Where is my mind?

I can't concentrate today. At all. I'm trying to cram lines for my understudy assignments...it ain't working. I'm trying to read a book...not happening. I keep jumping from article to article online, everything from the new Batman costume in 'The Dark Knight' to what is wrong with democracy according to Al Gore. I have the day off...I managed to work out and get to a costume fitting on time. I made dinner. I bought wine. I looked up Festival people to add to my various online friends lists. But I couldn't concentrate on anything of vital importance. Maybe it is because I am, as the Dane once said, "too much i'th'sun." Literally. Maybe I have some sort of new-fangled type of sun-stroke, which keeps me from concentrating on anything other than the mundane.

Oh, and I like a girl.

But that isn't it either. I am perfectly able to function, sans girl. I'm not even sure that if I were to have a girlfriend at home or abroad that I would be in a different mental state than I am now: which, in effect, is one of rambling.

Wine is good. The third glass isn't helping the concentration factor though. I may kill the bottle tonight in my quest for clarity (which we all know won't happen, but it's nice to dream).

Oh, and I've been drinking said wine all alone.

That's statistically bad, isn't it?

Ahh, free-association. It's the rage.

Speaking of rage, Shakespeare's been getting cut out of school programs. Terrible.

Ivan the Terrible was Russian, I believe.

My grandfather was Russian (by decent).

I am not. As I am not his biological grandson.

I'm biologically Welsh.

Welsh are drunkards.

Ergo, I am a drunkard.

.....

Took a break. Ran some lines. Then there was a firework show across the street.

I'm not kidding.

But somebody is.

Who?

Yes.

OK. This blog is dead and so are my brain cells.

Brain. Sells. Sell your brain to science. You are produced.

In vino veritas!

Wow...

WARSAW, Poland (Reuters) -- A 65-year-old railwayman who fell into a coma following an accident in communist Poland regained consciousness 19 years later to find democracy and a market economy, Polish media reported on Saturday.

Wheelchair-bound Jan Grzebski, whom doctors had given only two or three years to live following his 1988 accident, credited his caring wife Gertruda with his revival.

"It was Gertruda that saved me, and I'll never forget it," Grzebski told news channel TVN24.

"For 19 years Mrs Grzebska did the job of an experienced intensive care team, changing her comatose husband's position every hour to prevent bed-sore infections," Super Express reported Dr Boguslaw Poniatowski as saying.

"When I went into a coma there was only tea and vinegar in the shops, meat was rationed and huge petrol lines were everywhere," Grzebski told TVN24, describing his recollections of the communist system's economic collapse.

"Now I see people on the streets with cell phones and there are so many goods in the shops it makes my head spin."

Grzebski awoke to find his four children had all married and produced 11 grandchildren during his years in hospital.

He said he vaguely recalled the family gatherings he was taken to while in a coma and his wife and children trying to communicate with him.

Copyright 2007 Reuters. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

that's all I'm sayin...WOW.

I want to hold the hands of Gods.

Is that really too lofty a goal?

For a long time now, I have been searching for the confluence of who I am as an individual with who I am/want to be as an artist.

The search continues, but the darkness that I have been seeing before me now as a pin-point of light beaming through the tunnel.

Why? I'd imagine that being in full-time training mode has something to do with it, as well as a somewhat voluntary exile into the mountains and deserts of Southern Utah. Here, cut off from my closest friends and the structure of a university, here I am finding myself juxtaposed between two forces: a hotbed of theatrical creativity and the serenity and purification of something those of us who spend far too much time within a city or suburb sorely lack: nature.

Yes, it must be these two forces at work. Day and night, Monday through Saturday, I work alongside some of the best actors in the regional theatre circuit, if not the country. I recognize that their processes aren't drastically different from my own, and yet they are so advanced in their art that I am definitely reminded of a frequent coaching we get back at U of I: "You're going to suck before you can get better."

Yep. No matter how well I feel I have played in larger roles elsewhere, being the minority in a strong company such as USF definitely makes me agree. I'm sucking. I'm going to get better.

I see these actors work. I get melancholic. But then I get inspired. And I think, 'hmm...I am HERE, though, right?' And then I feel better. Monday through Saturday. This is what I go through. And I love/hate it.

Then, on Sunday, inevitably I hit the trails of Zion, or Bryce Canyon, or some other remote yet tangible location. I look at the beauty that has been forged around me through time...and I feel at peace. I am reminded: beauty takes time. In nature. In art. In the self.

I exhaust myself in the absorption of nature, I press my body to the limit. I purge the fear and doubt. Beauty takes time.

So here I am. Two ideologies converging on one another. The summer break is here, I am working on my art, and I am ever still in the seat of training.

Someday I'll get to hold hands with the Gods.

But I have to suck before I can get better.

I have to stay ugly to become beautiful.

Gettin' Elizabethan on your Ass

Yeah, yeah...it's been a couple of weeks, I know.

But I've been busy.

Real fast:

Where I work:




Where I hang out on Sundays:




In short: Life is good.

I really don't have much else to report. Rehearsals for 'Coriolanus' go extremely well, and 'Lend Me a Tenor: The Musical' is proving to be an interesting process (it's a premiere of a new musical...so everything in its creation is extremely organic...the composer and librettist are in the room everyday, making changes on the fly...it's really pretty amazing), and I have my understudy assignments--Tullus Aufidius in 'Coriolanus' and Horace Vandergelder in 'The Matchmaker'...which is pretty funny considering Vandergelder is, you know, sixty...and I, as of yet, am not. Both roles are sizable and will keep me occupied in my off-time.

What else? I bought a bike...I haven't owned a bike in years, but I'm enjoying the exercise everyday as I bike to rehearsal (and save money on gas...it's about $3.40/gallon here in the great South West).

At any rate...that's life.

Hope all is well...

Excelsior!

PS: Mormons are nice people.

PPS: I'm obsessed with Warner Brothers' marketing campaign for the 'Batman Begins' sequel, 'The Dark Knight'. They have a campaign website for Harvey Dent, which reveals this poster:



As well as a mock website that the Joker put up, which looks like this:



Revealing the first shot of Heath Ledger's Joker, per Christopher Nolan and Company:



Effin' scary, yes? Can't wait to see the full get-up on screen...

Ok...bye bye now...

I Have Arrived...

...in Cedar City!



After 1600 miles in 2.5 days, I am finally here. The trip was pretty crappy...terrible weather (tornado watches in Nebraska, sudden ice storms, rain, and blizzards in Colorado), and long, long, long open roads...



...but I am here, and relatively unscathed. I did get into a minor accident in the Rockies when a snow storm literally materialized out of NO WHERE. Good times.



My car is a little banged up...but no major damage...just a chunk of my fender taken out by the headlights. Gotta love plastic cars.



As I got deeper into Utah, I noticed that they, too, have an Elsinore. I think we should build a castle there, as there isn't one. I checked. We could do Hamlet 24/7. "You are welcome, sirs, to Elsinore...UTAH ::Mormon Choir Shouts in Background::We'll teach you to drink caffeine-free ere you depart."



So, I'm settled into my hotel (the Stratford Court, naturally) for the next three days til the festival has my apartment ready. I've already ran into an old colleage from my Pac Rep days who is also doing the festival...I'm pretty much stoked to begin rehearsals.

So, I leave you now to go prep for the week to come. Be good!

In Vino Veritas!

Nebraska? Yeah, it's flat. Thank God for Natalie P!

Well friends and neighbors, Leg One of the trip to Utah is complete. I am currently in Kearney Nebraska, which is about 680 miles from Champaign/Urbana. At least Natalie Portman agreed to roadtrip out here with me. I don't know WHAT I'd do with out her.

I mean, I just ran into her on the street and I was all, "Hey, Nat, I haven't seen you in forever...wanna roadtrip with me?"

And she was all, "Hell yeah! You're the best company a gal can have!"



So there it is!

Unfortunately, she didn't like the hotel room we had to get out here in the middle of nowhere, so she was pretty pissed.



Oh well.

Shut up. I'm tired. I was hallucinating around mile 500.

I head further West tomorrow, and should hit Western Colorado or Eastern Utah by the end of the day. Hopefully I'll have something better to report...

In Vino Veritas!

To die and go we know not where...

…shouldn’t matter, as long as in life we lived with love.

This may sound folksy and/or precious to you out there, but I had to say it. And here’s why:

I have been relatively numb to the tragedy at Virginia Tech. I read the articles, shook my head, said a prayer, commented on the insanity of the very idea of it all, asked why there has to be people like Cho Seung-Hui, tried to put myself in the situation, since I too go to a major university, and enacted and spoke all the typical rites you would expect an isolated urban-turned-suburban white male to enact and speak.

And then I went about my life, safe in my little bubble here in Illinois.

And then I read the news today, since I seldom have time during the week to read the news beyond the daily headlines. And this is what I found on a news blotter that directed me to CBS News:

The families of those killed in the Virginia Tech massacre may not be able to grieve in peace at the funerals of those they lost. An anti-gay religious group known for protesting at the funerals of American soldiers killed in Iraq is planning on appearing at services for those killed on Monday as well.

The Topeka, Kan.-based Westboro Baptist Church (WBC), which is not affiliated with any national Baptist organization, announced plans to protest at victims’ funerals only hours after 32 people were killed in the worst mass shooting in U.S. history. They also may protest at other events on the Virginia Tech campus.

The organization, founded and led by Fred Phelps, believes the United States has condemned itself to destruction by accepting homosexuality and other “sins of the flesh.” Phelps’ daughter, Shirley Phelps-Roper, said the Virginia Tech teachers and students who died on Monday brought their fate upon themselves by not being true Christians…

…“The evidence is they were not Christian. God does not do that to his servants,” Phelps-Roper said. “You don’t need to look any further for evidence those people are in hell.”

Cho Seung-Hui, the Virginia Tech student responsible for the killings who took his own life after the shootings, was sent by God to punish those he killed, and America as a whole, for moral decline, said Phelps-Roper, while adding that she believes Cho is also in hell for violating God’s commandment to not kill.

“He is in hell,” Phelps-Roper said. “But he was also fulfilling the word of God.”

God does not to that to His servants…those people are in hell…Cho Seung-Hui is in hell (no shit)…but he was doing God’s will.Yeah. About that:

I’m pretty sure I’m unaware of anything in Christian mythology that dictates God sending forth a divine messenger to eradicate college students, staff and faculty that some right-wing branch of psychopaths in Topeka fucking Kansas has deemed as heathen. You may as well say that because those that follow the Jewish faith do not follow Christ that Hitler was a messenger from God and that the Holocaust was a tidy bit of housecleaning. Of course if you did say that, not only would you be a complete fucking moron, you’d also be Mel Gibson…and I’m not sure which of those is worse: total, all-encompassing idiocy, or being Mel Gibson.

Also, I’m pretty sure that if God sends you forth to do His work, it wouldn’t involve, you know, MURDERING LARGE GROUPS OF PEOPLE, and furthermore, I seriously doubt He would send you to hell for doing anything that He commanded.

“Jay?”

“Yes, God?”

“Jay, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure, God…what is it?”

“I need you to kill as many people in your college as possible.”

“Gee, God…that’s…umm…why?”

“Because I can’t get the Mets game on the TV today. I need something to watch.”

“Um, but, don’t you command us to not kill one another?”

“Steve, I’m God! I can command you to do anything!”

“Um, but, if I kill all those people in your name, won’t I go to hell?”

“…”

“God?”

“…”

“Can you just get Mel Gibson to do it?”

I mean, come on! I know Christian doctrine and mythos is completely convoluted, but for a faith whose inspiration stems from the compassionate teachings of a man from Nazareth, how can anyone who is rational even deign to conclude that mass killing is the will of God? It makes me sick. Sick that we live in this world, sick that because I choose to believe in what Christ had to say that I have to share a common thread with every wacko who has ever chosen to bend those teachings to something twisted and dim. They shouldn’t dare to call themselves Christian. Then again, I’m an alcoholic womanizing artist who’s had plenty of sex before marriage, eats meat on Friday, believes in a woman’s right to choose, who doesn’t really mind the idea of gay marriage, goes to church irregularly and questions the origins of many of the passages that constitute our bible. So what do I know?

I will tell you:

That Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church are pathetic, sniveling cowards who will one day find what hell truly is, when they are punished for their own crimes against the liberty and humanity of others, when they are punished for using the grief of the unfortunate to advance their own twisted agenda, when they are punished for turning the teachings of a man who taught from a ministry based in love, compassion and hope into an excuse to mock and mar the lives of others, when they are punished for being just what they are: depraved animals who haven’t used the sense God gave them, but instead used the free will endowed in us all to preach hate.

Write letters to congress. Write letters to the anti-defamation league. Write letters to shut these horrible people down. THAT, in my opinion, is God’s will.

Let them burn with Cho Seung-Hui. I’m sure they can all have a great chat with their pal Adolf when they get there.

Fuckers.

The Pillowman is NIgh!

The Pillowman is coming! This weekend at the Armory Free Theatre, come see the story of a writer and the writers brother. 'The Pillowman' by Martin McDonagh is a brilliantly crafted dark comedy revolving around a writer in a totalitarian state under interrogation for the gruesome content of his short stories, and the stories' similarities to a number of child murders that are happening in his town.

The show is directed by Drew Shirley, and features Corey Allen, Anthony Bianco, Christopher Blim, Detroit Dunwood, Justin Gordon, Christa Sablic, Jake Szczepaniak, Marko Tomic, and Ron Thomas.Show times are:Friday April 13th, 7:30 pm and MidnightSatuday April 14th, 7:30 pmInvited Dress: Thursday, April 12th, 7:30Come support free theatre at the Armory!

[IMG]http://i31.photobucket.com/albums/c381/stratfordlad/91e125b9b0a645b790061a86af4fed2a.jpg[/IMG]

Dark Play? Great Mood!

So I have been giving a lot of though to my last post, about, you know, letting go of the past, moving forward, conquering the demons of the past to relish in the angels of the future, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…I suppose that because I'm doing 'The Pillowman' I am in a sort of perpetual state of contemplation and darkness...however, I'm feeling pretty positive lately, and this concept of 'live and let die', apart from being a great Wings song and terrible Bond film, is something I can sort of see myself sticking too...

And here’s what I’m thinking:

You really can’t escape the past. You can, however, learn from the mistakes you made and look to avoid such mishaps in the future.

Do you have an issue with how you and a certain ex parted ways?

Too bad. Next time, make sure you deal with it in the moment, because no amount of whining your snotty head off now is going to make you feel better about not telling her you loved her and that you know it could work, blah-de-blah.

Do you have an issue with where you ended up going to undergrad?

Too bad. Next time, well, there won’t be one. But guess what: if you have kids, instill in them a belief that anything is possible and encourage them to shoot for the moon. Guess what, Juggo, you CAN afford Harvard…

Do you have an issue with the way you look? Change it.

Evolve. Let the chips fall where they may.

Nada Surf has an album called “The Weight is a Gift.”

You know what? The weight of your past CAN be a gift. It’s a gift in that you have the means to propel onward in a more positive light. The gift of experience, I suppose.

Yep, it’s Spring. Bring on the cheer.

Upward Over the Mountain!

I had a thought while in the shower today…and no, it wasn’t anything that had to do with anything, with being naked and soapy or happy to be naked and soapy or anything, but I did have a thought, and the thought was this: I really need to let go of the past.

I mean, I have claimed to “let go” of things past many times, only to realize further down the road that no, in fact, I have not let go of said past, but rather I have only tightened my grip on it, and in doing so systematically shoved it down into a deep dark corner of my heart, or soul, or wherever the poetic place to suppress my emotional/physical/meta-physical magna cum baggage is these days.

So, there I was, in the shower, enjoying my refreshing Axe body scrub, Jeff Buckley is playing on the radio, and his song, “Morning Theft” came on. Now, “Morning Theft” is a great song—tragically beautiful in the way that Jeff Buckley could be, with lyrics such as ‘time takes care of the wounds, or so I can believe’, as well as, ‘I miss my beautiful friend, I had to send her away to bring her back again’, and so on and so-forth.

Unfortunately for me, “Morning Theft” is intrinsically linked to an abundance of over-active romanticism I once felt back in New York, before the Dark Times, before the Cornfields. Long story short, the world back then was full of a sense of promise, of love, of hope, blah blah blah, and even though every little bit of moxy and optimism I felt back then was certainly real in the moment, I have sense come to look back on those days of wine and roses and think, “Madre de dios! What was I smoking?! Where can I get some more?

Yeah, back in the day I was in love with a girl, this aforementioned love made me believe I was an indestructible God of Possibility, and when life showed me its just yet cruel hand and said girl went into the ether, I buried my embarrassment and shame in many pints of beer and many miles of running through Central Park, and eventually I was back to my normal Dark Prince self.

Then I got into grad school here at the good ol’ land of the Illini (which isn’t a real Indian tribe and all of you who think it is should be shot out of ignorance—okay, okay, maybe not shot, per se, but at least given a thorough education on racial stereotypes and all that lovely post-1492 brough-ha-ha we have to deal with). How’s that for a rant? Let’s go back:

Then I got into grad school here in the good of’ land of the Illi—um, the good ol’ LAND OF LINCOLN (better), and began to systematically live each moment of NYC like it would be my last. Which was fun…although somewhat exhausting and somewhat cruel and misguided for those in the city who wanted me to stick around…I should have been more, well, something. What that is, I’m not sure. I’m losing ground here. Let me regroup.

Okay, officially regrouped now.

Once I got to U of I, I went into survival mode, and life became pretty much about my work, with a dash of partying on the side. Unfortunately, I was continuing to bury every single regret, wound, et al that I never dealed with in New York, as well as every previous bit of angst from my “unconventional” childhood.

I started to consider therapy…but…where would I ever find THAT kind of time?

So, here I am today, on Friday 23 of March, and after a shower and a bit of Jeff Buckley, I have realized the following: the best to just let it all go, the past, deal with things like a man, and move forward. Because where I see things going in life right now is far more exciting than what’s happened in the past.

We’ll see how that works.

Angry Welshman, signing off…Excelsior!

The Face Basement

So, as some of you out there may know, I'm currently in rehearsals for a production of 'The Pillowman' by Martin McDonagh. In this production, I play a writer by the name of Katurian who writes gruesome short stories sprung from his twisted imagination, an imagination that was forged during a rather unconventional and "torturous" childhood.

During the course of the play, we hear several of Katurian's stories, many of them pretty sick, with titles such as "The Pillowman", "The Little Jesus", "The Little Applemen", "The Tale of the Town on the River", etc. There are also several stories which we never hear--we only hear the titles. As a character excercise, I wrote one of these stories as Katurian, a story known as 'The Face Basement'.

I think I need therapy.

Enjoy:

Once upon a time in a far away town atop a tree-covered hill lived a little boy who did not look like all of the other children in his woodland home. No, this little child was different, for where there should have been the face of a young, handsome and healthy young man, there lay instead the grotesque, deformed, and scarred face of a living corpse, all mangled and torn flesh, with deep sunken eyes and a hole where there should have been a nose. However, this child was not always so horrible to look at—in fact, he was born the loveliest of all children in the land, a fact that the child’s cruel and less-than idyllically beautiful mother and father could not bear.
Out of their peevish and hostile jealousy, the little boy’s parents would, on a nightly basis beginning on his fourth birthday, come into the little boy’s room as he slept and cover his little cherubic face with honey, and when he would awake to question his parents, they would silence him and tell him that they were helping him to remain forever beautiful. Then, once giving the little boy a healthy dose of laudanum to force him back to sleep, the parents would then bring in a box of fire ants from the woods behind their house, only to release them onto the honey-dripped face of their angelic son so that they may gnaw and infect his porcelain flesh with their venom-soaked pinchers.
Every morning, the boy would then awake in terrible agony, his face a mass of smoldering diseased tissue, all scabs and erupting pustules. As the boy would cry out in misery for something to cool his wounded visage, his cruel and horrible parents would come in offering comfort…comfort in the form of more laudanum. This cycle of torture and doping went on for seven consecutive years, until one day the parents were called away on business, leaving their now adolescent son lashed to his bed in a feverish coma…a coma from which, in their absence and subsequent failure to re-drug their son, was therefore broken.
For the first time that he could ever remember, he felt no pain. As his thin, malnourished wrists slid gingerly out of his bonds, he left his bedchamber for the first time…and wandered through the large home that he had yet to know. As he wandered the dark and shadowy canyons that comprised the hallways, he found himself before a small, non-descript door with a worn copper handle. As the boy fumbled with the knob for a moment, he pushed the door open to find a dimly lit staircase leading ever downward…a staircase he followed with an almost primal curiosity.
As he spiraled ever-down into the heated and humid depths of his parents basement, he found, to his horror, a row of dummies against the moldy brick walls, each with a pinned photograph where the face should be…pinned photographs which showed the chronology of what he would learn was the devolution of his own face, once angelic and pure, now mangled and putrid. Once the horrible truth was realized, the little boy sought revenge. He waited in the dank musk of the basement for his parents to return. Which they soon did.
As they entered their dungeon of experimentation, the little boy, who was now not as little as he once was, knocked each of his parents on the head from behind. As they lay in a state of protracted sleep on the damp clay floor of their basement, the little boy proceeded to carve off the top layer of each of their faces with an exacto-knife. He then placed each face in a jar of alcohol, setting them atop the dummies that flanked the final dummy which showed his own mangled face. Then he waited. Waited for his parents to awake. Which they soon did…
…in terrible, revolting pain. Their little corpse then proceeded to show them their reflections in a looking glass, reflections in which he boasted, “See…now you look like you should be my parents….” And once the parents fully took in the effect of what their little angel had shown them, he proceeded to hack them to bits with a rusty meat clever, burying their quartered remains in the woods behind his newly inherited mansion.
As the boy realized that he was now on his own and would have to fend for himself, he knew he would have to go into public. But due to his ugly face, he would have to hide it...it was in this moment that he saw his mother’s sliced off face in the alcohol jar and decided to slip it on. However, he didn’t quite like the way it looked…so he went out into the town below and found a child whose face he liked. And he followed this child, killed this child in a dark alley, removed the child’s face and took it for his very own. He liked it so well that he continued to do this on a weekly basis—finding a face he enjoyed, killing and slicing the face off of his unassuming victim, and then storing the faces in jars atop dummies in his parent’s former basement, which was now, of course, his basement. Finally the boy had a collection of about three-hundred and sixty-five faces. Which he thought was just swell.
Now, whenever the angelic little boy wished to leave his home for the outside world, he simply went to his basement, which he now termed his “Face Basement”, unscrewed one of the jars atop his dummies, and prepared himself to face the day…

…The End.

Wise Up

So I hit a theoretical wall in my acting studio. We started exploring Suzuki method, and I found myself experiencing a major emotional upheaval...Something I was not prepared for (then again, one can never really be "prepared" for an emotional breakdown--though I'd hardly call what I experienced a "breakdown, not in the least).

Suzuki, I am learning, requires a tremendous amount of focus (as does all actor training and practice). However, what happened to me was that my focus turned to introspection, introspection turned into catharsis. And the catalyst for all of this was somewhat disarming (for me, anyway).

When we are to begin an exercise in Suzuki class, the instructor would slam a bamboo rod onto a folded gymnastic mat, creating a jarring, abrasive "thud", not unlike the sound made when one is slapped with an open palm extremely hard.

After about five of these "slams", pretty much every ugly thing that I ever experienced or witnessed as a child, every jilted love affair, every mourned friend or family member, began to well up, and with a vengeance. If emotions can be released through your body frenetically, then that would be the best way to describe what I was feeling...Pain, regret, fear, rage, even joy on occasion--all spiraled around inside my body.

Though I spent the duration of class suppressing tears and laughter (which in hindsight I shouldn't have done, I should have let it all out, even though I would have appeared insane), I found the work valuable in that I was beginning to explore my emotional capability somewhat more freely than I have in a long, long time.

Once we progressed in the class and began to explore working with one another (the students, that is), I found myself more emotionally connected to what emotions my fellows were in turn giving to me.

So the lesson here, I believe, is that discomfort is good...it means you are opening up--wisening up, even. Now if I can just learn to start letting go a bit more, then I think we'll be on to something...

Quid est illa in Auqua? (Originally posted on Myspace...cause I can't quit it. Argh.)

Justin.

Justinius est illa in auqua.

Lately I've been having these days where I feel I am walking through a funnel made out of sea-foam...almost like being caught in a wave, enveloped by the water whispering in my ear, drowning all sound and forcing me to look for the light so that I may escape a watery grave.

Then I realize I am being an over-dramatic fuck-whit.

And then I realize how much I really enjoy the expression "fuck-whit."

"Justin, stop being such Latin quoting fuck-whit."

Yeah, it makes me giggle.

But really, maybe it's being in grad school...in a state I don't know with people I am barely getting to know in a program many people know in which if you fuck up, well --they'll know.

No pressure.

I have some auditions coming up...Milwaukee Rep, Utah Shakes, Illinois Shakes, Great River Shakes...and all I am thinking is "I must get cast somewhere...if I don't, well then--I must be a failure! The faculty will come down on me! Undergrads will laugh at me!

Then, lo and behold, I realize I am becoming the King of Imaginary Burdens and have to bring myself back down to Mother Earth. They are just auditions. Knock them out of the park, have a good time, and let the chips fall where they may.

But that doesn't mean I am going to not wrestle back-and-forth with trite scenarios which alternate between success and failure.

"I am brilliant!"

"I am crap!"

"I am au fait!"

"I am the Egg Man, and I'm going to be scrambled!"

Scrambled, screwed, sacrificed...succumbing stupidly to my sullen sense of self.

I am vacillating so much between confidence and fear everyday that I am in class or rehearsal that the only reasonable conclusion I can reach with any certainty is that I am, indeed, an actor.

And an over-dramatic fuck-whit.

Huzzah!

ac?tor /'ækt?r/ [ak-ter] –noun
1.
a person who acts in stage plays, motion pictures, television broadcasts, etc.

Fuck Whit /fuhk wit/ [ak-ter] –noun
1.
a person who acts in stage plays, motion pictures, television broadcasts, etc.

Funny how those two seem so alike, yes?

All and all, things are good. I really have, though, been a bit cloudy the last few days. My coach here would say this is a good thing, that this is a solid indication that I am "in training." And he's probably right. I hate to say that: "He is probably right." But the sad fact is that he usually is. Right, that is. Yes. Right. Good.

Could there be another reason that I have found myself stuck in a glass case filling with fog?

Yes.

I am having a damned difficult time dealing with duality. Yes, duality.

du?al?i?ty /du'æl?ti, dyu-/ [doo-al-i-tee, dyoo-] –noun
1.
a dual state or quality.

So. Duality. About that...this whole "grad student/human being with wants, needs, passions yet also needing to maintain a layer of professionalism" thing is kind of getting to me.

Am I Batman or Bruce Wayne? Am I an example or your friend? Can I be both? Is there a time and a place for everything? Is there a way to make things blend, less black and white? I don't know. I'm figuring it out. Is it because everything in my life right now is so new that I haven't figured out how to really establish anything?
Does there have to be a feeling of "us" vs. "them" between "them" and "us"?

Duality. It's tough. I think, again, it is because everything is new. New colleagues, new friends, new relationships (or rather, figuring out new relationships), new school (still), new town (I still get lost at least every other day), new clothes (jeans need to break in, you know).

However, I suppose there are always two sides to every coin...one canvas can have two paintings...Justin can adjust to being an authority figure during the week and a clown during the weekend.

He can also stop being such a fuck-whit.

But that would also mean I'd have to stop being an actor.

So...guess I'll just be rolling with the punches and smoothing out the creases.

And keep learning...keep going forward.

Quinon proficit deficit.

Hi, how are ya?

And here I am. I have joined the blogger generation officially. No longer will I sulk through the halls of myspace...no, I'm going hardcore now.

Too bad I have nothing of note to write at the moment.

So hello.

And goodbye.

For now.

Haiku

The rain dulls my brain,
Or was it the breakfast beer?
Hangover helper.