the car after a brief walk up the street to find that I had one minute left on the meter. Sweet!
I drove back to the motel to check email but still had no responses about DC. I ate leftover pizza and then played the cello for a good solid productive two hours.
Homer has been playing tricks on me – he seems temperamental. Part of the problem is that I have not spent enough time playing, and part of it is probably the shifting temperatures and the newly arid climate after years on the gulf coast, but some days he sounds great and some days he really doesn’t. He also doesn’t seem to be staying in tune consistently as he was when I was playing on him in November in Florida. I’m anxious to get him back to NYC and have him checked out by Peter Lewy, my incredible cello teacher, who will likely be able to help. This afternoon, Homer sounded full and warm and gorgeous no matter what I was playing. Then I took a break, wrote yesterday’s Salty entry and had dinner. When I returned to the cello later in the evening, an odd buzz had somehow developed on the D string. Mysterious.
Tomorrow Mr. Shattner goes to Washington!
Hey, Sailor!: Raleigh, NC to Norfolk, VA
Sunday January 28
Instead of spinning my wheels in North Carolina for another day, I was back on the road spinning the wheels of trusty steed Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, making the three and a half hour drive to Norfolk, Virginia.
I haven’t made mention yet of the way I have pimped my ride, as it were, with the various symbols of love and good wishes from friends and family.
When driving anywhere, Homer, of course, rests in the space in front of the passenger seat, leaning diagonally back to be supported by the headrest. In the seat itself is my Christmas present from Kim & Drew, a production still from the movie NEVER ON SUNDAY, autographed by the star, Greek actress Melina Mercouri, and set by Drew in a gorgeous wooden frame. Kim introduced me to that movie and the two of us continue to draw inspiration from our beloved Melina and her sublime performance therein. Melina sits in the passenger seat on this Salty Audyssey, providing inspiration and support as necessary.
Incidentally, it is partially from that movie that Homer the Cello gets his name. Melina’s character’s love interest in NEVER ON SUNDAY (who is also pictured in the autographed still, blowing up an inflatable globe – he’s got the whole world in his hands!) was named Homer. Throughout the movie, Melina would speak his name with her thick accent, making it sound absolutely luscious – “Oh, Homaaaaaair!” Kim and I began to say “Oh, Homaaaaaair!” to each other whenever anything in life was particularly delicious. When I first met Homer the Cello, I was wooed by what I felt was a particularly delicious sound. So was my Dad, who heard me play on Homer the day I first began renting the instrument, which was also the last day I saw my father. He stood there beaming when he heard me play, and got all excited about how good the cello sounded. Playing the cello is an endeavor that is so close to my soul and to my heart that there were an awful lot of demons to battle in association with the undertaking. It meant a lot to me to see my father so excited by my playing. This is the other source of Homer the Cello’s name: my Dad and I used to call each other Bart and Homer, making reference to The Simpsons, a show we both enjoyed. So Homer the Cello is so named in tribute to my Dad.
But back to Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’s many fabulous adornments. Wrapped around the passenger seat is the hallowed Triplet Scarf. My friends Alison and Susan and I have named ourselves the Triplets, after the movie TRIPLETS OF BELLEVILLE (except we decided we were the Triplets of Bellview). When my Dad died, the Triplets sent me a care package that included a warm cozy scarf, which was meant to be a hug from the two of them. The scarf quickly gained security blanket status: I wear it not only for protection from the cold, but anytime I am feeling slightly fragile, and the love and support of my dear friends is palpable.
Me in the Triplet Scarf with Lola at Kim & Drew's the night before the Audyssey began (Photo courtesy Drew)
On the bottom part of the dashboard, near the gear shift, on the opposite side from the iPod adapter dock (Best. Investment. Ever.) a small green stained-glass frog is suction-cupped, smiling up at me as I drive. The frog holds a daisy and a sign that says “If friends were flowers, I’d pick you.” This cheesy yet heartfelt curio comes courtesy Carol Provonsha. Carol’s tales battling the frogs when it rains in her little sanctuary in the swamp tickled me tremendously, and we gifted each other with frogs at our meeting earlier this month in Fort Myers.
In the cup holder, among some mundane things like sunglasses, tissue paper, cell phone charger, pen and scratch paper, there lies a small piece of charcoal, within my grasp at all times while driving. This was another gift from Kim Crow, who handed it to me as I left her the last night before the trip began. It is meant to absorb negativity from the surrounding environment and clarify the energy. I sometimes grab it, sometimes hold it to my forehead, and it invariably helps dissipate the nasties. It has proven to be a powerful and incredibly effective magical talisman.
And finally, wrapped around the driver’s seat is the most sacred adornment of all. The night before I left for the trip, I was looking for something in the closet in my parents’ bedroom in our Sarasota home when I came across an iconic piece from my Dad’s wardrobe: his Tilley hat. A distinctive Australian chapeau, the Tilley hat tradition began, I believe, with my Grandmother’s husband, beloved imp Eli Abramson, who passed away in February 2006. My father used to call Eli the Wicked Stepfather in jest – there was not a wicked bone in Eli’s body. At some point that I can’t really remember, my Dad began to wear a Tilley hat as part of his golfing ensemble, one side of the brim snapped upright in rakish fashion. The hat can be seen in many pictures of my Dad around the house in Florida, and when I came across it by accident I knew I was meant to take it with me.
Back to the road: the trip to Norfolk was uneventful except I watched the outdoor temperature on Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’s dashboard gauge drop with every passing mile.
Norfolk has a strange energy to it. I can’t quite pin it down to describe it, but it doesn’t set me at ease in the least. It is somehow eerie. Perhaps it was the nearby presence of large Naval bases and shipyards, whose giant skeletal paraphernalia leered menacingly to greet me as I made my way through the downtown area in search of the theatre, and, having found it, in search of a place to stay for the next two nights.
I ended up in downtown Portsmouth, a short drive from Norfolk proper through the brief underwater stint of roadway that they call the Midtown Tunnel (my inner Manhattanite had a good giggle at that one). As the rain that had dogged me since beginning the trip eastward off of I-95 began a flirting dance with the freezing mark, taking it from liquid to ice to snow and back again, I finally found lodgings that were within my meagre price range and settled in to shelter from the icky night and the somehow spooky town.
I ordered in an accidentally ridiculous amount of pizza, and scanned the TV listlessly while I ate before trying to get some sleep.
Instead of spinning my wheels in North Carolina for another day, I was back on the road spinning the wheels of trusty steed Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, making the three and a half hour drive to Norfolk, Virginia.
I haven’t made mention yet of the way I have pimped my ride, as it were, with the various symbols of love and good wishes from friends and family.When driving anywhere, Homer, of course, rests in the space in front of the passenger seat, leaning diagonally back to be supported by the headrest. In the seat itself is my Christmas present from Kim & Drew, a production still from the movie NEVER ON SUNDAY, autographed by the star, Greek actress Melina Mercouri, and set by Drew in a gorgeous wooden frame. Kim introduced me to that movie and the two of us continue to draw inspiration from our beloved Melina and her sublime performance therein. Melina sits in the passenger seat on this Salty Audyssey, providing inspiration and support as necessary.
Incidentally, it is partially from that movie that Homer the Cello gets his name. Melina’s character’s love interest in NEVER ON SUNDAY (who is also pictured in the autographed still, blowing up an inflatable globe – he’s got the whole world in his hands!) was named Homer. Throughout the movie, Melina would speak his name with her thick accent, making it sound absolutely luscious – “Oh, Homaaaaaair!” Kim and I began to say “Oh, Homaaaaaair!” to each other whenever anything in life was particularly delicious. When I first met Homer the Cello, I was wooed by what I felt was a particularly delicious sound. So was my Dad, who heard me play on Homer the day I first began renting the instrument, which was also the last day I saw my father. He stood there beaming when he heard me play, and got all excited about how good the cello sounded. Playing the cello is an endeavor that is so close to my soul and to my heart that there were an awful lot of demons to battle in association with the undertaking. It meant a lot to me to see my father so excited by my playing. This is the other source of Homer the Cello’s name: my Dad and I used to call each other Bart and Homer, making reference to The Simpsons, a show we both enjoyed. So Homer the Cello is so named in tribute to my Dad.
But back to Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’s many fabulous adornments. Wrapped around the passenger seat is the hallowed Triplet Scarf. My friends Alison and Susan and I have named ourselves the Triplets, after the movie TRIPLETS OF BELLEVILLE (except we decided we were the Triplets of Bellview). When my Dad died, the Triplets sent me a care package that included a warm cozy scarf, which was meant to be a hug from the two of them. The scarf quickly gained security blanket status: I wear it not only for protection from the cold, but anytime I am feeling slightly fragile, and the love and support of my dear friends is palpable.
Me in the Triplet Scarf with Lola at Kim & Drew's the night before the Audyssey began (Photo courtesy Drew)On the bottom part of the dashboard, near the gear shift, on the opposite side from the iPod adapter dock (Best. Investment. Ever.) a small green stained-glass frog is suction-cupped, smiling up at me as I drive. The frog holds a daisy and a sign that says “If friends were flowers, I’d pick you.” This cheesy yet heartfelt curio comes courtesy Carol Provonsha. Carol’s tales battling the frogs when it rains in her little sanctuary in the swamp tickled me tremendously, and we gifted each other with frogs at our meeting earlier this month in Fort Myers.
In the cup holder, among some mundane things like sunglasses, tissue paper, cell phone charger, pen and scratch paper, there lies a small piece of charcoal, within my grasp at all times while driving. This was another gift from Kim Crow, who handed it to me as I left her the last night before the trip began. It is meant to absorb negativity from the surrounding environment and clarify the energy. I sometimes grab it, sometimes hold it to my forehead, and it invariably helps dissipate the nasties. It has proven to be a powerful and incredibly effective magical talisman.
And finally, wrapped around the driver’s seat is the most sacred adornment of all. The night before I left for the trip, I was looking for something in the closet in my parents’ bedroom in our Sarasota home when I came across an iconic piece from my Dad’s wardrobe: his Tilley hat. A distinctive Australian chapeau, the Tilley hat tradition began, I believe, with my Grandmother’s husband, beloved imp Eli Abramson, who passed away in February 2006. My father used to call Eli the Wicked Stepfather in jest – there was not a wicked bone in Eli’s body. At some point that I can’t really remember, my Dad began to wear a Tilley hat as part of his golfing ensemble, one side of the brim snapped upright in rakish fashion. The hat can be seen in many pictures of my Dad around the house in Florida, and when I came across it by accident I knew I was meant to take it with me.
Back to the road: the trip to Norfolk was uneventful except I watched the outdoor temperature on Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’s dashboard gauge drop with every passing mile.
Norfolk has a strange energy to it. I can’t quite pin it down to describe it, but it doesn’t set me at ease in the least. It is somehow eerie. Perhaps it was the nearby presence of large Naval bases and shipyards, whose giant skeletal paraphernalia leered menacingly to greet me as I made my way through the downtown area in search of the theatre, and, having found it, in search of a place to stay for the next two nights.
I ended up in downtown Portsmouth, a short drive from Norfolk proper through the brief underwater stint of roadway that they call the Midtown Tunnel (my inner Manhattanite had a good giggle at that one). As the rain that had dogged me since beginning the trip eastward off of I-95 began a flirting dance with the freezing mark, taking it from liquid to ice to snow and back again, I finally found lodgings that were within my meagre price range and settled in to shelter from the icky night and the somehow spooky town.
I ordered in an accidentally ridiculous amount of pizza, and scanned the TV listlessly while I ate before trying to get some sleep.
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