Happy
Saturday, July 19
So here's the post show wrap up for the grant agencies. Monies received=0. Income made from the show, -something, still waiting for cheques to be cashed. Months of my life spent on thisnproject=about 6. Audiences who were moved enough to talk to me after the show, write me, tell me they were still thinking about the show=quite a lot, considering such small houses. Great reviews=1, reviewers who just didn't get it=2. Heartbreaks=lots. Letters from the actresses saying what an awesome time they had=lots and lots.
Would I do this again? Of course. Did my art suffer because I was stressed because I was broke? Of course. Will you read this? Who knows. It was a hard, crazy, tiring ride, thanks for coming along.
Sunday, July 13
Well this is the end. the bittersweet end of a run where you are filled with relief and sadness. when you realize you're still poor, still sitting in a drippy basement, no closer to fame or even a job. It'sa kind off cool having a play where I actuallly say the subtext: Poof my words are gone, I'll never get them back. But they're only words. and all words cna be beautiful, and all words can be hurtful. I know I made a few people think, confused a few, challenged a few, and made a few laugh. It's not a perfect show, but it is representative of my art. I'm not sorry I went on this journey. Is it complete? No. was it fun? It's always fun to act in my shows, cause at least they're interesting. And emotional. And the audience is there, right there, so close, that you do feel that for a moment, you are reminded that you are human.
I hope I make my mom proud tonight. I hope I make my hot date proud. but most of all, I hope I make myself porud. Cause this is it baby, my last chance, to be Happy.
Friday, July 11
Okay, we're at a low point. More audiences walking out, more bad press, a lacklustre performance by yours truly, a director who's off on her own next project and a series of cheques I gotta write to my investor...hoping to pay him off by Christmas Time to regroup, time to get Happy. Time to get Happy even though the Molson Indy woke me up this morning (that whine of high powered cars is really loud), and now the super of my building is fussing around with the fire alarm, (even though I keep saying "It just needs a new battery, change the battery, but oh no.." ) but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, happiness. that's ultimately what this play is about, a wee fact I completley missed at my last chance of good PR last night. Oh geez, vicotira, get it together. it's the friggin' title of the thing. Well, when I'm good I'm great, when I'm bad I suck. I am, after all, only human. And humans are the most inconsistent, moody buggers around.
So what to do? Here's the options as I see them. 1) Join all the others who wait around for someone else to hire them. This way, you can just be an artist. this way, you also may wait a long time, or have to say shitty/boring words. 2) Try to do work that doesn't cost any money, so all profit is profit. I do like this idea, makes you creative, but it's impossible to do anything for free. 3) Get a job so I can afford to hire people which sounds great, but then again, what if I invest lots of money and then the show still doesn't bring 'em in? Will that be more depressing, or will I be so rich from my job that I won't care? Then there's the little problem that I can't get a job.
So...what'll it be? Option 1, 2, or 3? Send in your votes.
Tuesday, July 8
Well I've now had good shows, bad shows, good press bad, people who loved the show and people who wlaked out. I've seen a whack of shows myself and I have to say, that even when my show sucks, it still gives you great fucking words, it still gives you a great fucking performance, it still fucking makes you think. I promise you one moment where you feel human, and I am sure that everyone gets one moment.
I was handing out fliers and someone was just saying "Victoria Goring' and when I handed them a flier they didn't blush, they didn't show any recoginace that who they were speaking about was me. It's creepy. Everyone knows my name, but no one's seen my work, and even fewere know me to see me. What's with that?
Friday, July 4
Ah the press. Now all my work has gone up in smoke cause the reviewers decided they din't like it. thanks guys. couldn't you mention the good things, like the quality of wriitng or the fact that you were never bored or the acting? (they all came on the awesome night). Geez. Now I'll never get my money back.
Thursday, July 3
I am wicked crazy SICK, yuck, I am even losing my voice, which is not good. Not good at all. You work so hard all year and then bam! Goodbye dreams. So tonight I had a terrible show for me, it felt like the audience were stunned I don't know, I'm so neurotic I pine for the traditional theatre where you don't see your audiences, why do I do this to myself? Interaction is really, really hard. So I've had 2 so-so shows and one great one, so either I'm alternating nights, which means a great show 50% of the time, or I'm only getting a 1 in 3 ratio, so you should either come every second or every third day. hard to say.
Oh yes, I had a "late review" in the Star today...but not in the What's On section, oh no, in the News section. (!!?? I don't know if anyone saw it) I also didn't know I was News which was kinda odd and exciting at the same time. And a little scary. So the reviewer wanted more from the show and the women, well that's fine, becasue I want the audience to want more, not be thinking jeez, stop talking. I was also said to have a transluscent something or other, that was really nice, but then I was said I was to be impotent and not living up to my name (Happy) which is true to the character, but sounded depressing...like do you really want to see a show about depression kind of thing...oh yeah, and I was ferret-like which is really not my favourite description, I liked it better 2 years ago when he called me beautiful. But then he gave me 4 stars, so that's good. But like I said, and like I say, probably no one saw it anyhow . Who reads the back page of the news? I usually skip it cause it's usually letters to the editors and they get me all riled up and then I write letters that I promptly regret it so I usually bypass that source of neuotic grief.
If you have a cure for bronchitis and allergies and a losing your voice thing, please send it on. If you have a solution for always, always, having a fantastic performance, you're rich and famous already so you wouldn't be reading this, but pass it on anyhow. The incredible irony is that the advice I dished out was "love your show, love every moment, love what you do", and then I didn't follow my own advice. Why do humans have such a slow learning curve?
Oh yeah, I also ripped off part of this blog from an email I sent to another potential dating guy so I hope he doesn't read this. Why do I keep doing that? It's like I want to get caught cheating on my emails with my blog. It's the key swapping party of the digital age.
Wednesday, July 2
Oh I feel bad for my preview audience, tonight was so much better. Ah well, tis the point of a preview.
This was my day: Woke up, still felt like shit, nothing new, but hey, gotta go get my shots so let's check it out...oh it's bronchitis. Nice. now I'm spending my last $65 on antibiotics-all 6 pills-fuuuck. That was my grocery money for the week. Now I'm rehearsing and the director is telling me to fucking say these brilliant words, just say them, now her car is being towed, now she's at Keele and Sheppard trying to get her car out of hock. Now we're at the Velvet and no one's there. Now we're trying to make the 2-count em-2 lights somehow work. Now the antibiotics are kicking in their side effects-I'll spare yo the details-now my director has shown up, she said she wouldn't be, but there she is, making things happen. Now the show has started and an actress clocks me in the lip with my briefcase, now I haven't even said a word but the top 1/4 of my lip is numb with pain now I've got 2-count em-reviewers writing away in front of me, hey there, I can see you, I'm 2-yep, that's the theme number for the night-2 feet away from you guys, but they both graciously stopped writing, now I've got the owners of the bar talking during the show, now I'm actually having fun in my show, now I'm making myself cry now it's over. Now I'm still awake, I don't think I'll ever sleep, but I got a show. Oh yeah, I got a show, and It's only gonna get better. Please, dear God, let the reviewers agree!
Tuesday, July 1
One show down and it's taken me this long to report. It's becasue I'm still looking for the words, both for my play and for this 'report'. I had an audeince member (a guy, a young guy too, a young ugy working in the arts, go figure) who left in the middle of my play cause he was offended. I don't think he was listening to what I was saying, and if he'd stuck around, he woulda got the message, cause I do explain at the end why I'm happy I offended people. But you have to stay to the end, loser. Anyhow, the artist in me is going Fucking yeah! I made a person feel so much they actually moved their butt. The human in me is going Oh no, I want everyone to love me. The perfectioninst in me is trying to rewrite the last itty bitty paragraph in the play to make it clear. But I can't find the words. I want people to feel something, for one second, that will maybe resonate throughout their day, their week, how much more poetically can I put it? It's a live art form, so you can't rewind, replay, it's the now, it's this moment, and you'd better get something out of it. And every time your heart beats faster then I am happy. But I sound like a sadist, I sound like I'm preaching, but my feelings are sincere. This is fucked. I gotta open tomorrow and I still can't find the words to say Hey, listen up, fuck apologies, I am here and if you don't like it go watch a movie. Even that sounds insincere and contrived. Argh.
Thursday, June 26
Well apparently the reporter managed to salvage my incomprehensible musings into somthing good. whew. Now people are all surprised, press is so funny, because it validiates art. Now people who wouldn't see my show will go "oh, it really is a show. Maybe I should check it out". Which is great, cause maybe maybe I'll have an audience tongiht, and maybe maybe I'll be able to pay for their champagne. But it also makes me truly appreciate those who were going to come without any press. Yay, you!
Since tonight's the opening, here's what I learnt so far: You DO need a director. Always. You DON'T always need music. You cna't get upset when people are unreliable, and can't get hurt when my friggin' women don't invite anyone to the show (okay, maybe a little hurt). You can write a good show, but it takes a lot of work, and you gotta cherish each moment. theatre's kinda like life. It's a wild ride and enjoy every bit of it. OOh yeah, go publish that last statement in rEader's digest. Hehe. I'll let you know tomorrow what the audience thougbt!! Send me e-luck all.
Monday, June 23
The more I think about my botched interview (and yes, I'm still obsessing aobut it), the more I realize I totally sold myself short, because Ii do a lot of things to help promote myself and my work, only it's such second nature to always be thinking about it, because I have a lot of brain power that's free, since it's not being used up by love, or kids or a job. I must remember that others don't have the endless drive that I do...just becasue I don't feel driven, I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere doesn't mean that it's not happening. Shoot. If you're reading this, send me a cure for insomnia...quick!
Friday, June 20
Oh my, my third fuck up so far...got osme advance press, and I wanted to be all cheerful and positive, but I was soooo friggin' tired (can't sleep), that I was just rambling. I'm great one on one, but there was another artist that I was supposed to give advice to, and I didn't have any advice! Oh I suck!!! What advice am I supposed to give? I don't know how to get people to see shows. If I did, I'd be famous. And rich.
Thursday, June 19
Here's a plan that just doesn't work: say to yourself I'll get up early to work on my lines...now it's 3 am and I've read the appendix of this stupid book I heard about on the CBC...guys. did anyone there read this book? Cause it sucked. $45 which I don't have but I thought this book would help my play...bu no...it's got one interesting paragraph which summed an interesting idea that I already heard on the radio, and 300+pages of kinda interesting but very vague anecdotal references. Ugh, what a waste. So I did that, then read about the universe and whether it's expanding or decaying and then I had the subsequent panic attack that thinking about universe bring on...then I almost fell asleep but the cat pawed at my face for a while and then I gave up and caught up on oddtodd.com and panicked some more about learning my lines and rewriting that ending for tomorrow and now there's no way I'll get any sleep at all so I thought I'd log on and complain about insomnia which nicely brings me back to the CBC...who rejected my documentary on artists and insomnia...do artists get insomnia cause they're creative people or are they creative because they're insomniacs? There, that didn't cost you anything, and if my theory is interesting call the CBC and ask them to book me. Thanks, and good morning
Wednesday, June 18
One week and one day to go and I'm just starting to find things, never mind an ending. Oh geez. If only we had loads of time, if only we'd been able to rehearse often, without worrying about babysitters/jobs/who will open the bar for us. But hey, I still have a week, and it is fun. And things are looking up. I had a cute guy volunteer to poster with me! Holy cow, how rare is that? I have KICKASS posters, I have media going to interview me, even though they didn't like my show, how supportive is that? I am finding moments finding reasons finding fun in this character, whew, better now than never! I spent my last $20 on 1) a cd from a guy on the street that has a scratch on it, and to 2) to the poorly attended (unfortunately) New Folk night which was great, and even when I wasn't into a song, I found the music brought me back into my script and I came up with two brainstorms...and even better, my "date" didn't seem to take offensive to me wandering off to scribble something down, or wander off to smoke. My goodness, things ARE looking up.
Friday, June 13
Okay, one more rant and then I'll let it go. Holy geez, I gotta use this anger in my show, good sense memory, who says the granting foundtions didn't give me anything! Okay, here's my last I'm so mad I can barely type thought: I was criticised for being too entertaining (gee, the show's for 3-5 year olds, how esoteric do you think they can get? i'm still deeper than Barney, if just. And hey, what's wrong with being entertianed for once???) And then also for being too artistic (who cares about men becoming extinct, it doesn't afect our lives). So jeez, get it together, which is it? And how can you possibly I'm not frustrated? Just stop making lame ass excuses and say "I don't like your work". That would be better. I can act, I can write. It's just a matter of whether or not you like it. Some do, some don't. But don't tell me (in the same letter!) that I'm too glibly entertaining and too esoterically artistic. Oh geez I'm gonna quote eminem hear, bear with me, there's no profanity "I gotta calm down/get my feet on level ground". It's become my friggin' mantra these days.
Oh these grant people have me so mad I can barely type. Okay, they ask for feedback, then get mad when they get it. Geez, you don't have to like the feedback, it's only my opinion, (and the opinion of all the scared young artists who have called me saying "what do they want???" and me saying "Who knows???" Or "Probably for you to be already famous?".) But regardless, this is a body set up to fund the arts, yet it doesn't want to talk to artists. Hypocritical? Seems like it. They funded 2 of my shows, but didn't see either of them, then tell me they don't know what my work is like because they haven't seen it, then they get mad cause I say well why don't you see it then? Holy smokes. I gotta find a producer. Or a rich boyfriend. Or move. As if being broke isn't enough, the "supporters" or art are anything but. I'd rather have a pack of critics tear me apart than fill out another freaking grant application.
The sad thing is, now I've alienated a bunch of people, when I was only trying to open up lines of communcation. Am I doomed to be forever misunderstood?
Got to do this for me, and the few audience members who show up, got to do it for us, fuck everyone else. I'd rather have 2 audience members who want to be there than 20 grant people who are there out of obligation (cause paparnelty going to theatre is a "chore", not a delight. ). What does their opinon matter? It's strange how the people who criticize us most have never actually done it themselves. If it was say, Hal Hartley criticizing me now, well that would be a different story.
Thursday, June 12
Oh man, I forgot how much hard work theatre is. This is brutal. I wish it was film, where that's it, I don't have to recreate this every night. I wish I was just the writer, so I could wash my hands of it. I'm in that yucky awful stage I always go through wehre I'm bored and unhappy with my script. It's that point in the relationship where you forgot all the reasons why you loved this person. But then you remember, I have to find that again. Then I think, this is it, my chance to be heard, to say these sometimes yucky offensive words, yes, but this is my chance to go for it, to be heard. And that is, after all, why we create, isn't it? To be heard.
Tuesday, June 10
For all those who think we flaky artists just sit around at home all day, here's my day tomorrow: It's 1 am but must make instant switch to diurnal schedule so I can wake up refreshed in seven hours to rehearse script, put on make-up and look beautiful which is my least favourite task ever, get pictures taken while still beautiful or reasonable facsimile thereof. Organize rehearsal (this actress has to leave at 12:15, this actress just finally showed up, where's so and so? You've GOT to sign this Equity form, here's al the scripts I photocopied, etc), leave so I can babysit possibly chicken poxed child of director while making business calls and enteertian paranoid thoughts that guy I'm chasing after will read this blog and recognize the email I sent him (Really honey, your email was the inspiration for this blog, I swear. You know what it's like to date an artist, nothing is sacred. Do you still want to go out with me ? hello???)...Return possibly poxy child and damage control rehearsal, get on to subway and find "family military resource centre" in North York, put on more make-up so I can be a mime for three hours on legs that are STILL sore from foolhardy soccer game two weks back on full field playing full out all to discover my character's inner love of Sports, find my way back to Union Station to pick up abandoned bicycle that hopefully hasn't been stolen, somewhere in there eat, eat, eat, cause I've lost so much weight arms are reduced to flabby skin on bones, which ISN'T beautiful. Who says showbiz ain't glamourous?
Well I did it...went out in public as Happy. Rode the GO train, bought coffee, was as masculine as I could be. It was terrifying, I was paranoid. Not that someone would know I was a woman, but that I was making a mockery of their commuter existence. But no one looked at me funny, no one seemed to notice. Which is even weirder. Do I look that much like a guy? Or do we look so fleetingly at others that we don't see anyone? it's a quandry, it's...I'm quoting from my play here, ignore me...
At least I'm finding day to day applications for my lines, this is good. Today we blocked the angry part and for someeone who's usually seething, brimming, I wake up fuming some days, I don't know why, I usually have anger instantly accessible, right under my skin. But now that I need to be angry I'm numb I'm cool I'm everything I can't be when I read a letter like the one I got from the grant people, or when I think about that stupid guy I didn't want to go out with but than did and now he won't return my phone calls and I'm torn apart with heartache just becasue he doens't want me, that's the only reason, and I hate myself for that. Grrr....See, I can be plenty angry when I'm not rehearsing, how maddening is that?
Monday, June 9
Oh my goodness, these grant people. They ASKED for feedback, so I sent them a letter. They then sent me a letter reiterating my grant history (I think I know that!), and told me that a play I had submitted a grant for (to write) was formulaic (how do they know if it hasn't been written yet?). They then asked for free tickets to Happy, which they of course refused to grant. It's nine dollars for goodness sake! It's not like I haven't spent the last six months of my life and all my money on those seats...the tickets recoup that money, hopefully. There are no "free" tickets, They've already been paid for by me. Granting agency, you SUCK! Note to box office: If they show up wanting free tickets, forget it! No way! You're so shelling out those nine dollars buddy. And buying a drink from the bar. And a drik for all the beautiful women of my cast. And my crew.
Sunday, June 8
so when I think about what I want to do, this is it. So why, you might ask, should we give you a grant when you're going to find a way to create anyhow? It's so I can have a day or a week or a month where I'm not scared terrified about how to buy posters and cat food and contact lenses, while wondering who I can call for yet another favor. So I can have a day or a week or a month of dignity. Where I can give all the people who have believed in me and sacrified their lives for my art a concrete thank you. So I can have a day or a week or a month where I am recognized as having given something to others. I have written and spoken words that have angered people, made them cry, made them think, I have done all this. Even if you don't like my work you know who I am, you know I don't worry if I fall flat on my face, I keep going, even at my worst I try to say something. And it would be nice to have someone say, just once, this has value. This has worth. This, your life, for it is my life, I have no other, has been worth it.
Thursday, June 5
Now I know why artists get a reputaion for ditziness. When you're walking around with an hour of dialogue whirling through your mind plus the intention and blocking of each word plus the press releases you still have send out the women you have to email regarding their rehearsals, the musician who you've got to find time for, the technical requirements you forgot to ask for a the bar, the posters you've got to get printed, the props you still have to buy, it's a wonder I can walk in a straight line.
And after being in a guy's mind and body it's hard to switch over. I have to wear skirts when I'm not rehearssing to remind myself I'm a girl, I'm a female, and I still find myself looking at women going hm...I'd date her....wait a second, I'm not a guy anymore, or am I? Who says gender doesn't completely shape your thoughts? Even endowed gender seems to be having that effect.
Plus all the Eminem I've filled my brain with has filled my vocabulary with profanity. Cliche, but true
Wednesday, May 28
30 days to go. Just to summarize...Grants=$0. Advance ticket sales=$0. Expenses=A big big envelope of receipts that I'm scared to go through, and more that I've lost on the journey between my pockets and the envelope. Amount of hours worked in the last 10 days in my shitty job to pay for this show=89. Amount of photocopies made=9" of paper. Amount of minesweeper games played while waiting for inspiration=countless. Continuous days of listening to Eminem=45. Amount of supportive organizations willing to give me a performance space for free=2. Artists willing to work on this show in a smokey sticky goth-esque bar amongst the clatter of deliveries=14. Lookin' good.
Monday, May 26
Okay, just found out where I've gone wrong. 30% of your budget is supposed to be earmarked for advertising. Although technically, since my budget is $0, 30% of that has been spent.
Saturday, May 24
Now we have entered the stage of the process where it's just freak out time. I have no money, no time, and no sleep. I watched a special at "work" (my only access to popular media i.e. a TV), on Doris Day. She was such a trooper that one day while filming her ribs were cracked and she didn't say anything, she just came into work the next day with her ribs bandaged, but never complained. I must strive to be more like Doris Day. Then again, she was getting paid, so that would help.
PS: Oh yes, brilliant idea just exhaustion induced fantasy. Director/voice of reason said to stick to original plan.
Thursday, May 22
When you're working crazy hours and sleeping crazier hours and eating who knows what, who knows when, the good thing is, if you lie there in bed long enough thinking I supposed to be winding down or getting up, your mind will eventually pass through:
1) All the men you've ever loved and what went wrong and is it too late to call them now (it always is).
2) The meaning of life and how to make this fleeting glimpse at it meaningful
3) Utter despair at being able to resolve either of the above and
4) finally in a state of mental exhaustion and boredom becasue you don't have a TV to numb the pain, you will eventually decide to think about your play. Then you'll get an amazing idea that fixes everything. Only it's too late to call anybody about your amazing idea. But it's perfect. Can I get a grant for being in this state of exhaustion and stress that eventually procurs moments of brilliance? (big pause here) Obviously not.
fuck up #2, that's 2 in 12 hours, I'm on a roll. My big premiere/fundraising night has to be reschuled. Oh man, now I have to go and beg the owner of the venue I have who is extremely supportive and letting us rehearse for free but never returns my phone calls. This sucks. One thing that doesn't suck: Yesterday there were 2, count em, 2 independant theatre companies rehearsing for free at said venue, where in a 5 block radius, there were 3 theatres with 2 stages each empty, cause they would rather stay empty than let companies rehearse there for free. So who's supporitng theatre in this town? Hmmmm....
Wednesday, May 21
Well all my whining came right back at me. I worked 13 hours overnight at my underpaid unappreciated job so I can pay for my show, when I got home I thought I'd get a few hours of sleep before rehearsal, which is at 12, I set my alarm, and was sure I'd get up no problem, well we all see where this going. I wake up at 12:20 sharp thinking fuck I have to eat I have to gather all my stuff for rehearsal I have to GET THERE they'll all be gone; the director is going to be late because she has a wardrobe call because she has to make a living, so no one will be there to greet them. The women are gonna be pissed off at this lack of unporfessionalism, and all leave, who can blame them. I throw on some clothes, run to the place, thinking, this is the biggest fuck up yet, I'll have lost all my women, made my name mud, and pissed off the director all at the same time. I am steadily cursing myself and open the door with dread. But guess what? There they were, all waiting. I coulda cried I coulda kissed them all if I wasn't so frickin' tired. You women are the best. They waited. They had faith. Now I gotta find that faith in myself. Thanks. Now I GOTTA get some sleep.
Tuesday, May 20
So on Victoria day, while I was working at my shitty under appreciated way underpaid job to finance my eating/rent habit, my mother (in BC) invited a bunch of friends over for Victoria Day. Being a legit Canadian holiday, I'm sure her guests were surprised to discover pictures of a different Victoria-me-everywhere, and a basket for donations to my show. You are the best, mom! Well she said she didn't get as many people as she wanted, but any money is more than anyone else has given me, so I sure am grateful to my mom and all her unsuspecting friends. Now if only a government agency, foundation, or media would have the same level of support. Ah dream on.
Another rant is boy, actresses suck. I have had so many women who can't/won't read their emails (which I send way in advance, this isn't any last-minute operation), don't write things down, confirm but then don't show up, they suck. You girls suck! I'm glad I'm exploring my masculinity in this play and just being a man! I'd rather be a man, however paranoid and neurotic than these dippy Torontonian actresses. In NY, I'd have as many actresses as I wanted. Damn these apathetic girls. The exception to my venom is the eight women who have shown up, worked hard, made me laugh so hard I couldn't open my eyes, they are fantastic. But everyone else is being put on my long long list of people who are afraid to make a comittment/afraid of doing anything remotely interesting. It's a long list. .
Sunday, May 18
Here's why it's a bad idea to date an actor, never mind an actor/playwright producer. We've got too many relationships as it is. A relationship with the director, the character, the script, the audience, the reviewers. I wish there was a relationhsip with funders but there isn't. Talk about unrequited desire. With all these intimate realtionships we have, we've already involved. Our director sees us at our most naked, so does the reviewers and audience, we're obsessed with our character, in love with our script. there simply isn't anything left for a guy.
Saturday, May 17
Walking around at "work" with a tie and your script scattered around the corporate furniture, still hunting for the right sequence of words. The staff looking at you funny, cause they don't get that someone would have any other interests, would have a life beyond sitting behind a desk. "Oh no, I've spent my whole life wanting to be a security guard". For fuck's sake, of course I have a life, I have more of a life than you let's put everyone in a box people, because I strive to perfect every placement of word, because I have this shitty low paying non responsible job on purpose, so I can spend my time searching for that sequence of words that will blast you out of your regulated minds for a moment. Yes, that's right, I'm doing this for you. Which is ironic, that the very people I want to give a moment to, want to effect, those are the people who it would never occur to them to go see theatre, especially something that's not Lion King, so there we have it, the ultimate reason we artists spend so much time banging our heads against our keyboards. Who the hell did you think I was writing this for? This isn't for me. I'm so far outside the box as it is I can't recall what it even looked like. I'm doing this for you. So stop looking at me like I'm some crazy fucking weird person with a shitty low paying job. Well I am all that, but look beyond it, would ya?
Thursday, May 15
A few symptoms that your art might be causing your insomnia: Your bed is filled with various versions of your script, but the one version that's perfect you can never find. You've let the cat in or out of the door 8 times. You've spent hours visualizing the daily minuatae of your character but keep getting caught trying to imagine what it would be like to have a penis, and this mental exercise does not make you sleepy. You make a mental list of all the fuckers who have thwarted you, refused to fund you, reviewers who stopped loving you, not to mention that crappy theatre school you went to. Now you're really awake so you pull your coat over your pajamas in the pursuit of food at the local all night variety stores and buy overpriced ice cream that leaves a funny taste in your mouth and a plant. You've completed this sequence 12 times: Read "something soothing" to get your brain away from your show, finally did feel sleepy, turned out the light, realized you had to pee, crawled back into bed, realized you couldn't possibly pee to the sound of the leaky faucet, crawled back into bed, decided you're awake now, turn the light back on. It's light out when you finally pass out amidst the cat hair, ashtray, and pages of your script.
A few symptoms that your art might be causing your hermit like behaviour: You don't have a job. You don't go anywhere other than salsa dancing, because it's free, and you don't have to talk to anyone, it's just dancing. Actual social intercourse require strenous mental connections that apparently are no longer easily accessed by your brain. You spend way too much time sitting in front of the computer.
Sleep well.
Tuesday, May 13
Check out oddtodd.com, it's funny cause it's true. Staying at home with no money is crazy it's finally getting out of bed at three and walking down Queen street in the search of breakfast with the hopes that your slept in hair no contacts so the world is blurry at best hoping the coat covering the clothes you slept in will pass for funky. It's finding out the grant you applied for months ago doesn't make a decision until August but I need the money NOW!!!!! Now now now. I need to hire people who can help me, theatre is not a solo thing, It's collaborative. It's ideas boucning around, it's improv, it's playing. It's not sitting alone in your basement moving your old scripts away from the drips your dad on the phone asking you how you can make any money as a playwright and why don't you just get a rich boyfriend. I don't think rich guys go for "I just woke up even though it's 3 pm no contacts crazy bed head wrinkled cat hair covered clothes". Oh yeah, and I haven't had a bath either. But I could be wrong. If you're reading this and you're a rich guy who finds the above description attractive give me call.
Monday, May 12
Went to the Harolds. It's the theatre community awards. Here's why I'll never get a Harold: I spend more time in my drippy basement picking cat hair out of my mouse then schmoozing. I'm too opinionated, too pushy. I scare people because I'm aggressive. I piss people off because I don't understand anyone who wouldn't give up their job and their family to create a piece of art. I'm not seen as driven or committed, I'm seen as aggressive because I want. I want us all to be great, I want us all to push each other to create and push boundaries, and yes, if that means making fools of ourselves occasionally, that's fine too. I want us to be there to support each other. I want so much it alienates people, because they just want a nice play then to go home to their families and jobs.
Sunday, May 11
Okay, here's why I need a grant. Instead of what day can you rehearse I got my kids I've got a meeting I can't get a rehearsal space that day I've got to work...all this haggling of schedules guilty of taking up artist's time it's exhausting, it's counterproductive, all I want is to be able to write people a cheque and say, here, help me for as long as this cheque is worth of your time. Here, now I can buy us all some undivided attention. Then we could really get something done.
Saturday, May 10
Unrelated to the creation of a play, a few little fables indicative to this city's theatre community.
Story #1
A theatre asked me to perform my show for their theatre. I said yes. They asked me for extensive information to put into their grants. Then they asked how much I'd charge. When I told them (equity minimum), They said "we don't have any money!" I said, hm, you have a theatre with two venues downtown, a seperate building for administration, sponsorships and grants, which include the grants you're applying for to hire me, you all have a weekly salary with benefits, I'm working for free out of my drippy basement. Think about it. They said okay then. But they won't audition me. I'm good enough to promote them and help them get grants, but apparently not good enough to audition for them.
Story #2
An Artistic Director and Dramatruge were invited to my play (5 stars) and the play in the same space (much less than 5 stars). They came to the other show. In the 30 minute break, I invited them to stay for my show. (They didn't). A few months later, I approached them about remounting my show. The Aristic Director never returned my messages, but the Dramatruge told me, "I really liked the script, but I couldn't visualize it. I would have to see it."
Story #3
I was in a Festival, and told the box office I was having someone video tape. They said fine. I saw the Artistic Director and reitereated this, he said oh yes, he's already been here. However, for some reason, the box office decided not to let the videographer in until the show had started, which was difficult as the show was already in progress when the audience was entering, which the videographer knew, and was the reason he was there early. Even though the backstage was right behind the box office, no one poked their head back to inform me of this "problem". My videographer was seated after the show started in the dark where he couldn't see to set up his equipment, and was told he could only sit in one place, which was behind a pillar. (I wish I was making this up). I had three potential (paying!) jobs that wanted to see segments from this show. All I had to give them was a video of a pillar.
I should let these incidents go, I should not be bitter. But when it happens over and over and over you just get frustrated. These are other artists and other theatres that are treating artists with no respect, dignity, or even politeness, never mind comon sense. If our community can't get it together to be supportive of each other, how can we possibly expect anyone else to support us?
Wednesday, May 7
Well I did it, I hate confrontation that's why i'm writing on the internet to anonymous readers instead of directly giving eye contact to the guy sitting across the table from me. I can be incredibly brave on stage but in person forget it. I hate to hurt people but it just isn't worth it. No one is paying me. I've invested months of my life never mind my brain power why do all this unless I'm having fun unless I'm being inspired and challenged and growing. The good thing and bad thing about working on your own is that you can choose who you want to give input into your art. So I chose. so I made a wrong decision. But at least I was able to change it before it's too late. Like finally breaking up with that boyfriend you knew wasn't right for you but you thought you could make it work. You never can make it work, not in life, not in art. Follow your gut and go there's so little instinct left in us domesticated RRSP's humans that when we do feel something we'd better listen to it. Fuck I feel like I'm breaking up with this anonymous reader. That's weird. I'm just spewing, I'm just trying to articulate all the anger, frustration, millions of fragmented ideas and desires which are swirlling around me and in me into a few words.
Tuesday, May 6
lIt is now a proven fact that if you spend enough hours connected to your computer playing minesweeper and listening to Eminem as loudly as you can bear it inspiration will eventually hit. I should get a grant just for undertaking such labourious research.
Monday, May 5
I was riding my bike downtown at the time of night where all the perfect people step out from their perfect homes to go to perfect clubs to meet other perfect people. I was turning right, well aware that the perfect women crossing the street did not see me. I knew I wouldn't hit them, so I swerved right in front of them. A perfect woman let out a primal shriek that kept me smiling for hours.
She's thinking what an asshole. I'm thinking, I gave you a gift. I gave you a moment of pure uncensored emotion I gave you a moment where you were truly alive. And maybe tonight at that perfect club you'll have something to talk about or you'll drink a little harder or a little less and maybe you'll meet a not so perfect person that will make you happy. That's what I want from my audience, I want to give them one moment that will resonante through their body that will make them a more interesting person because they have had this experience. That's all I want. Is that too much?
Sunday, May 4
Back to the start
I have "accidentally" forgotten to mention to the granting bodies…skip this thought, I have to be diplomatic or I’ll never get my thousand bucks…fuck it, it’s too late for diplomacy. And yes, I am actually going to send it to the granting bodies, profanity and all. They should know what it’s actually like to be a “vital, necessary artist.” They should know that, to quote Tennessee Williams, we’re “disappointed, but not discouraged.” It always amazes me when artists go on and on thanking those who have helped them. It’s the naysayers who fire us up. Every badly written review, condescending artistic director, every rejected grant only makes you more determined to succeed, so you can say, I’m here to stay, deal with it. Those are the people we should thank.
However, I did accidentally forget to mention the grants I decided to mount my yet unfunded script as a Fringe show. So sue me. I’ve got all the bad karma I deserve seeing as I can’t find a space to perform. Can’t find a space worthy enough to drag people’s unmotivated asses out to, and I’m not being condescending here, I wouldn’t go to an unconventional space unless it was interesting, interesting enough to get me off my bed with my grumpy cat wathcing all the words and the noise in my brain boucce off the walls.
What was my point? I’ve been interrupted from this thought for two days now, by: a grumpy IT guy at work who shut down the server rendering me equally grumpy, (12 hours to fill without being able to write! Aagh! That’s why I have this “job”), so I go home, and there's the grumpy cat (you left me alone for 12 hours! Play with me! Let me devour somehting! Rub my belly!). Lying in front of my blurry monitor he lazily stretchs a paw down to gently tap onto the keys when I’m not looking. What was my point? There is no point. There is no beginning. There’s only the point of the story at which you step in.
Thursday, May 1
I have to go back to the start
But fuck beginnings what are they? Who wants to know really, where you’re from? Whenever anyone asks me that, “Where are you from?” I want to scream I’m right here with you right now, what does it matter where I’m from? Does a geographical location really give you any insight into my character?
So all the history I’m gonna give you is that I’m writing a play, and of course I wrote the perquisite grants, and if I do get a grant they want a written write-up of what you learnt blah blah blah how successful were you blah blah blah so they can plug the numbers into their beaurocratic machine and prove that this piece of art was vital, was necessary for the thousand dollars they gave me.
Well I haven’t got the thousand dollars yet, but that's about how I am in debt already, so I thought they want a write up? I’ll give them one whether or not I get my thousand bucks. They want to know what art is vital and necessary? It all is. Some art sucks, some is inspiring, but it’s all necessary. It’s like asking which finger you really need to type with.
If I sound angry it’s because my belly is empty I’ve smoked too many cigarettes listened to Eminem incessantly for going on three weeks now blaring into my head, competing with the noise already in there, the self doubt about my play, the worry that I have no venue and two weeks to find a place. There are no public spaces anymore, not in Toronto anyhow, and certainly none you can get for free. Cause someone wanting to do put a play on in an urban central location was not something the city planners every thought of. They’re too busy keeping smoking out of bars or renaming streets to reflect our politically correct heritage.
I’ve wandered up and down alleys looking into places I’ve sent emails and faxes and phone calls I’ve spent days curled up in bed wishing I had a TV. I’ve spent hours peering into my blurry monitor which is going to die any minute I can’t afford an new one I can’t afford anything I can’t afford lunch. People think “you’re broke” means you are what…down to a few RRSP’s and stocks they don’t understand broke is George Orwell broke, digging through backpacks hoping to find some change. Broke is no dental, wearing the same “disposable” contact lens for months, trying not to cry when the first grant rejection letter comes in.
Oh get a job
Can’t, overqualified, undereducated. It’s frightening. All this passion and will and desire and drive lingering alone in a drippy basement because there’s no one who wants to give a salary for independent thought.
I’m not complaining, I am happy, just like my play. I am Happy even though I’m broke and wandering around Queen Street so stuck into my play all I can see are words in front of me whoops I almost got hit by a car whoops I wonder when I last bathed it’s only words that I see. I know my words are in the wrong order so I print up each section and read them over and over, reshuffling the pages to find the organic flow, tearing out paragraphs and rearranging them, disrupted by the cat who has definite organizational opinions of his own. And it’s still not quite there, not quite right. It’s a puzzle, it’s a ticking time bomb it’s a quandary I love to hate. I love being inside the script so far, I hate being on my own. I want to run through the financial district screaming somebody help me, just one person get off their SUV’d RRSP’d ass and help me…for fuck’s sake, see theatre, send me twenty bucks, advocate the arts, whatever, but help me.
But instead I sit in my drippy basement and turn up the tunes and write into my blurry monitor.
See I have to get a venue because the show is the space, I am not bringing in a set or lights, I’m using the reality of what I have, only I have nothing, so that’s where my script languishes.
I love site specific theatre, and especially outdoor theatre because it means every transition as an actor and as a writer has to be there. There’s no lights up or down, there’s nothing but you, and if you lose a moment, lose a thought, the audience will be gone too. It’s the great part it’s the hard part it’s the maddening part I’m like my cat wandering around restless but unable to articulate actual desires other than let me rip something open let me devour something let me have my belly rubbed. Harder.
If I could go back into time and not go to theatre school I would. I would learn instead how to be a clown, how to dance, how to write a press release, buy a digtial camera. I coulda got a nice camera for the amount I'm still in my student loan debt for. this would have been more helpful than my "education". Finding people who will support you and cherish you and help you, that’s what artists need. Who need s a BA BFA or worse what I have which is a diploma from a school so bad, the school in question won’t even consider my diploma qualifications to teach in the same shitty school.
You can’t teach passion but you sure can hammer it out of someone. Artists don’t need to drag each other down when it’s already so hard to get out of bed, what for you think, more hunger more despair more rejections, that’s a great glamorous life, so why do it? We can’t help it we can’t stop this is it, this is my life. It chose me I can’t do anything else. Abject misery in your art is still better than abject misery in an SUV.
That’s all I’ve got for now. If you’re reading this send twenty bucks, send a good thought, go see a show. Oh fuck it. If you’re reading this, be happy you have a job and a car and dental care and can shop retail enjoy these things because you can. Be happy not me, be happy you’re functional in our urban landscape. But if you have an extra TV or a non blurry monitor,you could send that.
I’m kidding I’m kidding
Kind of.
