There are many things that a study of acting will teach you, both good and bad. I wrote a play once - actually, a collection of ten plays - about all of the bad qualities that appear in an actor, and that includes forgetting the good ones. Among them were: Only being human and responsive in the temporary reality of a play, forgetting the simple joy of playing for want of business, and the jealousy between actors. I've seen a lot of the worst, most of which has thankfully been forgotten and packed away with old pictures, clothes, and ideas.
The art of acting, something I still believe in and promote with unyielding faith, is nothing short of miraculous to be around. I've been very fortunate, with all of my opportunities to direct and write; I love the actor and absolutely respect the honesty which they work towards. The earnest actor in our society shows the average person that no, they're not alone. Other people feel the same things, have been through the same experiences, and will, as Jane Martin once wrote, "lacerate self-exposure" to get closer to the truth of any given moment on stage or in front of the camera. It's a testament to the idea that we're all the same in many ways, that we understand basic concepts, and that our dedication to the piece is really a dedication to the viewer...to reach them...to tell a story. It's a charge to defend the truth - as serious as that sounds - but that's what the rehearsals are all about. It makes you think, doesn't it? The next time you see a play, think about this battle, whether or not the actors can demonstrate it on stage.
There is my love for actors. There is my love for the viewer. There's my love for the process. In the end, our part in a production changes us a little, alters the course of our lives, and it makes a unique connection to the moment between all of us. That's why it's so hard to walk away from productions that we get emotionally connected to. You know, as you approach the beginning of the next one, that it's going to affect you and change you in small ways, and that eventually you'll get to that closing night with a lump in your throat and many quick goodbyes. What follows is usually an unbearable silence, and then the next production picks you up. You still do it. There are more stories to tell.
It bodes well for me that the title for my latest play came to me in a lucid moment, and sat in me for a day before it became the title for the subject for this entry as well. As I feel this play begin to take its final shape, I have that emotional connection for having given birth to it. Even today, as I started explaining to a friend what it was about, I had to turn away for a moment and feign a quick distraction, and in that breath I knew I had given my heart to it. The question in the play is about defining "home" and where the people who mean the most to you truly live. It's not a place, it's not a phone number, it's not even email address. You can find that idea of home...right here, where I have my love for actors, for the process, for the story, my family, and the people who have influenced me the most in my life...
...and there lies the truth I defend, from the periods of chaos where everything is spinning around me to the quiet moments when I'm alone with my decisions and something to write with.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Tragic Line of Cars
If you were to ask me how I can describe Los Angeles, I think that tonight I'd give you an unexpected answer. Today, I thought of the perception of my city from my friends in different countries, and they're pretty much right in line with what people here think; This city has no soul. You look around at the forced and borrowed culture, at all of the traffic and especially the dark corners everywhere, and there's proof positive.
As I was walking through the supermarket today, seeing all of the other people like me with their iPods on, filling their lonely carts with food for one, and the very next track in my ears connected it all in the innocence of a song. This city's soul is concerned with housing people who have nowhere else to go.
The next time you're in traffic, look at the person next to you. Chances are, they're emotionally not in their cars and mentally miles away. They're in a rush, or they're resigned to the wait. They're thinking about what they have waiting at home, whether it's a house full of responsibilities that leave them no room to breathe, or maybe it's just a quiet home with a dormant answering machine, and ramen noodles in the cupboard.
Look at stolen moments when you think a whole group of people is having fun, there's always someone who looks away, puts themselves miles away, looking off in the distance to see if their heart is intact. Look at how nobody in line at Starbucks talks to each other, and how people in a movie theater will almost always put a seat between themselves and somebody they don't know.
You have to ask; Does it hurt to make a connection to another person in this city? I think it just might. There are enough people, if you just pay attention, who ache for someone to bridge the gap, but then once the connection is made, there's no knowledge or experience...no intuition...that tells them how to keep it alive. I think it hurts somehow, but beyond that, I believe that it's just more obvious in Los Angeles. If it only happened here, people would stop coming. The wound runs deeper and farther than the city goes.
People look for something familiar, something that validates who they are. If it's not immediate, there's an abandonment and a continuing search to match the wound in the heart to the shape of the next person. It's sad, but I think it's true, and there lies the soul of a city whose name has been shortened to two letters for convenience. The angels...the city of angels...has a wounded soul that breathes in the lonely shopping carts, the little bubbles of existence on the 101 freeway in the morning, and in quiet little blogs for the reader and writer to make a connection and feel, if only for a moment, that they're not alone.
As I was walking through the supermarket today, seeing all of the other people like me with their iPods on, filling their lonely carts with food for one, and the very next track in my ears connected it all in the innocence of a song. This city's soul is concerned with housing people who have nowhere else to go.
The next time you're in traffic, look at the person next to you. Chances are, they're emotionally not in their cars and mentally miles away. They're in a rush, or they're resigned to the wait. They're thinking about what they have waiting at home, whether it's a house full of responsibilities that leave them no room to breathe, or maybe it's just a quiet home with a dormant answering machine, and ramen noodles in the cupboard.
Look at stolen moments when you think a whole group of people is having fun, there's always someone who looks away, puts themselves miles away, looking off in the distance to see if their heart is intact. Look at how nobody in line at Starbucks talks to each other, and how people in a movie theater will almost always put a seat between themselves and somebody they don't know.
You have to ask; Does it hurt to make a connection to another person in this city? I think it just might. There are enough people, if you just pay attention, who ache for someone to bridge the gap, but then once the connection is made, there's no knowledge or experience...no intuition...that tells them how to keep it alive. I think it hurts somehow, but beyond that, I believe that it's just more obvious in Los Angeles. If it only happened here, people would stop coming. The wound runs deeper and farther than the city goes.
People look for something familiar, something that validates who they are. If it's not immediate, there's an abandonment and a continuing search to match the wound in the heart to the shape of the next person. It's sad, but I think it's true, and there lies the soul of a city whose name has been shortened to two letters for convenience. The angels...the city of angels...has a wounded soul that breathes in the lonely shopping carts, the little bubbles of existence on the 101 freeway in the morning, and in quiet little blogs for the reader and writer to make a connection and feel, if only for a moment, that they're not alone.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Irrelevant Distances
I weighed myself yesterday, in the middle of the day, and discovered to my surprise that I have lost ten pounds. A little later, I weighed my life and discovered I've lost a lot more. It's both amazing and heartbreaking how life changes sometimes. As you grow, you connect with people, and somewhere in their existence you see another clue to the definition of you. You understand yourself better in the reflection of a friend, a family member, someone you loved but somehow you feel differently about them now.
A friend of over a decade was altogether more recognizable thousands of miles away than she was in the same city. We tried to squint when we looked at each other, tried to see our old selves in context, but after a few years I realized we couldn't. The long goodbye I dreaded never came, and in one misunderstanding I didn't recognize her any more. We let go at the same time. I never saw her again.
I had the opposite problem with another friend (whom I found here on MySpace but haven't contacted). She sees me and immediately defines me with a past she doesn't want to be a part of. Who we were to each other is a huge smear, a blurry drawing of good intentions and love. She's completely different now, and the funny thing is that I never knew how bad she was back then, nor do I know how good she is now. I sort of knew the girl in the middle.
In a breath of unexpected change, another friend recently redefined himself, going from a familiar face to a shattered picture. He left a trail of debris behind him, and that, too, I'm afraid, will become an unbridgeable gap.
These are people in the long parade of souls who I find myself missing, wondering if they were healthy for me in the first place. Does this make my life lighter? Am I stronger with a dark, cloudy belief that everyone I know will soon become a stranger? I don't know. I just keep moving, and sometimes that results in creating space between me and people whose paths aren't quite parallel to mine.
It is pointless to wonder if they remember the reflection of themselves in me, or their affect on me and my life. I think...I've learned how to keep my eyes forward. I did just lose ten pounds, after all. I think it means that I'm carrying less baggage.
A friend of over a decade was altogether more recognizable thousands of miles away than she was in the same city. We tried to squint when we looked at each other, tried to see our old selves in context, but after a few years I realized we couldn't. The long goodbye I dreaded never came, and in one misunderstanding I didn't recognize her any more. We let go at the same time. I never saw her again.
I had the opposite problem with another friend (whom I found here on MySpace but haven't contacted). She sees me and immediately defines me with a past she doesn't want to be a part of. Who we were to each other is a huge smear, a blurry drawing of good intentions and love. She's completely different now, and the funny thing is that I never knew how bad she was back then, nor do I know how good she is now. I sort of knew the girl in the middle.
In a breath of unexpected change, another friend recently redefined himself, going from a familiar face to a shattered picture. He left a trail of debris behind him, and that, too, I'm afraid, will become an unbridgeable gap.
These are people in the long parade of souls who I find myself missing, wondering if they were healthy for me in the first place. Does this make my life lighter? Am I stronger with a dark, cloudy belief that everyone I know will soon become a stranger? I don't know. I just keep moving, and sometimes that results in creating space between me and people whose paths aren't quite parallel to mine.
It is pointless to wonder if they remember the reflection of themselves in me, or their affect on me and my life. I think...I've learned how to keep my eyes forward. I did just lose ten pounds, after all. I think it means that I'm carrying less baggage.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)