Scene: Park bench, somewhere on the Emory University campus. Overcast. Perhaps it’s lunch time.
Characters: Man, Woman
Man sits on park bench with sandwich, apple, bottled water and some back-issue of “Men’s Health.” Woman enters with paperback novel.
Woman: (tossing her paperback angrily at bench) This is about the crappiest day ever.
Man: (while chewing) I’m sorry…are you talking to me?
Woman: (oblivious) I mean, for the love of god, what the hell are they trying to do to us?
Man: (picking up her book, which has fallen through the slats) Sartre? Mmm. That’s a little heavy for pleasure reading, don’t you think? …
Woman: (hands on hips) How long have you worked here?
Man: (amused) You can sit down, you know. Have some water – you’ll feel better.
Woman: How long have you worked here?? How long have you had to endure this??
Man: Look. The Counseling Center is just over there in the…
Woman: Do we not live in a free country? Is this not America? You know…land of the free?
Man: I love it when you get all worked up like this.
Woman: I mean, I could totally use the overtime pay, but there’s no way it’s in the budget.
Man: Maybe they’ll change the budget. Apple?
Woman: (sits, accepting the apple) …and what if… Oh, hell. I hate it here.
Man: (chewing again) I love peanut butter.
Woman: (holding back tears) I just want this to be over.
Man: Hey. I hear they’re letting us leave early today.
Woman: It’s cold in my office.
Man: I swear to god if you don’t stop moping right now I’ll never speak to you again.
Woman: You know what? Let’s blow this popsicle stand. Right now. You with me?
Man: Do I know you?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Normal Heart
Originally written May 13, 2008 following a benefit reading of Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart: So, sure, I hang out in the theater community and there are plenty of reasons why the AIDS quilt and its memories and hopes for survivorship are near and dear to my heart. Last night’s reading was held at The Names Project, where the panels of The Quilt are housed. The reading was done under a tent and instead of tent walls, we were surrounded by quilt panels. Ticketholders had requested panels of their friends/family, plus other random quilt panels. They’re really powerful, if you’ve never seen them in person. A sad but cool statistic: there are so many panels now, there is nowhere on earth that they could again lie flat side-by-side as they did on the Washington Mall over a decade ago.
I still know several people living with AIDS, in various states of health, under various forms of treatment. I have had many friends - and family - die over the years and last night there was one in particular on my mind.
I met Barry in autumn of 1997 when he was both in and musical director of a show I assistant-stage managed. We had an elaborate set, lots of levels, one of the staircases high above the stage near the steel beams of the building. Barry clocked himself on one during a dress rehearsal and caught a sharp edge. We were in the middle of a number and I was the only one who saw him hit and go down. I went running upstairs. He was conscious, and immediately told me to back off. I was like, “Dude, you're bleeding.” He kept insisting that I back off and not come back unless I found rubber gloves. All at once I was like, “OH.” I found gloves + an ice pack and came back. I sat there cradling him with the ice pack to his head and he kept saying over and over and over, “please don’t...please don’t...” I didn’t think the cut was very deep, but I wanted him to go to the emergency room. Rehearsal was about done, and our lead actress took him. They were good friends and she knew what was up. Barry taught high school drama so had insurance and all, and thankfully didn’t need stitches. Just a slight concussion, so incredibly lucky.
We worked together twice more -- in spring 2000 and fall 2001. By the time fall of 2001 rolled around, it was becoming clear that Barry wasn’t well. I remember distinctly sitting out behind the theater late one night over cigarettes & beers talking with my friend Brit that this might be Barry’s last show.
In fall of 2002, we began rehearsals for another musical. Music rehearsals preceded acting rehearsals, at Barry’s home. He asked me, as his stage manager, to come a full hour earlier than the actors, so I did. He sat me down and explained that he was going to do his darndest, but needed my help. He was physically very weak and his memory was going -- fast. He wanted to tell everyone personally what was going on -- he had no choice anymore, and if I’d be his eyes & ears and memory...well, of course I could do that. I’m that anyway in any production, whether my director/music director is 100% healthy or not. I learned his medication schedule, doctors numbers, eating habits, warning signs...I kept him hydrated and fed...it was a grueling rehearsal process for him, and not three weeks in, he couldn’t take it anymore. We had to replace him with another music director and Barry went to the hospital. Most of our cast & crew didn’t get a lot of sleep for the remainder of rehearsal, because when we weren’t rehearsing, we were taking turns at the hospital. We had to follow universal precautions: booties, gowns, long gloves, masks, caps, goggles...we looked like astronauts.
I’ve never seen anything so awful up close. Morphine kept him out of pain, for the most part, but he was writhing almost constantly and making the most gutteral noises...not a lot of coherent english, but sometimes he’d have moments of clarity. He was gaunt, covered in lesions and attached to dozens of tubes, also restrained to the bed, because what strength he had manifested itself in great surges and stretches. You just wanted to touch him, rub his leg or his arm, and get him to calm down...but we weren't allowed to. By that time his brain was pretty much shot, and the constant stroking motion, we were told, registered badly instead of soothingly. So, to touch him at all meant a firm grip, and don’t move. Letting him know you were there was OK, but all you could do was hold on.
The doctors and nurses were kind enough to allow us 24/7 visitation, family or not. His family did come, thankfully -- a lot of people are abandoned when this disease arrives. There are a lot of hours in a day, so there were hours at a time sometimes when we’d just be there in groups of two or three, but often times solo for an hour or so. I had plenty of conversations with him (with myself, really, but out loud) and plenty of time for me to tell him -- and I did -- how absolutely furious I was. The disease is 100% preventable. It’s not like you go out and ask for it, but damn it, why in god’s name didn't he protect himself. Who knows when he got it or how he got it or who from...it could have been dormant for years, so maybe he contracted it before we knew to protect ourselves. It’s an awful feeling, feeling so damned sorry and so damned angry all at the same time. You poor, poor man...you rat bastard.
I got the call the morning of our tech rehearsal (the weekend before opening) that Barry died. One of the hardest bits of news to tell a group of people, let me tell you. We didn’t get a lot of work done that day -- and even thought about postponing the show to give everyone time to grieve, but we got through it. We dedicated the show to him. His memorial was amazingly bright...all his friends sang and several people spoke, lots of people from out of town he had worked with over the years, and some of his students were there...it was pretty great.
A quilt panel was made last night to commemorate the evening, and anyone could sign it. I don’t know if he already has a panel of his own -- I can’t imagine some of his closer friends didn’t make one -- but I signed a memorial to him, lit a candle, and felt a little better. He’s surely happier now than he was those last few weeks. He’s singing for sure, wherever he may be.
I still know several people living with AIDS, in various states of health, under various forms of treatment. I have had many friends - and family - die over the years and last night there was one in particular on my mind.
I met Barry in autumn of 1997 when he was both in and musical director of a show I assistant-stage managed. We had an elaborate set, lots of levels, one of the staircases high above the stage near the steel beams of the building. Barry clocked himself on one during a dress rehearsal and caught a sharp edge. We were in the middle of a number and I was the only one who saw him hit and go down. I went running upstairs. He was conscious, and immediately told me to back off. I was like, “Dude, you're bleeding.” He kept insisting that I back off and not come back unless I found rubber gloves. All at once I was like, “OH.” I found gloves + an ice pack and came back. I sat there cradling him with the ice pack to his head and he kept saying over and over and over, “please don’t...please don’t...” I didn’t think the cut was very deep, but I wanted him to go to the emergency room. Rehearsal was about done, and our lead actress took him. They were good friends and she knew what was up. Barry taught high school drama so had insurance and all, and thankfully didn’t need stitches. Just a slight concussion, so incredibly lucky.
We worked together twice more -- in spring 2000 and fall 2001. By the time fall of 2001 rolled around, it was becoming clear that Barry wasn’t well. I remember distinctly sitting out behind the theater late one night over cigarettes & beers talking with my friend Brit that this might be Barry’s last show.
In fall of 2002, we began rehearsals for another musical. Music rehearsals preceded acting rehearsals, at Barry’s home. He asked me, as his stage manager, to come a full hour earlier than the actors, so I did. He sat me down and explained that he was going to do his darndest, but needed my help. He was physically very weak and his memory was going -- fast. He wanted to tell everyone personally what was going on -- he had no choice anymore, and if I’d be his eyes & ears and memory...well, of course I could do that. I’m that anyway in any production, whether my director/music director is 100% healthy or not. I learned his medication schedule, doctors numbers, eating habits, warning signs...I kept him hydrated and fed...it was a grueling rehearsal process for him, and not three weeks in, he couldn’t take it anymore. We had to replace him with another music director and Barry went to the hospital. Most of our cast & crew didn’t get a lot of sleep for the remainder of rehearsal, because when we weren’t rehearsing, we were taking turns at the hospital. We had to follow universal precautions: booties, gowns, long gloves, masks, caps, goggles...we looked like astronauts.
I’ve never seen anything so awful up close. Morphine kept him out of pain, for the most part, but he was writhing almost constantly and making the most gutteral noises...not a lot of coherent english, but sometimes he’d have moments of clarity. He was gaunt, covered in lesions and attached to dozens of tubes, also restrained to the bed, because what strength he had manifested itself in great surges and stretches. You just wanted to touch him, rub his leg or his arm, and get him to calm down...but we weren't allowed to. By that time his brain was pretty much shot, and the constant stroking motion, we were told, registered badly instead of soothingly. So, to touch him at all meant a firm grip, and don’t move. Letting him know you were there was OK, but all you could do was hold on.
The doctors and nurses were kind enough to allow us 24/7 visitation, family or not. His family did come, thankfully -- a lot of people are abandoned when this disease arrives. There are a lot of hours in a day, so there were hours at a time sometimes when we’d just be there in groups of two or three, but often times solo for an hour or so. I had plenty of conversations with him (with myself, really, but out loud) and plenty of time for me to tell him -- and I did -- how absolutely furious I was. The disease is 100% preventable. It’s not like you go out and ask for it, but damn it, why in god’s name didn't he protect himself. Who knows when he got it or how he got it or who from...it could have been dormant for years, so maybe he contracted it before we knew to protect ourselves. It’s an awful feeling, feeling so damned sorry and so damned angry all at the same time. You poor, poor man...you rat bastard.
I got the call the morning of our tech rehearsal (the weekend before opening) that Barry died. One of the hardest bits of news to tell a group of people, let me tell you. We didn’t get a lot of work done that day -- and even thought about postponing the show to give everyone time to grieve, but we got through it. We dedicated the show to him. His memorial was amazingly bright...all his friends sang and several people spoke, lots of people from out of town he had worked with over the years, and some of his students were there...it was pretty great.
A quilt panel was made last night to commemorate the evening, and anyone could sign it. I don’t know if he already has a panel of his own -- I can’t imagine some of his closer friends didn’t make one -- but I signed a memorial to him, lit a candle, and felt a little better. He’s surely happier now than he was those last few weeks. He’s singing for sure, wherever he may be.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Stranger in Paradise
The sidewalks were crowded. I had never seen so many people. I couldn't remember what time of year it was. Where were they all going? They appeared to be comfortable, dressed in shorts, tank tops and sundresses, but I couldn't figure out why, because I was quite chilly. None of them would look at me. Well, they did, but quickly looked away and kept walking. A few of them stared, just long enough to laugh as they passed by. I didn't know what was so funny; I was just an old lady looking for a friendly face.
I thought I could find some warmth indoors. I turned around to face the wall behind me. It wasn't a real wall; it was a windowed wall with a door. I pushed the door open and heart cowbells clanging. I stepped back to avoid the stampede, but the bells were attached to the door. I walked inside and found a world full of color and light. There were no white tile floors like home; there were no dirty moss green carpets or curtains like there were at home. These colors were bright and cheerful and full of life – not like home.
I wandered along rows and rows of beautiful patterns. I couldn't resist touching them. My hands glided across the corduroy, satin and velvet textures. I pulled a purple-sequined cloth around my head and neck. I thought for just a moment that I was a gypsy. I imagined myself with big gold hoops in my ears as I whirled among the patterns – paisley, stripes, dots and plaids, multi-colored, multi-shaped beads and bows, feathers and glitter. I threw a gold-beaded wrap over my shoulder, dashed giddy, free and young-at-heart – a gypsy dancing madly in a wooded glade. This amazing place – this playland – made me happier than I had been in years.
"Can I help you?" a young lady said. I turned around quickly, startled by her question.
"Oh, I'm looking for a mirror. Does this place have one?"
"Yes, of course. Are you all right?" she asked me.
"Fine. I'm much warmer now," I answered.
"You must be," the young lady smiled, "Your dress is unbuttoned, you know."
"It is?" I stared at her. She led me to a mirror to prove it to me. I slowly stripped away my gypsy costume – I didn't look as much like one as I thought after all. Now I knew why all those people had laughed at me. I saw my reflection. An old lady, pale and worn, the glitter streaked through her grey hair. My dress, the blue and white pinstripe, beltless, with the entire front gaping open. My mouth hung open, too. "You'll catch flies," my mother used to say.
I remembered how I got there. I remembered leaving home. I had wanted a breath of fresh air. I just wanted to take a walk by myself. I just wanted to be free.
"Mrs. Drennan!" a voice called, "There you are!" It was Emily. She had come to rescue me.
Emily grabbed my hand. "Mrs. Drennan, you had us very worried. You are not to run away ever again!" she said.
"I didn't run away! I didn't!" I scanned her face, hoping for a smile. I didn't think I had run away.
"Well, thank goodness you're not hurt. Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"It's time to go home," Emily said quietly.
"Oh, no! I don't want to go home. It's lovely here. See? Don't you see the colors and prints? This is a wonderful place I've found." I couldn't believe she was taking me back. I had found a haven – a paradise. She was going to take me back to all those strange people and strange things. To me, whatever this place was, it wasn't as strange as home.
Back home. I wondered how I ever ended up there. Some of the strange people screamed, some of them stared at you, but most of them just sat there, lifeless. They scared me. I didn't want to be like them. I didn't want to forget what the outside world was like. I didn't want to forget this place. I didn't want to forget…
"It's nearly lunchtime, Mrs. Drennan. Here, let me help you with your dress," Emily said.
She buttoned my dress and led me out of the store. I cried silently; I looked as stupid as I felt. I was a silly old lady – the kind back at home – the kind I feared. I wanted to go back into the beautiful place I had left. I wanted to be a gypsy again, but knew I could not.
I thought I could find some warmth indoors. I turned around to face the wall behind me. It wasn't a real wall; it was a windowed wall with a door. I pushed the door open and heart cowbells clanging. I stepped back to avoid the stampede, but the bells were attached to the door. I walked inside and found a world full of color and light. There were no white tile floors like home; there were no dirty moss green carpets or curtains like there were at home. These colors were bright and cheerful and full of life – not like home.
I wandered along rows and rows of beautiful patterns. I couldn't resist touching them. My hands glided across the corduroy, satin and velvet textures. I pulled a purple-sequined cloth around my head and neck. I thought for just a moment that I was a gypsy. I imagined myself with big gold hoops in my ears as I whirled among the patterns – paisley, stripes, dots and plaids, multi-colored, multi-shaped beads and bows, feathers and glitter. I threw a gold-beaded wrap over my shoulder, dashed giddy, free and young-at-heart – a gypsy dancing madly in a wooded glade. This amazing place – this playland – made me happier than I had been in years.
"Can I help you?" a young lady said. I turned around quickly, startled by her question.
"Oh, I'm looking for a mirror. Does this place have one?"
"Yes, of course. Are you all right?" she asked me.
"Fine. I'm much warmer now," I answered.
"You must be," the young lady smiled, "Your dress is unbuttoned, you know."
"It is?" I stared at her. She led me to a mirror to prove it to me. I slowly stripped away my gypsy costume – I didn't look as much like one as I thought after all. Now I knew why all those people had laughed at me. I saw my reflection. An old lady, pale and worn, the glitter streaked through her grey hair. My dress, the blue and white pinstripe, beltless, with the entire front gaping open. My mouth hung open, too. "You'll catch flies," my mother used to say.
I remembered how I got there. I remembered leaving home. I had wanted a breath of fresh air. I just wanted to take a walk by myself. I just wanted to be free.
"Mrs. Drennan!" a voice called, "There you are!" It was Emily. She had come to rescue me.
Emily grabbed my hand. "Mrs. Drennan, you had us very worried. You are not to run away ever again!" she said.
"I didn't run away! I didn't!" I scanned her face, hoping for a smile. I didn't think I had run away.
"Well, thank goodness you're not hurt. Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"It's time to go home," Emily said quietly.
"Oh, no! I don't want to go home. It's lovely here. See? Don't you see the colors and prints? This is a wonderful place I've found." I couldn't believe she was taking me back. I had found a haven – a paradise. She was going to take me back to all those strange people and strange things. To me, whatever this place was, it wasn't as strange as home.
Back home. I wondered how I ever ended up there. Some of the strange people screamed, some of them stared at you, but most of them just sat there, lifeless. They scared me. I didn't want to be like them. I didn't want to forget what the outside world was like. I didn't want to forget this place. I didn't want to forget…
"It's nearly lunchtime, Mrs. Drennan. Here, let me help you with your dress," Emily said.
She buttoned my dress and led me out of the store. I cried silently; I looked as stupid as I felt. I was a silly old lady – the kind back at home – the kind I feared. I wanted to go back into the beautiful place I had left. I wanted to be a gypsy again, but knew I could not.
Friday, April 17, 2009
How Dare You
Why Blog if you can't stand the blogs of most others? The urge to write. Most Blogs aren't blogs at all...blog is short, I'm told, for Web Log. "Captain's Log, Stardate Whateverthehell..." is an audio diary. It's a diary, people. It informs you about what's going on of a day. Diaries are to share your thoughts...but really, who but you or the closest to you are ever expected to read it? I don't want to know your most intimate thoughts, though! Who the heck does?? Don't you dare tell me that blogging like that is to keep your family informed about your life in an accessible way -- I seriously doubt you ever shared your high school diary with your mom, so don't do so decades later.
Blogs I Hate: Today I woke up cursing the sky because my period started. Walked my very expensive, highly bred dog while eating a bran muffin because sometimes I have bowel issues. Put on my Chanel suit and drove to the office in my 2010 BMW, stopping by Starbucks for a triple latte and a quick visit to the ATM where I withdrew $500 because I plan to get wasted this weekend and that's expensive. My job sucks and I'm better than this and my boss is a total chode. My nose is running. I love my boyfriend -- he's superawesome and does me regularly in crazy ways that I'll discuss in full detail later, just you wait. My nieces and nephews are the brightest, funniest children in the world and you'll hear all about them, too. I hate my dad because he beat me relentlessly as a child and I hate my mom because she let him. I'm going to pour my issues out in front of you, though I pay my analyst thousands of dollars a year for the same privilege. Et cetera.
Blogs I Enjoy: Hello, world. Here is what I think about [random thing]. I'm not here to convince you of anything, I'm not here to argue with you. I think I convey my ideas well, and hope you do, too, whether you agree or disagree. Please enjoy.
So, dear reader, whomever you may be...this I vow: I may bitch about my job, I may bitch about my life, but if you're expecting superpersonal things, this ain't the place. Writing is cathartic, in general, and for me personally. Stay tuned.
Blogs I Hate: Today I woke up cursing the sky because my period started. Walked my very expensive, highly bred dog while eating a bran muffin because sometimes I have bowel issues. Put on my Chanel suit and drove to the office in my 2010 BMW, stopping by Starbucks for a triple latte and a quick visit to the ATM where I withdrew $500 because I plan to get wasted this weekend and that's expensive. My job sucks and I'm better than this and my boss is a total chode. My nose is running. I love my boyfriend -- he's superawesome and does me regularly in crazy ways that I'll discuss in full detail later, just you wait. My nieces and nephews are the brightest, funniest children in the world and you'll hear all about them, too. I hate my dad because he beat me relentlessly as a child and I hate my mom because she let him. I'm going to pour my issues out in front of you, though I pay my analyst thousands of dollars a year for the same privilege. Et cetera.
Blogs I Enjoy: Hello, world. Here is what I think about [random thing]. I'm not here to convince you of anything, I'm not here to argue with you. I think I convey my ideas well, and hope you do, too, whether you agree or disagree. Please enjoy.
So, dear reader, whomever you may be...this I vow: I may bitch about my job, I may bitch about my life, but if you're expecting superpersonal things, this ain't the place. Writing is cathartic, in general, and for me personally. Stay tuned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)