Yesterday's thought:

Well... It took me nearly six months to hike into these particular woods. If I turn around now it'll take me another six to hike out.

I should turn around now.

This morning's thought:

Man, these woods are great. I wonder what's on the other side?

Fickle mind, fickle heart.

I sat in the balcony of a theatre at the University of Michigan tonight watching the first dress rehearsal of my dear friend Tim Ocel's production of Cloud Nine, by Caryl Churchill. I was there because a) I love Tim, b) I love universities, c) I love students, d) I love process, and e) I love theatre and actors (though I will deny this last point if asked about it in public). But mostly I was there because I needed to remember.

When I was in college, over twenty years ago, I was in a production of Cloud Nine. What I remember as being a very good production of Cloud Nine. With what I know was a truly great group of actors whom I still adore—each in their respective ways—to this day. Every one of them. We had a wonderful design team. And we had a director who was—looking back on it—a sort of sleeper, sneak-attack great director.

I can remember our act one like it was just a moment ago. Line readings, both mine and everyone else's, blocking, costumes, even lighting. Funny thing, though: Act Two? Not so much. Actually, almost nothing. I could remember who played who (the second act moves some of the first act characters forward in time with doublings that do or don't resonate in particular ways) but that's about it. That bothered me. I had great feelings about having been in that show, I just couldn't remember half of the show.

Here's what I learned tonight in Ann Arbor: my childhood isn't the only thing I've suppressed. This is, as far as I'm concerned, not great news. I'd really thought that the curtain of mist was drawn neatly between my leaving high school and my arriving at college. Turns out the mist crept, or—and this is worrying—is creeping. BUT, and I say this with a huge sense of relief, you can't sit in a darkened theatre and watch your childhood played out in front of you. You can, however, sit in a darkened theatre and watch act two of Cloud Nine. And, tonight, I did.

Turns out I blacked out act two of Cloud Nine for the same reason I blacked out the first chunk of my life: I wasn't ready for it at the time. Simple as that. Watching the characters on stage tonight, particularly Edward, the character for whom I had responsibility, was sooooooo strange. I had no idea what they were about to say or do, but as they said it and did it my desiccated memory cells rehydrated. I remembered everything. Everything about my failure to "get" act two. Where I had absolute confidence—in college!—in playing the middle-aged, tyrannical, and irredeemably straight father of an Victorian English family in colonial Africa, I could not even begin to play a 20th century, young, doubtful, sexually ambiguous gardner who just wants a domestically and physically fulfilling relationship.

Could. Not. Play it.

Nope.

(I would like to state, for the record, that were such an assignment given me now? I'd fucking KILL IT!)

But… it was a real gift to sit in that theater tonight and remember when I couldn't kill it. And to hear some of the wonderful words that are in that play that I couldn't hear back then, even with the repetition of rehearsal and performance.

And, in this chunk of my life, for which I often feel just as unprepared, they killed me:

Victoria: Would you love me if I loved ten other people?

Lin: And me?

Victoria: Yes.

Lin: Yes.

You've got to respect a life that gives you multiple shots at "getting it." I know I do.

When I was a young man I would sleep to silence my mind.

Now I just get up early, pour coffee into it, and beat the crap out of it.

In my better moments I believe that, whether they intellectually know it or not, the audience instinctively understands that the bright box of light and movement and sound that they are staring at and listening to for the evening is the tip of an iceberg. A HUGE FREAKING ICEBERG! That, though they may see only twenty-odd folks up there on stage, it feels to them that there are at least fifty people making this all happen. And that's not counting the local hires. That's fifty in the company of Memphis. The company that works and travels together.

Sometimes, and it is blessedly rare these days, there comes a person who stands between us—the company—and the audience. A self-styled Gatekeeper. Someone who either doesn't get this concept of it-takes-a-village-to-make-a-theatrical-performance-happen thing or thinks it benifical to sell a different story of our art form. A fairy tale of sparkly actors who make it all happen through shear force of talent, and personality, and... I don't know, star power. "Oh, sure", they might aknowledge, if forced to, "such a thing as a crew exists, but... Wouldn't you rather talk with and about the actors?"

Pisses me off.

You think it's an honor to have the actors come out and talk with your audience after performance? The honor is to have those other folks come out and try, try to get you to comprehend what the hell it took to make you enjoy what you say you enjoyed so much. You saw what the freaking actors did with your own eyes. Some of you even got hit by our sweat or spit. It's pretty clear what we're up to up there.

And, you know what? The audience members are usually very appreciative to find out what the man (and woman) behind the curtain is up to. But the Gatekeepers, for whatever reason (self-agrandizement? vicarious actor-envy crap? ignorance?) try to make a clear upstairs/downstairs division in our group. Our company.

Have I said yet that that pisses me off?

You want to have members of our company talk to your audience? We actually do a pretty brilliant job of self-selecting to make sure you get a good mix of technians and performers. Leads and ensemble members. And, if left to our own devices, we do a pretty brilliant job of passing the Q&A ball among us. Because, we work as a team all the freaking time! Much more than anything any of us might say individually in a talkback, the real information is in how we talk as a company. The respect for each other, for what we all do to make the performance happen, shows up in how we talk about our work among ourselves and in front of your audience.

That's all. Just... Don't try to carve up our company. It pisses me off.

My tongue is longing for late summer tomatoes in particular.

I've also been homesick for Ashland, OR, this week for some reason. These heirloom beauties from my dear friend Kirsten's backyard haunt my dreams. Here's a great cocktail recipe to tuck away until late summer hits your neck of the woods:

The Mae West from The Library Bar’s Matthew Biancaniello

Heirloom tomoatoes and Hendricks gin. What could go wrong. Check it out on KCRW's Good Food show website. You'll be glad you did. Mmmmmmmmm...

After a break, Morrison & Gurr : The Hotel Room Recordings is back on track. We're in wintertime Cleveland, but we dream of the summer we left behind in Florida...

March 5th, 2011 

cover of the Roy Orbison and Joe Melson tune most famously covered by Linda Ronstadt 

This one was conceived in Naples, FL in my hotel room at the Comfort Inn & Suites but recorded 'round midnight two weeks later in downtown Cleveland, OH, in my hotel living room at the Embassy Suites

Jill Morrison and me (x2) on vocals 
me on tenor Lanikai ukulele (x2)  

MacBook Air 
Samson C01U USB mic

I can hear the Lorax in me screaming...

...while my inner tech/photo geek giggles.

Cognitive dissonance. It's not for intellectual sissies.

This is also an interesting counter point to this : 

Follow GoPro on twitter here. And National Geographic photos here. And the Lorax - God help us - here.