Who Had Me at 40

I'm writing this because I have to. If I don't, I won't eat anything today.

Where was I when things got difficult with my family? In this recent terrifying episode with my mother - which I'm in the middle of at the moment - I was here, where I chose to be, where I felt my obligation was...to Playhouse West and the little theater company who vaguely recognizes me. I was here.

My mother, a month ago, fell outside her house and crawled to my sister's front door for help. She fell two more times that weekend. She saw her doctor, but still, she has spent the last month in excrutiating pain, and the past two weeks she was, for the most part, in bed. It's been a round the clock responsibility of the immediate family to visit her and take care of her; My father and two sisters have done everything I wish I could do to help. The only thing I could do has been to call her and ask her about the rest of the family, ask her about her health, and to update her on things happening out here. But where was I? I was right here.

My mother is 78 (soon to be 79). She had me when she was 40, after coming to the U.S. from Argentina. She is part of what I consider my unique treasure: My two sisters, my father, and my mother are also my closest friends, and as different as all four of them are, they do so much for the family and sacrifice so much for each other, that when one part of that circle is ailing, everyone suffers. I have such a great time when I'm around her. To this day, the only person I have ever been able to spend time with in any museum has been my mother (We saw the King Tut exhibit last December). The saint lying in a hospital bed right now is the warmest, most gentle source of love that I know. Both of my sisters and my father have amazingly attended to her with that kind of reverence.

What we just found out - what the doctor did not catch - is that in the series of falls, my mother fractured her hip, tore both meniscus in her knee, and strained a tendon in the same knee. She suffered for a month needlessly, and we're waiting to find out when she's going to be operated on. Everyone agrees that I shouldn't fly out there right now, and I'm endlessly distracted.

Once we're past the surgery, then it's all about rehab. How difficult will this be on both of my parents? Will some of the intangibles within the family that have mended themselves for the moment start to heal? Some of the other things that are wrong...some things that have been violently wrong for a long time now, probably can't be fixed. As for the rest...somehow, once we step through the window of surgery, I feel like the handful of us who have pulled together can make something happen. There is still a lot of love in the core.

I'm hoping this will clear my mind a little so I'll eat something today, but to be honest with you, I'm scared. Wouldn't you be?

Tempus edax rerum

The seed of discontent, planted in the ground of indifference, never sprouts into a plant of discontent. In other words, being dissatisfied with the world in itself doesn't make the world easier to deal with, nor does it make the big picture more attractive. All it does is confirm what you're unhappy with, a vicious cycle of upturning soil and being unsatisfied with the results.

Not that this year has been a waste. No, not at all. It's just been difficult.

Yes, both of my parents have had medical issues, some that are still waiting to be defined. Yes, another friend of mine has come forth to let me know she has breast cancer. All this puts my problems in perspective...but at the same time it does not excuse me to repeat patterns, especially those that eat my time, which in turn devour everything else in me. Such is theater and the entertainment industry. The warning signs were apparently posted at the entrance, but most of us ignored them and auditioned for the devil anyway.

Normally, I would be able to deal with the life issues and pump them back into theater. I would have been too busy to sink in and see the reflection. It's different now.

The seed of discontent (the beginning of the end?) was planted with Rachel, a friend who made an accusation that should never have been repeated to me. That said to me that I wasn't appreciated. The numbing blow came from Ali, another friend who publicly criticized me and in one breath changed a season of love into a labor of chaos. These two bookended a body of unpredictability where the organization, I fear, is not on my side. (Why pick sides anyway?) That is where theater has disappeared in my heart, so I took a break. Yes, they still need me to do the things nobody else wants to do. My artistic side still does not want to compete, and egos now prevail on the landscape. By keeping my distance, I render the competition powerless.

I also have time to reinvent.

It's time, though, to start responding to emails and phone calls, to retool the efforts in measured ways and reconnect to friends and supporters. If I wait any longer, hibernation might turn into a comatose state, so with April comes my spring.

Just when I thought I was up here on the moon as a means of defining myself in contrast to everyone else, I find that I've been staring at the earth all along. What's most beautiful about it is its random imperfection, right down to the very last atom. And imperfection, after all, is exactly the place where art is born, isn't it?

Cura nihil aliud nisi ut valeas.

I'm enjoying the euphemisms, to an extent, or at least I'm beginning to notice the emerging world around me. I've said lately that I'm taking a break...I'm recalibrating my scales (for the astrology-conscious), or that I've returned to the moon. Beyond all this, instead of wondering why I haven't done anything in three months, I'm beginning to pick up the tools around me.

The first thing I reached for without realizing it was my camera. Now, I don't really care that I don't have a mega-expensive camera to play with. Well, I do have my film camera, but at the moment I'm too impatient and maybe too impulsive for that. Nevertheless, I added a few albums to my webshots page (http://community.webshots.com/user/sjirel) and am anxious to see where my eye takes me.

I also read a couple of plays, but I haven't put word one on paper (or screen) because I've just shifted a little in my focus. I'm still in the process of a huge undertaking at home: cutting away the past and letting go of old patterns. I am shredding a majority of paperwork and throwing away (or donating) things that I don't need. I don't want to have any "just in case" items, I don't want any things in storage containers that weren't originally intended as storage containers, and I'm looking to affect change and a new life that's leaner and ultimately more self-fulfilling. Did I mention world peace and weight loss?

There is a condition of belonging and not belonging, of being who people know you to be versus being who you aspire to be, beyond all modesty. I would have to say that the greatest catalyst for change is simplicity. Sometimes, when a life gets complicated, the best way to see yourself in it is to start removing things until everything around you is a reflection.

Good night from the moon...the Earth looks great from here.

Reasons Why

The first two months of my year in writing have been spent in wonder at my lack of production or...interest in an absoultely insane schedule like the one I've kept for years. It's a completely different change of pace for me, but I think I've figured out what's been happening with the gray matter.

First of all, I've been telling everyone that I've blown a fuse. During the last quarter of last year, I pushed myself beyond my capacity with two simultaneous productions in two separate theaters, followed immediately by two weeks in Miami. Somewhere in there, I lost my center. I came back tired, a little disillusioned, but unmotivated to pick up a distraction. Since then I've been reading and observing...searching...isolating.

And then my job threw me a surprise. A company-wide management meeting was being planned, and the top officers in the company met to discuss a theme. Two people on the committee volunteered me to create graphics and an opening presentation. Two weeks later, I'm spending the day at the Reagan Library, and my presentation shows twice at the request of the CEO. I had a moment of clarity that lends itself to why I don't usually watch award shows (like the Oscars, which are on right now).

Most of the time I think that the stuff I do is just work. Playhouse West seemingly only celebrates celebrity and its own people in charge. Though I've created more firsts in that theater company than anyone, over the past nine years, I feel like I've invited more criticism and apathy than recognition. Last year, in a season filled with meaning, I found myself walking away from the whole thing alone, reading nothing in the official Playhouse newsletter about my efforts.
The day at the Reagan Library reminded me that I'm not in a competition with anyone else. That's how I was able to keep going in a thankless theater company (aren't they all?); I was able to recognize the fact that it was a resource I had great access to. I have all of these great actors to choose from. I can put up anything I want. I remembered a question an old friend asked me - Lynn Dee Smith - "Why do you really want to do this?"

The answer is simple: I work on things that are meaningful to me. That's the key to my inactivity. The things that haven't made sense, the things that other people don't appreciate...might not be worth my time. I bust ass to produce a one-act festival to create more opportunities for actors at Playhouse. The response to emails I've sent out has been sparse. I don't do it for me; I created it out of loyalty to the actor. Look, the odds are already against me, I think, so why would I put myself out there for a situation where I'm going to work hard for a less-than-satisfying experience? Yes, I know that actors are opportunistic by nature. I don't want to perform a service any more. I've put my own projects on hold for years performing a service that has no value.

So I wait. I watch. I isolate. I'm searching for the things that are meaningful to me, and when I can translate that to a medium that calls to me, I'll devote every breath to it. Will I write about a small band of teenagers in Miami who throw their lives away with drugs and an endless destruction of trust? Will I write about the politics and promises of the small bubbles in the entertainment industry? Will I write about something that's buried in the newspaper right next to me? Could it be something else I've been studying for years?

I'll let you know when I've got something ready.