part one
she awakened early. hot. she had stumbled in the wee hours to the air conditioning control unit, banging against it with contempt for the cold. now the smells of the room rose up to meet her nostrils with a wrinkle. wasn't this supposed to be a luxury hotel? ah, yes. boutique. and it was still New York in August. you got to choose. too hot, too sweaty, too stinky. or. too cold, too dry for your sinuses, scratchy throat. she chose hot and sweaty. and stinky.
she took her time, not normally, but today. she luxuriated. what day of the week was it, anyway? who cared.
well, she did, but only out of habit.
she was sick of social media, living life on line, living connected to a device, living without breath.
so after the applying of the zit cream and the moisturizer and the foundation and the blush and the lip stain and the chapstick and the highlighter and the brow pencil and the cream eye shadow and the smudge and the mascara - thank god her blow out that she had paid fifty bucks for before coming to the city was holding out pretty well thanks to the Russian tae kwon do expert, a former olympian to boot, who had to schlep to the blow dry bar for a day job like the rest of the aspiring stunt performers and a-list actress hopefuls; if not hair then dog walking or tutoring or massage therapy or personal training or waiting in line for rich people at the DMV- after all that, she wandered down to the streets and walked, at first fast, then moderately, a natural swing in the hips arriving fluidly in response to the overtly masculine push toward success she was learning to release every day, nearly every hour, now.
"what," she thought, "what if, what if I just let beauty happen?"
the thought of not working for success at every waking moment tickled her.
she walked all the way from nomad to Chelsea to meet a dear dear dear dear dear dear woman in her life, a friend, fellow creatrix and psychic and powerhouse, they could be sisters or, more likely, young aunt and adult niece? sisters from different misters, perhaps, with the age difference, you see. and over vegan lunch and gay ice cream a deep connection settled in as they spoke of dreams and manifestations until they arrived at a witchy bookstore, no, like literally, there was a sign reading "the witch is in" and they listened to a conversation about sending away unwanted spirits and appreciated the black cat on the counter since the next day was, in an unlikely but remarkable turn of events, black cat appreciation day.
and then there was graffi-tea and talk of obstacles and fears card readings shared entre nous despite the public space, and days later, she would feel so tired and exhausted, having culled the truth of her disappointments and exhaustions from her heart and having laid them bare on the table for her friend to see-
and when it was time to part it was a happy "see ya next time" with a kiss, and they each felt largely fulfilled, they were ready to return to their respective responsibilities and goals, for while you can take the girl out of the overachiever? you cannot? take? the overachiever? out of the girl, oh it makes sense if you are she, anyhow,
until she is a woman
which
witch were we speaking of, now?
so happy for those days of city talking and walking, those moments of utterly delicious wrenches thrown into the works of progress
Morgan le Fay rules over Ayn Rand every day.
Yup! I'm human.
And I ordered the barista's recommendation,
the salty pimp,
which was tasty, but,
in my heart I really love sprinkles and
wish I had honored my inner
fairy godmother
and ordered something
sprinkly
instead.
and ordered something
sprinkly
instead.
PART TWO:
If you have truly pursued acting in your life, you know how difficult it is to let yourself really feel everything and respond with covering and deflecting the way real people do in life while still inviting people to peek in on your vulnerability while still making it sound like you were just explaining this story to your brother at Thanksgiving.
Or in the case of Tom Sturridge, who sounds like he's sharing in therapy or a 12 step group in his monologue-
Or in the case of Jake Gylenhaal, who sounds like he's sharing at a college friends' camping trip during his monologue-
Just real and even more so.
Best thing I have seen on Broadway alongside "Porgy and Bess" with Audra McDonald and Norm Lewis.
So for some kind of review or something...
These are two separate plays, two one man shows that each take up about the time of an act. They are intimate, deeply personal shows, at least in the delivery and content (if not in the verity of "it happened to me" as an experience.) At times whimsical, at times fragile, at times deeply searching, I connected from my heart to what I was witnessing. I read in the show notes in the program that Tom and Jake, as actors, felt they were giving this to the audience as a gift. I will be honest and say that as an audience member, I did feel that I was giving my attention back as a gift as well? I am sure that sounds bitchy or arrogant or something, and I do not mean it that way. I just mean, it commanded my whole being, and I wanted so very much to offer them my energy as thanks.
PART THREE:
The night before, the screening again:
wanted to post a few pics.
The Q&A/ Talkback:
Great interviewer! (Rick Hamilton.)
