LEAP IN THE DARK PRODUCTIONS

Sorry. ruminations on . . . Obedience

5/24/2022

So, I just stopped at Starbucks to treat myself to an iced mocha, aka liquid inspiration. (I have work to do.)

I mentioned to the man taking my order how nice it was to see faces again. Whole faces. Although I'm not discounting the new relationship we've all acquired for reading expression through a mask and learning the new language for eye contact.

So I was in a good mood - we all were - and maybe that's why this happened. Sometimes, however, the people behind the counters at Starbucks, Trader Joes, etc. are a little too friendly to the point of being invasive.

The man who handed me my mocha decides "thank you" and "you're welcome" were not enough contact. He admires my hexagon sunglasses. Too much. They are cute - exactly like my first pair of wire rimmed glasses at fourteen.

"Wow! Great Sunglasses!"

"Thank you."

"Those are fantastic."

Silently, I think, "Not really." I smile.

"Ok, let's have the full effect - put them on!"

My stomach twisted but my hands obeyed. I put them on and could no longer make eye contact. I had made myself slightly ill, but I don't blame him. I blame me.

I didn't want to be the poster woman for #metoo and say something like, "That's invasive." Because I knew he wasn't trying to be invasive. Poor white guys, they can't do anything right these days. But I didn't refuse either.

What struck me about this interaction:
1. how automatic his thinking process was - he objectified me instinctively
2. how lacking in basic etiquette his thinking was - and he was young. Young men certainly know about boundaries these days. They are steeped in them. But he had no idea who it is appropriate to be familiar with and who you should just say, 'You're welcome." to.

More importantly, because it's under my purview, the knee-jerk reaction to comply, is disturbing. I did what he asked me to do, even though I didn't want to do it. I made him more important. Which I have done countless times in my life without hesitation. But the sick feeling I had after complying, was familiar. I have to do something different, if I want these situations to change. . . which takes bravery and presence. I know I possess bravery. But presence? Presence is connected to the exact moment my stomach knotted but my hands went up.

. . . more on presence later. . .

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Happy 2nd Birthday Sorry.

10/5/2021

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Two years ago today, thanks to my stunning cast and SITI Company's generous Lab program, Sorry. debuted in New York City. Reception was mixed. It was much more of a play than intended, more ambitious than I'd realized. Rehearsals were limited, so nothing was polished or nuanced. It was a “kitchen sink” approach - throw everything in, see what works. Thanks to the dedication of my actors and their willingness to try anything, do anything asked of them, I was over the moon with their performances on October 5th and 6th.

The first showing on October 5th included two other SITI Lab 2019 projects. Each piece was female driven and spoke to a different aspect of what it means to be a woman. The gorgeous synchronicity and sense of tribe we felt outweighed the disappointment of only showing half of Sorry - there was a 30 minute time limit. We were thrilled to finally witness the birth of each other's work.

The response to Sorry. on October 5th was diverse: amusement, curiosity, encouragement, comprehensive critique, silence. How I longed for the entire play to be witnessed by my SITI Company mentors. In order to perform the entire piece, however, the theater had to be rented an additional day, which mentors were unable to attend.

While the reception of the October 5th staged reading of Sorry. was less than enthusiastic, I did not say, "Sorry.” I made what I wanted to make.

The reception on October 6th was very different. Women of all ages identified with the struggles of the women in Sorry. This was all the encouragement I needed. I knew I was onto something.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

During the Pandemic, I've worked on Sorry. in fits and starts. Random deep dives into mythology and Creation myths; rewrites . . . more rewrites . . . and more rewrites . . . I could rewrite it forever. There's so much material . . . The louder, "me-too" media attention doesn't interest me. What catches my attention are the smaller, day to day, deeper traces of what has been in place for thousands of years.

Two sublime examples of how women are devalued and dismissed occurred at the October 5th staged reading:

After the technical rehearsal for Sorry. , I asked a young male volunteer for the running script back.. He walked over to the trash, reached in, and pulled out my script. Running scripts are marked with lighting and sound cues for the show, often referred to as The Bible. They are sacred. They are not thrown away and certainly not the day before a performance.

Post-reading on October 5th, I overheard two men talking in the lobby about the three pieces they had seen. Sorry. was the third piece:

A: That third piece. I didn’t like it. It was like a Caryl Churchill piece.”
B: Yeah. I don’t know what that is, but I didn’t like it either.”

That comment still pleases me.

Two years later, I discovered the grass-roots level of dismissal women suffer in this country. Without question, this example demonstrates how sexism operates at the highest levels of our federal government:

According to the IRS, my HUSBAND’S name is first on a tax return as the "Primary Taxpayer," even though thanks to a great job in academia, I am the actual "Primary Taxpayer." The IRS takes this positioning on paper very seriously.

So seriously in fact, a payment I made wasn’t credited to our account - because I had used MY social security number and I’m not considered the "Primary Taxpayer." Except that I AM the primary taxpayer, quite literally.

Months after making this payment, we received a bill from the IRS for the exact same amount of money. When we spoke in person, the whole primary/secondary problem was untangled, but the IRS could not find my payment. How could that be possible? Where do payments from "secondary" taxpayers go? Is there a women's portal? Eventually, the IRS miraculously “found” my payment.

I'm sure there will be many more stories . . .

Today is October 5th 2021. We are on the other side of The Pandemic now, mostly, and this play needs air. I’m more than halfway through now, with a final draft. It will be finished very soon. Maybe today.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Sorry.

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Distortion...

10/4/2021

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October 4th, 2021...I am trying to finish my final draft of Sorry.

A leaf blower, a chain saw, and my husband practicing on his drum set is perfect recipe of sonic chaos, inside of which I thrive. I don't know why it works for me, it just does. I do my best work under duress. This has always been true. I was formed in Chaos, and so befriended it, I suppose. I also like Alan Holdsworth's music. David calls it "boy music" - because it's so complex and violent and tangled. It calms my brain. Whatever works.

Right now, anything louder than the voice in my head is a good thing - because the voice in my head is a terrorist and shouts words like "cancer" and "mastectomy," words that make me want to retreat and collapse. No matter what happens Thursday - I must be strengthened, and honed, with pristine clarity. These wake up calls, I've had two of them now, will not be wasted. Heightened life is rare and fertile - I must plant NOW. It is the perfect time. Last year, between mammograms, I did math. My sister and I crunched financial scenarios until it became clear I could afford to retire. If I hadn't had that bad mammogram, I would probably still be working at GCC.

This year it's a double biopsy for something called, "a Distortion". Two of them. They looks like palm cactus - radiate out like a star or the sun. I hope it's nothing. Just dense breasts. Nothing spectacular at all. "Nothing to see here. Move along, move along."

Hopefully the only spectacular thing about Thursday will be Atavan and cupcakes. :D

Inside of this external chaos I write, plan, execute. It's all white noise to me. It reads as silence. I cannot imagine writing in actual silence. I wonder what that would be like? I wonder what I would write? If I could write?

These quick breaks from working on Sorry. to dump mind trash here, seem to help . . . Thank you.

Back to work...

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Hama dances better than all of us...

2/1/2021

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PANDEMIC BLUES: February 1st 2021

We’ve been dancing in our living rooms for nearly a year.

At first I moved everything out: rocking chair, music stand, standing desk, magazine rack, coffee table, bass drum, rolling chair. The couch was already up against a wall. The rocker went into the kitchen. The bass drum into the hallway. The rolling chair into the hall only after I signed in to class. Then the dust mop would come out.

But slowly, one by one, things stopped getting moved back into the living room. They found new homes, or went to Goodwill, or “Bulky Pick-up” or to the curb with a sign: “FREE.” Space mattered more.

I learned quickly where the studs were for jumps. And where not to do dégagé. Our wood floors dates back to 1949. Finally something older than me! I guess it’s earned its splinters. I know I have.

Hama started out silent, sitting on his couch at home, waving. Some of the women took over the heavy lifting leading class. And slowly, as it became apparent things were not going to change anytime soon, the dance studio began upgrading the wifi, cameras, sound system, monitors… Hama's Ladies - Frankie, Risa, Leslie, Carlisa took over the website, set up Venmo, setting up cameras for class, purchasing and organizing gear, uploading software. We were all depressed. But Hama was watching, and dancing took our minds off of the pandemic for a hour and a half, three times a week. That was all that mattered.

Then one day, Hama announced he was going to be in the studio again and he would be teaching. Hama was BACK! He started doing the warmup with us, AND giving corrections - making good on his promise to teach. Soon he had us doing battements and double pirouettes in our living rooms. Terrifying. Dangerous. But my turns have never been cleaner. They have to be. Hama is dancing better than all of us - of course - double pirouettes, jumps, floor work (!) and those gorgeous, gorgeous Luigi moves. He is something else…

We are so, so very lucky! I honestly don’t know how other people are getting through this.

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Sorry. . . . ruminations on the female apology

10/31/2019

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THE PLOT(ish) (it's a work in progress!)
Sorry. is about three women from different time periods: a contemporary businesswoman, a woman from the 19th Century who prefers women, and the mythological character, Persephone. They arrive in a café for tea and discover they have one thing in common – they’ve reached an end in their ability to apologize. A Chorus of Furies facilitates the women’s journey and two men, The Waiter and a Neutral Man serve as devices.

THE INSPIRATION:
It began with an apology I didn't mean. The chain of events that followed is unimportant, but what is relevant is the fixation I began to have on how often, easily, and automatically women say, “I’m sorry.” I’m also interested in how infrequently men say it. I’m convinced there is a secret language behind the female apology: apology as self-protection, apology as de-escalation, apology as habit. I began to wonder: Does a woman who apologizes constantly, actually believe she’s wrong? What does constant apologizing do to a woman? What would happen if a woman who always said, “I’m sorry” stopped saying it?

While my research does not demonstrate that women "of a certain age" apologize more often than younger women, I have a theory: women "of a certain age" were taught to apologize quickly, easily, frequently. This behavior has been passed on unconsciously, to the younger generation. As a side agenda, I’m also interested in the progressive invisibility of women of a “certain age” in the theater landscape. Sorry. is an attempt to shift this phenomenon.

STAGE ONE: ASSEMBLING THE INGREDIENTS
In May 2019, SITI Company announced Sorry. had been selected for the SITI Company Alumni Fall Lab Series 2019. By the end of June, a script was assembled for what has since been nicknamed the "Cheetos and Beer" First Reading. While it turns out not many people in Los Angeles still eat Cheetos or drink beer, as listeners, they were unmatched.

STAGE TWO: CASTING
I may still be a New Yorker at heart, but I live in Los Angeles, which made casting a daunting prospect. With the assistance of SITI Company members and administrators Lani, Trevor, and Jonathan, and recommendations from NYC friends, most of the cast was assembled, with the exception of Neutral Man and two of the main female characters, by the time I arrived in NYC. Turns out, not a lot of women in their 50's want to fall out of cafe chairs. Through the recommendation of another dancer friend, I found one women amenable to falling down. While I was perusing her work website, I suddenly realized I was looking at a photo of an old friend from A Chorus Line, Ron Navarre. I emailed him and asked about the woman, since they worked together. He said he did recommend her. "She's wonderful. She'll be great to work with. Oh, and Madeline's my wife." Casting was complete! Individually and collectively, the cast of Sorry. was beyond my wildest dreams - Kismet.

STAGE THREE: THE REHEARSALS
We rehearsed for six weeks, from the end of August until early October, exploring, staging, and discussing how women’s roles have changed and not changed. The Furies were well under the age of 30 and The Women were over 50, so there was a lot to talk about. The cast’s willingness to delve into dark subject matter, discussing topics most people won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, was moving, and terrifying to helm. I will never forget the faces of the women in the cast, the night we rehearsed the Men's Pants Dance. The universality of moments like that give me courage and impetus for the next incarnation of Sorry. .

But I must admit, the title does present punctuation problems on grant applications. . .

THE STAGED READING: OCTOBER 6TH & 7th 2019 - SITI Company Studios

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Oh! for a "Room of One's Own..."

7/20/2014

Time. Time and space. Time to write, space conducive to writing, which, if you live with another human being, will never be perfect. My husband is a drummer. For humor's sake, I am tempted to end there. But those of you who know me, probably already know: I do my best writing when he is practicing on his set. It makes sense to me. I'm a dancer. Rhythm speaks to me. Don't get me wrong - I wear earplugs - it's loud! But there's something about all that energy that centers me. And so I have begun...the final version of The Hat is percolating and by the end of January, it will be finished.

The inspiration for the character, Rose, in The Hat

2/23/2014

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This is a photograph of my mother, Myrna Randolph. She was a chorus dancer at the Edgewater Beach Hotel, in Chicago Illinois, 1951.

When the Woody Herman Band played there, she met my father, trombonist Herb Randel. It must have been love at first site because two weeks later, they were engaged to be married.

The characters in The Hat are an amalgam of history, fantasy, and wishful thinking. One of the reasons I love to write is because it's possible to reinvent events and people. Re-imagining my parent's life together as a love story brings peace to a tumultuous relationship.

While my mother was born in Florida, she never had a southern accent. Neither did her mother, my grandmother, who dragged Mom back and forth from Florida to Maine every summer for years, until one year, when Mom was 14, they just didn't go back. She never got to say goodbye to her father, her friends, or gather any of her things. I don't think my mother ever recovered from this event. Nevertheless, there was always a southern sensibility on my mother's side of our family. From this inkling, I have re-imagined my mother as a southern belle, madly in love with her husband, accepting of his drinking, and capable of glamorizing their relationship until the end.

"ROSE: Smiling is a southern woman's first line of defense. Smiling disarms, charms, distracts, deflects, masks. Very versatile. Quick wit is also useful, but that requires intelligence."

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The Bus and Truck tour of A Chorus Line:

2/20/2014

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November 1981...My Walters Transit Swan Song:

Excerpts from journals, written while traveling on a Greyhound Bus:

"My last bus ride before I head to Broadway. It is only appropriate that bus call be 7:15am...after finishing a show at 10:30pm...with an 8 and 1/2 hour drive to Madison Wisconsin. My last Bus and Truck Opening Night...Jackson Brown is serenading me through my Walkman. We are on a first name basis, Jackson and I. Your lyrics are going to make me cry... ..again...The "stars I wished upon" became a dream come true...But the scars? I'll never "laugh about the scars"..."

...On the bus, creature comforts are important. This is my home.

August...enroute Canada, we go through customs. Their questions stump me:

"Where are you from?"
"The Bus"
"Where do you LIVE?"

I am tempted to repeat myself.....hmmm....I have to ponder...she seems to want a different answer.

I silently list our most recent residences: Holiday Inn, Howard Johnson's, Marriott...
I could go on... But I'm distracted by the truth of the matter: I've been living on the road for two years.

"What do you have in these bags?"
"Everything I own."
"Well, at least you know where everything is." She passes me through customs.

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