Fan

A confession. When I get excited about a performance (i.e. play, musical, opera, concert, cabaret, reading--and anything else I haven't thought of at the moment) my adrenaline seems to send me into a mild form of mania. Bipolar is a disorder that moves from mania to depression, so something that already increases your brain chemistry levels to a heightened feeling just goes a little bit father with me. Doesn't matter if I've taken my meds or not, my excitement leads to adrenaline leads to mild mania...leads to me saying stupid things. No, not mildly curious words. Just really embarrassing shit. Those kinds of things you regret for, well, ever. The more famous, or the more impressive, or the more beloved the person, the more cringe-worthy the words that flow from my mouth. Yes, (almost) everyone says a foolish thing now and again, which is a normal part of being creatures that can speak sounds that mean things. So I'm not talking about those occasional lapses.  My penchant for cringing is much more frequent than that. At least once or twice a year, I come out with just the most ill-formed, stupifying ideas that never fail to discombobulate, irritate, offend, or embarrass the poor person (or worse, people) trapped in front of me like deer in headlights. No, I will not give you examples. Are you nuts?

Which is why I did not go up to the actors who had just finished a reading of a very interesting play at The New School, Monday night.  All of them were good, but two of the actors I have seen many times on TV or in film, and I like them very much.  I even had a small window when I could have just walked over to a group of them to say "Congratulations!"  And maybe I could have stopped it at that, and all would be well.  But the minute someone turns to look at me after I pay them a compliment, my brains does its haywire act and out blurbs something odd, tangled, puzzling, or just downright rude. The problem is that once I'm in that state, my brain works faster than my mouth, so what comes out is a part of an idea, or two ideas smashed into one, or gibberish. But they rarely seem to be harmless.  I have a gift for making it awful! And when my brain finally comes back to where I started, its too late.  No way to fix it.  So I just walked by without saying a thing. I calmed myself with the thought, "I'll send them a message on Facebook or Twitter.  Surely all actors need one of those things.  (Not to mention the playwright.)"

So the next day, I find that only four of the seven (actors + playwright) were on social media.  I wish they all had been, but I sent those four short messages of congratulations. No stupid, half formed, crazy, embarrassing insults.  Just a few words to let them know I enjoyed the experience. Nice and safe.  And I waited.  And waited.  And eventually...I heard from one!  One fucking person answered me! True, it was a very sweet answer, and it was from an actress I've been watching for decades, so that was more meaningful to me than if one of the people I knew nothing about had sent it, but the other actor, whose work I have long enjoyed, sent me nuttin'. Not a word. Not a key stroke. Not even a #.  Granted it was on Twitter, and it was in the afternoon, so I could have left well-enough alone and just chalked it up to the overload that is the Twitter universe. But I went to read his feed and there I was.  And a few minutes after mine, he answered someone else's about a completely different subject. So no such luck in the "it got lost in the Twitter universe" defense.  It seems he just chose to ignore it or think it needed no response. A childish part of me thinks, "Well, fuck you, too, Buddy. See if I ever tweet you again!" A irritated part of me wants to send another: "Should I have mentioned boxing or hockey?" (Two subjects he tweets about often.) But rationally all I'm left with is...I can absolutely be sure that he didn't think what I said was stupid.  Nor did the other three that got my tiny missive. Because, this time, I pretty much stopped at "Congratulations!"

Our Town

As we grow older, the number of deaths of people we love, or have impacted our lives in a major way, seem to accumulate, heart-rending in their finality.  They are gone.  Close paragraph.  Unfortunately, for the last six years, someone close to me has died, some years more than one.  The first reaction is sadness or grief.  Eventually I have come to accept them, though not forget the pain.  I have lost both my parents; my mother-in-law; the mother of one of my dearest friends; two brothers-in-law; the first person I came out to; my dear voice teacher and supporter and friend.  Now, just a few short weeks ago, two teachers who taught me life changing things in High School have died far too early.  Mrs. Culbertson urged me to keep high standards for myself: what was the point of doing something half-assed (she would never say such a term!) when you can do it to the best of your ability?  I’ve always tried to do just that.  And Jan Jones, whom I called Miss Jones during the day, but she was such a good friend to me and my family I always think of her as Jan, taught me to trust my instincts, and my heart, for I was a better observer of life than I gave myself credit.

For the last few years, I have had the privilege on several occasions to hear a fine soprano, and a fine friend, Alison Davy, sing a setting of Thornton Wilder’s beautiful words from his most popular play: Our Town. As life would have it, recent to whenever she sang this lovely piece, I was dealing with the death of one of these people so important to me.  The music is simple, touching, sad.  For so are the words.  Ironically, Jan directed me in a production of Our Town, so the lines stick in my mind. In the play, the spirit of a young woman who died in childbirth speaks them.  But though she is saying farewell, and voices what the living never seem to realize, surely her discovery is one we should, and can, take to heart.  May we appreciate what we have while we live.

Good-bye , Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?

Freedom

I was born in 1962.  My lifespan has encompassed most of the fights for basic human rights the United States has waged within itself in the 20th, and now 21st, Centuries. One by one, legal battles have secured tenuous, but still holding, victories for Americans who believe we all should have equal rights--ALL the equal rights. Another victory just happened, again a legal one. But the battle didn't start in the courts. Nor in Congress, or with the Presidency, nor The Supreme Court.  None of them did. They started in the pews of churches, the desks in front of classes, the local restaurants, the bars, the streets, the homes, the individual minds. They grew from a few voices trying to speak over the roar of bigotry, ignorance, and hypocrisy, to the sounds of collected voices leading burgeoning human rights movements that sprang up across the country, flowing forth like new rivers: city by city, county by county, state by state.  Those who believed that change could happen yelled, preached, marched, picketed, even crashed places of government to be heard. Eventually, they gathered enough support and ran for elected positions, and (finally) won--from the local governing bodies on to the national ones.  And over time, after much debate, and fierce, sometimes deadly, opposition, laws were made, and more and more equality, for more and more people, created a newer America.  These are the well-told stories of my lifetime. Some of the voices who told them have been silenced. The rest of us need to keep telling them.

This happened in the 18th Century, of course, when a revolution created a republic, with a radical declaration and constitution that promised equality to everyone. But we still don't have it. We are closer than ever, but still not there. Just over a week ago, men and women who love others of the same sex can now enjoy freedoms I never dreamed could arrive in my lifetime, when I came out as a gay man at 25 years old.  I have made a home with a loving and beautiful man for 22 years. If and when we choose to marry, we will be able to do so, no matter where in America we live. But the hate spewing forth on TV and YouTube and Twitter is loud and heated and irrational and fearful and dangerous.  True, it will never again silence all of those who have fought and won those battles, but it won't go away.  It never has. We have more battles, as the vile hatred from some of the non-entities running for President can attest. We fight on.

This July 4th, I am as proud to be an American as I ever have been. I live in exciting times. I have been shown more love and kindness this past year than I could have imagined.  But even some of those I love dearly, and who love me as well, cannot break away from what I see as their prejudices. They think I cannot break away from mine. But they listen to my point of view, and I listen to theirs. To me, that's great progress, and encouraging. The fireworks and the music celebrate both the victories and the battles fought but not won.  Like the flag, we are still there.

Life Just Changed Forever

The Great Pride March of Marvelous New York City is moving down Fifth Avenue. (That's not its official name, just mine.) And nothing could be more fortuitous. Because of one Supreme Court decision, just days ago, every person in America can marry and receive all the benefits, and responsibilities, that legally come with doing so. (Not to mention, with that other decision, they can be insured.) Before this week, many elected officials were still spouting bile about the "sanctity" of marriage between a man and a woman, using this hate speech to rouse fundamentalist conservatives to vote for them. Of course, none of them seem to mention divorce, which seems to "de-sanctify" it to me! Or claim Marriage Equality will lead to people wedding their pets. Seeing some of these morons, I'd say we already have that. Well, now they can rant and rave all they want. It's fucking done! How to celebrate where you are? Love each other.

A Beginning and an Ending

Finally, all the checking, the seemingly endless paperwork, the final "approved" bank transactions have led to the completion of the Kickstarter campaign. The money has come through. And I have had another myriad, powerful series of emotional responses: this entire endeavor has been rife with them. I started the process a year ago, before my novel was completed--well, to my satisfaction anyway. I researched and researched and researched until I felt I had gained enough knowledge to put together a workable campaign and see it through to the end.  I enlisted help from friends and family. And I continued to work on my novel while I worked on everything else. As the time grew nearer, my anxiety grew stronger. I began to have manic episodes more frequently. I even changed the beginning and ending dates twice. Mostly from fear that I was not prepared. Then I took the plunge... Six weeks of frustration and worry and thankfulness and joy were the results. It's done!

This entire process has been humbling, marvelous, and personal. I've felt a little numb lately. So much work brought so much gain. How many beautiful people gave so I could finish this dream of mine! I will never be able to show them my full gratitude, because that would be impossible. But my budget is set, my post-campaign started, the long wait for publication begun. And they have ensured all of it.

As celebration, my husband Jav and I went to see the final performance of a Broadway musical, The Visit, that proved to be historic in many ways. (We bought very inexpensive seats in the balcony, lest you think we spent Kickstarter funds.) Happily, it began the final journey for a work decades in the making. Producers are already interested in creating productions around the world. So said one of the producers from the stage after the performance. It made history in two more important ways: it was the final work of the great musical writing team of John Kander (music) and Fred Ebb (lyrics.) Ebb died in 2004. never seeing his work make it to Broadway. The team worked on it for over a decade. Kander is 88. The book was written by the famed playwright Terence McNally, aged 76. But perhaps most auspicious of all, this was the farewell to Broadway of the great musical star, Chita Rivera. At 82, she was still starring in a show, singing (and dancing!) for all but a few minutes of the 95 minute  musical. Eight shows a week. She had created the role of Anita in West Side Story. That was in 1957. She has rarely been off stage since. To many of us, she is an icon of a system fading fast away. She was a stage star, not someone popular from another medium that gained enough fame to make it to Broadway. She worked with most of the great composers and lyricists. This was her fourth Kander and Ebb work, including the role of Velma Kelly in the original production of Chicago. She won Tony awards for two of them. This was the third time I saw her perform live. Delightful though the first two were, neither quite prepared me for this glorious swan song: of her close friends, of her last score, and her final Broadway performance. Many of us (including Chita) couldn't stop tears from coming. This is what all lovers of theater so rarely see. How could any of us not be moved? Shocking though it may seem, her voice is still recognizable as the young performer singing "America" and "A Boy Like That." Here she is in her final number from The Visit. She is performing with the ghost of her younger self. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypYmkev9Sfg Perhaps she'll go to London, if it moves there. But probably not. She went out at the top of her game. I was honored to witness it. In the audience were John Kander and Terrance McNally. Equally fitting, two actors were making their Broadway debuts. The torch was passed. Jav and I waited by the stage door for an autograph from her, something we rarely do. She signed our program, a picture of her backstage during the run of West Side Story. She posed for a picture with me. This is one of the great things about living in New York. Sometimes you meet royalty.

A Man Named Jimmy

This is a story I've added to other places online.  But for anyone who hasn't read it, this is a tale of friendship and inspiration and the writing of a book:

Jimmy was one of the first people I met in New York. He loved all things theater; he loved meeting new people; he loved hearing stories, and telling stories; he loved to laugh. He had been a dancer, actor, director, and admired others who do those well. I adored him instantly. His body was confined to a wheelchair, due to a stroke, but nothing else about him could be described as confined.

Being a playwright, I hatched a plan to write something he could act; surely he just needed the right part. I tried to find a good idea for a play, but I couldn’t come up with any. Then I thought about a screenplay. I was sure I could find room in a movie for all kinds of characters. And I did. Something I knew he could play. I could see his face and hear his voice when I wrote “his” dialogue. I even named him after a character in Jimmy’s favorite musical: Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. I wrote on it for about two and a half years. Along the way, I lost touch with him, as sometimes happens in life, but I kept to my writing, waiting to surprise him with my “gift”. Even if the movie never made it past the writing stage, he would know that there was a juicy part in the world, and I had written it for him. I finally finished it, and went about looking to reconnect. To my utter sadness, he had died while I was working on it. He fell asleep and never woke up. I put the screenplay away, hurting too much to polish it.

Then I had an idea. I could use the basic outline, and some of the characters, and write a novel. The character would be there as my testament to him. I worked for three and a half years, and Irish Guilt is the result. Whenever I wrote about “Jimmy’s” character, I again thought of his face and his voice, and I think the dialogue for him is stronger because of it. He’s one of my favorites in the book! I like to think that as long as this book is around, Jimmy is still around, too. The words on the dedication page will read, “In memory of Jimmy Rilley, my friend.” Because I am proud to say he was.

Half Way

Half  way.  The worst place to be, in almost any situation, certainly the most vulnerable to doubt and worry.  Half way through my novel, I felt overwhelmed and stopped writing for a time.  Now I'm half way through the month, and I feel a bit overwhelmed again.  My mind feels cloudy.  So much work has gone into this that the two previous weeks have felt like two months!  So much to do, write, say about the same issue.  How many ways can you focus on a different aspect of the process before you run out of ideas?  I suddenly feel my age.  (I'd like to think the "inner me" is about 35.)  Of course, the generosity of so many people has propelled me this far.  I couldn't be more grateful.  I would have thrown in the towel, or strangled someone with it, had these good people not come to my aid.  But I'm stuck in the middle of the seesaw, trying not to allow one end to fall to the ground.  I'll need to get off of it sometime, but today, I'm just lucky I can balance it.  Balance.  Tomorrow, I move toward the finale of this work. That's tomorrow, no longer half way.