in an attempt to sleep...

It has been four weeks of a grueling schedule. Of very long hours that began at 5 and 6 am on weekday mornings and often did not end until after eleven -- or later, if I went to the Breakfast King to work on lines afterward. (Big shout out to all the waitresses there who were patient with me as I muttered to myself, drank a few cups of coffee and always ordered a fried egg sandwich with a to-go box so I wouldn't eat the whole thing.)

And every day of it, I felt like I was a part of something so big that I couldn't afford NOT to wake as early as I did, get to work, make sure I did what I needed to do there, ensuring I had a job to return to when my focus did. K, M, and G have assembled a family of designers, actors and crew who are each so devoted, one has been compelled to give all he or she has to offer.

And I did. And although I play each of my own scenes from Saturday over and over in my head, noticing the flubs, wincing at the gaps I left and the line I dropped (sorry, W!), I feel like I did all I could do. And I look forward to the next four weeks to do more. To continue to explore the edges of my performance, where I dive and play in waves of ego, risk, fear, consciousness, choice, impulse, instinct, and desire -- that devil that can quickly dissolve any actor's sandcastle. They all roll in, lapping at the shores of my abilities to be or not to be....

It's a crazy thing to be an actor. I noticed us, one night last week, as we all swarmed around our little hive backstage, each of us tracing through the patterns of movement, text, and emotions that make up our characters. Some stared in the mirrors, some read over director's notes, some dressed in clothes only recently made to look old and worn. I felt so understood. So of a mind.

We actors are something other than. We're a part of that tribe of artists who tell stories through their various media; but we are something other than even that, for we inhabit a story for the purposes of its telling. We are both paint and canvas. The human race needs its stories to remind us all what it means to live and die and love and conquer and lose and fade so it will not be quite so frightening or unfamiliar when these things happen in reality. And we actors try it on for size. We button ourselves up in joy and fear, devotion and treachery and walk out onstage to be with you in this incarnation. We believe it from the inside so you can experience it from the outside and be drawn in. So you can then walk out of our theater to live this life, having just been reminded it's yours to live.

Then we go have a drink.

I am so grateful for this vocation.

Rocktober.

Holy crap.

I'm not even going to pretend that I'm some diehard Rockies fan who's "earned" the right to cheer, but I've gone to my fair share of Rockies games. I've enjoyed the beer and the atmosphere. I love a good day at the ballpark.

Even if 80% of the time I went, they lost - no matter. Sunshine, peanuts, friends. Lee. All good.

But, BOOYAH.

Sweet miracle of baseball fairytales.

Hallelujah, Holliday and hooray, Helton!

Off you go to the big game.

hear that? that's the sound of me. sucking.

Oh, wow.
I really, really outdid myself tonight.
Like, I could not get a foothold to save my life.
Imprecise, scatterbrained, unmotivated, uncentered.

Awful.

So here I sit, with my pansy-ass pour of whiskey.

Sipping.
Sipping.

Hoping she will come back to me.

Banquo. Come back.

I'm sorry I started worrying about your belt and your vest and your stupid wineskin. And whether or not I looked cool holding your rifle. I'll stop that nonsense. And I'll make a place for you right here in my heart and I promise not to ever let you go again.

Just.
Come.
Back.

(NO, I'm not having an affair with some chick with a funny name. See here.)

I think I'll make a snappy new day. *snap-snap*

I woke up with the sound of Mr. Rogers singing to me. Not from the TV, mind you. In my head.

I don't mean that I woke up with a song in my head. I mean that I woke up with the distinct feeling that Mr. Rogers was singing to ME. Like, helping me get up. Encouraging me.


It's such a good feeling
To know you're alive
It's such a happy feeling
You're growing inside
And when you wake up, ready to say:
"I think I'll make a snappy new day!"
(Snap-Snap)


I can't tell you what that means in the grand scheme of things, that a long-dead man was serenading me this morning, but I can tell you how great it felt. I adore Mr. Rogers. He was my neighbor, you know.

And if he says today's gonna be a good day, if he's comfortable enough with me to dress down a bit, put on his zippy cardigan sweater and navy blue sneakers, if he's confident that I'm special, and if he's kind enough to reach out, beyond the grave, and sing to me to tell me so... well then I have no choice but to believe it, do I?

--RANT ALERT--

And to those of you who think Mr. Rogers did my generation a great "disservice" and turned us into entitlement junkies by telling us we were special: I'm 31, married, own a home, have a job with mucho responsibilities, juggle those with my passion for my art, have friendships and family that mean the world to me, enjoy a marriage that stuns me everyday with its hidden strengths and humor, AND manage a half-assed blog. Oh - AND, I wake up with dead men singing to me. So, there. How's that for special?

But seriously, academic slackers who get a shit grade and then try to negotiate for better are slackers because 1) we've insitutionalized -- in fact, standardized -- underachievement in our public schools. Students have learned how to suss out the least possible amount of work they have to do to get "passing" results, and 2) they've grown up exposed to the business world via the internet and credit cards and have learned early the art of of negotiation! Nothing's ever taken at face value. Bid for items on ebay. Shop for discounted books, shoes, electronics, services. Work with credit card companies to get a better APR, or take off a late fee, or raise your credit limit.

It's not Mr. Rogers' assertion that "You're special. Just by your being you," that's the problem. There's nothing wrong with identifying oneself as a uniquely special person. He never told me I was MORE special than someone else. In fact, he was rather interested in what was going on with everyone in his little world. If anything, he taught me that special people go around seeking out what's special in everyone else around them.

It's always easy to advise someone about a job I don't have, but teachers today have to realize that today's youth are just plain different. And if you want to reach them or teach them, you'd better ask yourself if you even understand what motivates them. They see grades almost as negotiable currency. That doesn't mean you have to lower your standards, it just means you have to make it clear to them that you're not the Capital One of grade-giving. You're American Express. And with you, the balance is due, in full, every month.

Period.