LEAP IN THE DARK PRODUCTIONS

Distortion...

10/5/2021

October 5th, 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...

Now, back to work...

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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. This gorgeous synchronicity and the sense of tribe we felt, outweighed the disappointment of only showing half of Sorry. (there was a 30 minute time limit) After such a fractured rehearsal period, working around everyone's schedules, we were thrilled to all be in the same room at the same time, seeing what we had made!

The reception from attending SITI Company members 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.

The reception Sorry. received was less than I had hoped for. In some ways, I felt I had disappointed SITI with Sorry. I knew it was linear, with way too much talking, full of schtick., and random shifts between worlds of absurd-ism and realism without committing fully to either, because that 's how life feels, to me. So, I did not say, "Sorry.” I made what I wanted to make.

On October 6th, after the full showing of Sorry., praise in the form of tears and gratitude, from women of all ages in the Audience, gave me the encouragement I needed. I knew I was onto something.

Two funny, very "Sorry." stories from October 5th offer sublime examples of how easily women, in particular women of a certain age, continue to be devalued, dismissed:

Sorry. Story #1: A male volunteer helped run Tech on October 4th and was given a Running Script. After Tech I asked for it back. He walked over to the trash, reached in, and pulled out my script. For those of you who don't know, "Running Scripts" are carefully marked with multiple cues and are often referred to as The Bible. They are sacred. They are not thrown away. Certainly not the day before a performance. This person was neither inexperienced nor unaware. He was also not "of a certain age" which is the frame of reference for the women in Sorry. He was young, and probably considers himself "woke." His action was a textbook example of what the young women in Sorry. shared in early rehearsals: that subtle, silent, disregard and invalidation of women is alive and well in the younger generation of men.

Sorry. Story #2: In the lobby after the October 5th showing of half of Sorry., I overheard two young men talking:
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.

During the Pandemic, I've worked on Sorry. in fits and starts. Random deep dives into mythology and Creation myths; rewrites…and more rewrites…and more rewrites…I could rewrite it forever; I keep having experiences I want to add to the play and search for ways to include them. But some of them just won’t fit, so I’ve decided to blog them instead. I'll close with this one:

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 should be listed as the "Primary Taxpayer." but on income tax forms, the husband is listed first. The IRS takes this positioning seriously, so seriously in fact, a payment I made wasn’t credited because I had accidentally used MY social security number and I’m not considered the "Primary Taxpayer." I am in fact invisible without my HUSBAND. Months later, we received a bill from the IRS that included this same amount of money. They still considered it “unpaid.” What I would like to know is where the payment I made, went? How exactly did they categorize it, because when pressed and given records of having paid it, they somehow miraculously “found” my payment.

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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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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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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