It's incredible how frustrated this reading made me. It not only seems that the thought process portrayed in educating me to the ideals of these skeptics is mundane and repetitious because there really is no true supporting idea in the matter; but also, these individuals are simply trying too hard to try and make a point that film is not art.
Art is, and watch out because this is a really simple answer, something brought purposely into existence for the purpose of evoking thought and/or emotion. Even the worst work of art causes one to think "I don't like this. I hate this. This sucks." It evokes thought, maybe not very deep, but there nonetheless. There are many forms of art that just are, and must be respected as such. Such is the way with most absurd plays. The piece may not have a story to tell, or really any form of purpose; however, it exists, and you can do with it what you will. Ignore it (which is a choice one must think to make) or delve into it and try and find meaning.
Films are so carefully crafted by such a large group of people it astounds me that anyone can say that the end result is not a piece of art. How many ideals came together to create this one vision? The camera (as a machine) is the tool used to capture this work and show it to an audience in order to evoke thought and/or emotion. The dramatic occurrence happening before the lens does not cause any one to ponder it's meaning because the only individuals aware of its existence are the ones that helped create it. It is not until the scene is put to film and show to those who had not be a part of its creation that it means anything, and in that moment it becomes art.
Art is created purposefully, and everything that occurs before the lens is mended with time and care so that when the camera is to record it takes in what it was meant to take in. Mistakes are bound to occur, but art is not perfect. There is no such thing as "perfect" art, not simply because that's extremely subjective, but because in no way is art ever defined with that word in mind. "Art is a perfect..." never comes to mind. Art is always described by what it represents, is supposed to mean, etc.
Does a copy of the work that still represents and causes thought or emotion lose its value as a work of art? Taking paintings and making copies for the rest of the world to have doesn't change the idea of the work, though it is no longer the original work. But is art defined by the value of the work or what it evokes?
This is my argument, and it's fairly weak by any standards. But as an actor I'm so emotionally connected to the idea of art and what it is as a performer.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saying Goodbye to Mr. Zero
It's a strange thing for an actor, to leave behind a grand production. It's a difficult thought in regards to the many hours contributed to creating and performing a theatrical work, and to the countless moments between friends, family, or even one's self that had to be passed on because of the commitment made to the art.
In high school, theater was everything. It was a home away from home where everyone loved and experienced in ways that no other groups or individuals in the school could. We were better people then all of them, because we saw into the hearts and souls of that which no "normal" person could ever hope to. My high school theater experience did no less but define me completely and utterly as I am today. The relationships created, experienced, lost, forgotten, or destroyed in those three years will be carried within the depth of my heart for an eternity. The moments shared on that stage or in that black box theater will forever cause an ache in my heart at their very remembrance. The roles I played and the direction I was given not only crafted my skills and abilities to become the actor I am today but helped shape and mold the individual I have come to be. Every character one creates lives on in one's self long after the show is over. It's impossible to let them go, because they are a piece of you; therefore, pieces of them must remain and create who you are.
It's funny how often I question how much of me is actually one hundred percent original Trysten Cain. As I've performed roles, and moved on from productions, I have always had physical, emotional, or mental attributes of characters linger on into the crafting of the next one. And these characters were formed from original ideas as well as borrowed attributes from the world around me. If this is what makes up who I am, there's not really any of me that's truly just me.
And at the end of each show, it was not uncommon for most individuals in the cast to be emotional. Usually it was simply the fact that the show was over, the fun was finished, and the experience had come to an end. Rituals were shared and torches were passed literally or metaphorically within the structure of the theater. As the years have progressed, and productions have been had outside of high school, the end of a production has become less traumatic as it had been before. Reaching the point of becoming a professional actor, and starting a career, one simply comes to the realization that this project is finished and it's time to move on to the next one. No tears or rituals or big deals. Shakes hands and hug the ones you've shared this work with, and feel proud of what you've accomplished. Some of these people you'll be fortunate enough to see or work with again, and others will be completely forgotten. Such is the way.
Through my college career thus far, I had not been quite blessed with such an opportunity as The Adding Machine has given. My resume on the campus stood as small, wacky, supporting characters amongst grand worlds and giant roles. I've participated in Shakespeare and Restoration pieces, classical works that I personally am not quite attracted to. When this show came about, it was certain that this role was mine to lose. I heard this from my ever supportive friends, and I felt this in the depths of my soul. This was my chance to show everyone what I was capable of. This was my chance to really create something I'd never had the chance to before.
I can say, without a doubt, that Mr. Zero is the masterpiece of my repertoire thus far. Never have I had a role so demanding on so many levels as I had here. The physical work was like none I'd done before, with hunched postures and deep, brooding vocal work. The memorization was great, though memorizing has never been an issue for me on any level. The simple fact, however, that all these things were on my shoulders for the world to see for two straight hours was a challenge. The show was carried on my back with phenomenal supporting characters there to help me along the way.
I am an actor known for his subtle and honest acting. My strength is bringing a scene to the stage that seems as normal as a conversation in real life. I usually am Trysten Cain Playing Such and Such. It's obvious it's me, but I'm someone else. This was the first time I really took the leap to create a total character and leave Trysten Cain behind. My fault in this program has always been I was too scared to take chances. I never just "went for it" or made strong, passionate choices. I played it safe, never wanting to seem "too big." This is something I've worked strictly on with teachers, directors, and faculty in general. This is the culmination of all that hard work. I think I achieved something I never could have before.
What an achievement that is for me. This is yet another defining moment in my life, personally and as an artist. And what a thing it is, to know that I will not get to share this particular story or character again; at least, not under these circumstances. The run of the show is over, just as I was getting used to the idea of going on a full run as this character with these people. I came to love the cast and crew like any other show, but I truly came to love these individuals within the world of this play. I have spent so much time in the mind and heart of Mr. Zero that I look at the actress playing Daisy, and my heart truly glows with a love for that woman. I spent two hours every night for the past two weeks going through the life and afterlife of Mr. Zero. I shed my life away and existed as another being, going through the things they go through. Thinking their thoughts and feeling their emotions, desires, and pains. Every night I lived the life of Mr. Zero, and I died as Mr. Zero. And that is not a light ideal.
One of the reasons I do what I do is because my life is simply not exciting enough to live through every second of every day. It can be extremely boring and mundane, luckily with many chances here and there to escape to another world through music, film, or text. I am an actor because I crave the opportunity to escape from this world and be someone else. I want to experience things I can't or won't ever experience in this life. I want to take chances and risks that are far too dangerous to do in reality. The highlight of my day is knowing that at some point I get to live as another person for even a few moments.
With that in mind, and the knowledge that this show is over - I find myself lost once again. It's been a mere several hours since the closing of this run so I've yet to get back to the cycle of work and classes and the normal things that I do; however, for the moment my heart is heavy. I am not shedding tears, though there's a knot in the back of my throat, and my heart does ache deep down. I already miss it. All of it. I no longer have it to look forward to each day. As odd as it sounds, I am lost without a life to live beyond my own.
I act because it's my passion. My love. The only thing I can truly do right in this world. I do it to entertain people. To provoke thought in others. And selfishly, to escape.
I am truly blessed to have such a talent and ability to do such a thing as this. And I am even further blessed to have such an incredible amount of support from friends and family who love me and love what I do. I cannot truly share my appreciation for all those audience members who decided (or perhaps were forced in a few cases) to share all of this with me. I do this for you as much as I do it for me. What I do is meaningless without your eyes, minds, and hearts to take it in.
Thank you. All of you.
In high school, theater was everything. It was a home away from home where everyone loved and experienced in ways that no other groups or individuals in the school could. We were better people then all of them, because we saw into the hearts and souls of that which no "normal" person could ever hope to. My high school theater experience did no less but define me completely and utterly as I am today. The relationships created, experienced, lost, forgotten, or destroyed in those three years will be carried within the depth of my heart for an eternity. The moments shared on that stage or in that black box theater will forever cause an ache in my heart at their very remembrance. The roles I played and the direction I was given not only crafted my skills and abilities to become the actor I am today but helped shape and mold the individual I have come to be. Every character one creates lives on in one's self long after the show is over. It's impossible to let them go, because they are a piece of you; therefore, pieces of them must remain and create who you are.
It's funny how often I question how much of me is actually one hundred percent original Trysten Cain. As I've performed roles, and moved on from productions, I have always had physical, emotional, or mental attributes of characters linger on into the crafting of the next one. And these characters were formed from original ideas as well as borrowed attributes from the world around me. If this is what makes up who I am, there's not really any of me that's truly just me.
And at the end of each show, it was not uncommon for most individuals in the cast to be emotional. Usually it was simply the fact that the show was over, the fun was finished, and the experience had come to an end. Rituals were shared and torches were passed literally or metaphorically within the structure of the theater. As the years have progressed, and productions have been had outside of high school, the end of a production has become less traumatic as it had been before. Reaching the point of becoming a professional actor, and starting a career, one simply comes to the realization that this project is finished and it's time to move on to the next one. No tears or rituals or big deals. Shakes hands and hug the ones you've shared this work with, and feel proud of what you've accomplished. Some of these people you'll be fortunate enough to see or work with again, and others will be completely forgotten. Such is the way.
Through my college career thus far, I had not been quite blessed with such an opportunity as The Adding Machine has given. My resume on the campus stood as small, wacky, supporting characters amongst grand worlds and giant roles. I've participated in Shakespeare and Restoration pieces, classical works that I personally am not quite attracted to. When this show came about, it was certain that this role was mine to lose. I heard this from my ever supportive friends, and I felt this in the depths of my soul. This was my chance to show everyone what I was capable of. This was my chance to really create something I'd never had the chance to before.
I can say, without a doubt, that Mr. Zero is the masterpiece of my repertoire thus far. Never have I had a role so demanding on so many levels as I had here. The physical work was like none I'd done before, with hunched postures and deep, brooding vocal work. The memorization was great, though memorizing has never been an issue for me on any level. The simple fact, however, that all these things were on my shoulders for the world to see for two straight hours was a challenge. The show was carried on my back with phenomenal supporting characters there to help me along the way.
I am an actor known for his subtle and honest acting. My strength is bringing a scene to the stage that seems as normal as a conversation in real life. I usually am Trysten Cain Playing Such and Such. It's obvious it's me, but I'm someone else. This was the first time I really took the leap to create a total character and leave Trysten Cain behind. My fault in this program has always been I was too scared to take chances. I never just "went for it" or made strong, passionate choices. I played it safe, never wanting to seem "too big." This is something I've worked strictly on with teachers, directors, and faculty in general. This is the culmination of all that hard work. I think I achieved something I never could have before.
What an achievement that is for me. This is yet another defining moment in my life, personally and as an artist. And what a thing it is, to know that I will not get to share this particular story or character again; at least, not under these circumstances. The run of the show is over, just as I was getting used to the idea of going on a full run as this character with these people. I came to love the cast and crew like any other show, but I truly came to love these individuals within the world of this play. I have spent so much time in the mind and heart of Mr. Zero that I look at the actress playing Daisy, and my heart truly glows with a love for that woman. I spent two hours every night for the past two weeks going through the life and afterlife of Mr. Zero. I shed my life away and existed as another being, going through the things they go through. Thinking their thoughts and feeling their emotions, desires, and pains. Every night I lived the life of Mr. Zero, and I died as Mr. Zero. And that is not a light ideal.
One of the reasons I do what I do is because my life is simply not exciting enough to live through every second of every day. It can be extremely boring and mundane, luckily with many chances here and there to escape to another world through music, film, or text. I am an actor because I crave the opportunity to escape from this world and be someone else. I want to experience things I can't or won't ever experience in this life. I want to take chances and risks that are far too dangerous to do in reality. The highlight of my day is knowing that at some point I get to live as another person for even a few moments.
With that in mind, and the knowledge that this show is over - I find myself lost once again. It's been a mere several hours since the closing of this run so I've yet to get back to the cycle of work and classes and the normal things that I do; however, for the moment my heart is heavy. I am not shedding tears, though there's a knot in the back of my throat, and my heart does ache deep down. I already miss it. All of it. I no longer have it to look forward to each day. As odd as it sounds, I am lost without a life to live beyond my own.
I act because it's my passion. My love. The only thing I can truly do right in this world. I do it to entertain people. To provoke thought in others. And selfishly, to escape.
I am truly blessed to have such a talent and ability to do such a thing as this. And I am even further blessed to have such an incredible amount of support from friends and family who love me and love what I do. I cannot truly share my appreciation for all those audience members who decided (or perhaps were forced in a few cases) to share all of this with me. I do this for you as much as I do it for me. What I do is meaningless without your eyes, minds, and hearts to take it in.
Thank you. All of you.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Th3 Add1ng Mach1n3
Seeing as how I'm not entirely able to give a review on UNC's production of Elmer Rice's "The Adding Machine", at least not without severe bias, I figure I'd simply post the review given by the Greeley Tribune's Bryan VanDrie.
REVIEW: 'Adding Machine' cast, crew up to the challenge - are you?
The University of Northern Colorado’s Theatre Department opened the second half of its academic season Thursday night with Elmer Rice’s “The Adding Machine.”
The creativity demonstrated in this production sums up, in a nutshell, why this is the best theater program in the region. The vision and imagination demonstrated by the artistic team has to be seen to be appreciated.
Unfortunately, many who see it will not appreciate the show.
This unusual play is the story of a man who has the most dreary life imaginable. He has worked for 25 years as an accountant, only to go home every night to his hag-nag of a wife. When he snaps, and kills his boss in an uncharacteristic moment of anger, you might think his life will be changed forever. In fact, his life barely changes at all, only the setting of his existence.
Director Harrison Butler is brilliant in guiding the cast through this difficult material. Rice certainly doesn’t make it easy on them: The first half of the show features far more monologue than dialogue, and it would be easy to let your mind wander. Yet there is so much imaginative subtext and inventiveness to this production, you never drift away. Some of the unusual aspects of this show include the original music, composed by Aaron Liu-Rosenbaum, the brilliantly haunting onstage cello performance by Gal Faganel, the heavy blanket of fog throughout the show, and the masked chorus.
The technical staff pulled out all of the stops on this production, and it all works extremely well. Zak Keller’s constantly moving, droning set is brilliant, adding an amazing level of complexity to the show. Brian Hapcic’s lighting, complete with perfectly effective projections, is the best we’ve seen around here in a long time, a rare combination of artistically beautiful, always interesting and completely effective. Chris Lundahl’s sound is simplistic and flawless, which is also a perfect way to describe Aaron Sheckler’s costumes.
The only real drawback to this production is the story itself. It’s not a very pleasant story to watch unfold, and this is not a show for everyone. While it is a fascinating study of the human condition, it is an expressionist drama, at times bordering on the absurd. It is not appropriate for children, not so much for content as for the focus required to watch. Nevertheless, it is intriguing to think of this show about the industrial revolution’s impact on society being as relevant today as when it was written in 1923.
If you want a straightforward, easy-to-watch play, “The Adding Machine” is not for you. But if you are up to the challenge of a highly unusual, thought-provoking, intellectually stimulating and challenging evening at the theater, this is a show you should consider.
Bryan VanDriel lives in Greeley and has been active in the arts for over 30 years. He can be reached at bvandriel@aol.com.
REVIEW: 'Adding Machine' cast, crew up to the challenge - are you?
The University of Northern Colorado’s Theatre Department opened the second half of its academic season Thursday night with Elmer Rice’s “The Adding Machine.”
The creativity demonstrated in this production sums up, in a nutshell, why this is the best theater program in the region. The vision and imagination demonstrated by the artistic team has to be seen to be appreciated.
Unfortunately, many who see it will not appreciate the show.
This unusual play is the story of a man who has the most dreary life imaginable. He has worked for 25 years as an accountant, only to go home every night to his hag-nag of a wife. When he snaps, and kills his boss in an uncharacteristic moment of anger, you might think his life will be changed forever. In fact, his life barely changes at all, only the setting of his existence.
Director Harrison Butler is brilliant in guiding the cast through this difficult material. Rice certainly doesn’t make it easy on them: The first half of the show features far more monologue than dialogue, and it would be easy to let your mind wander. Yet there is so much imaginative subtext and inventiveness to this production, you never drift away. Some of the unusual aspects of this show include the original music, composed by Aaron Liu-Rosenbaum, the brilliantly haunting onstage cello performance by Gal Faganel, the heavy blanket of fog throughout the show, and the masked chorus.
The technical staff pulled out all of the stops on this production, and it all works extremely well. Zak Keller’s constantly moving, droning set is brilliant, adding an amazing level of complexity to the show. Brian Hapcic’s lighting, complete with perfectly effective projections, is the best we’ve seen around here in a long time, a rare combination of artistically beautiful, always interesting and completely effective. Chris Lundahl’s sound is simplistic and flawless, which is also a perfect way to describe Aaron Sheckler’s costumes.
The only real drawback to this production is the story itself. It’s not a very pleasant story to watch unfold, and this is not a show for everyone. While it is a fascinating study of the human condition, it is an expressionist drama, at times bordering on the absurd. It is not appropriate for children, not so much for content as for the focus required to watch. Nevertheless, it is intriguing to think of this show about the industrial revolution’s impact on society being as relevant today as when it was written in 1923.
If you want a straightforward, easy-to-watch play, “The Adding Machine” is not for you. But if you are up to the challenge of a highly unusual, thought-provoking, intellectually stimulating and challenging evening at the theater, this is a show you should consider.
Bryan VanDriel lives in Greeley and has been active in the arts for over 30 years. He can be reached at bvandriel@aol.com.
Friday, February 11, 2011
A Cry in the Distance
Glass crashed across the walls and to the floor. Boxes and cans fell off their shelves and spread their innards across the granite tile. Furniture was toppled over and red fell and soiled sleeves. Drunken breath shoved frightened eyes into dark corners and wild hands beat black and blue upon fair skin.
It was a usual Saturday night at the edge of the friendly cul-de-sac. Quiet, except for the soft sound of cars passing in the background. Soft rain fell from comfortable clouds that hung drearily in the darkened sky. Pleasant. Calm. Lovely. No one heard the cry in the distance.
Heavy boots stomped clumsily up stairs trailing angry swears. She kept to the ground for fear of his return. Half an hour passed before she picked herself up and washed her face in the sink. Tinted water swirled down the drain. Tears slowly rolled down bruised cheeks. She brought herself to the couch and fell to sleep with much difficulty.
Expletives were her alarm to open her cloudy eyes. He was cursing through the kitchen searching for Advil amongst the mess. “Why hasn’t this been cleaned up yet?” She slowly rolled off the couch and peddled softly into the doorway. He turned and saw her puffy face, analyzing it for a moment before continuing his search. “Where the hell’s the Advil?”
She sighed and walked towards a cupboard above the sink, retrieving a small bottle from the bottom shelf. She smacked it against the counter and quietly walked upstairs to take a shower. The hot water stung at first as it flowed down her face, but began to sooth after a few minutes. She didn’t step out for another half an hour.
He had gone to work by the time she was getting dressed. She went throughout the house and tidied things here and there. After a couple hours of cleaning and organizing she sat down in the recliner and shut her eyes. She let her thoughts wonder for awhile before coming back to reality.
Her cell phone was buried deep within her purse. She fished for it, shoving cards and wrappers and papers and accessories to the sides. Through her contact list she found MILLY, a friend she’d has since high school. The phone rang on the other end as she leaned on the kitchen counter with her cell pressed firmly against her ear. The ringing stopped for a moment, silence, and then a click. “Hello darling.”
She talked with Milly for nearly two hours, pacing about the house. She caught up with her old friend for the past few months they hadn’t spoken. They laughed and shared gossip and talked about the things that people talk about. Before the conversation’s end, she had to tell her secret of her husband’s inebriated abuse. Milly was stunned, and begged her to come stay with her, or anywhere but where he would be able to hurt her.
She explained how if she left him, he’d find and kill her. If she tried to divorce him, he’d kill her. If she tried anything at all, he’d kill her. Milly sat silently on the other end of the phone, hearing of her friend’s demise. “I don’t understand how he became like this. He loved you so much. You two were perfect. Remember how everyone in school joked how you two were like Tristan and Isolde? We thought you’d taken a love potion and became inseparable from each other. You were so happy then.”
Tears ran down her eyes and she remembered these fond moments in her life from years ago. There was another long silence between the receivers. She wiped her cheeks and silently spoke, “I guess I’m still waiting for my Tristan to really come. Someone whom I can truly love and who will love me forever. I’m still waiting for him.”
Milly asked what she was going to do, with which she got no answer. She hadn’t thought about doing anything, as she knew what the consequences would be. Her husband had become a creature who lived in the house with the sole purpose of terrorizing her each night and then sleeping in her bed. They didn’t talk anymore. He never kissed her or said he loved her. It had been months since they’d last made love.
He didn’t want children anyway. And long ago he had drunkenly told her that there was no point in shacking up unless you planned on bringing little brats into this hell hole of a world we lived in. He had smacked her around good that night. Telling her if she ever got pregnant he would take care of it for her. She had done nothing but cried all that night.
With reluctance Milly hung up the phone and let her friend go back to her desolate wasteland. She went upstairs and laid herself on the freshly made bed, and let herself wonder some more. Her mind was filled with thoughts that made her smile. She stumbled through scenarios and ideas until finally sitting up with wide eyes.
That night she was lying in bed waiting for him to come home. From downstairs she heard the door slam shut and his mumbling voice crawl slowly up the stairs. When he came into the room he clumsily pulled his boots off and flung them into the corner. She got out of bed and helped him take his shirt off. He grumbled and pushed her aside but she didn’t let up. She unbutton his shirt and unbuckled his belt. Slowly unzipping his pants and shoving him onto the bed. He smacked her a few times, but she continued to whisper in his ear and caress his body.
This routine was attempted at least once a week for the next several months, but was often times replaced with the usual punching bag scenario. But she toughed through it bravely and finally gained the courage to sit her husband down one weekend afternoon to have an official and sober conversation.
She slapped a stack of papers on the table and threw a pen at him. He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at her. “What’s this?” She explained they were divorce papers, and that she wanted out. He slammed his cup against the table and stood up in her face. “There’s no way in hell I’m divorcing you! You’ll try and take every nickel I have and that’s not damn near much at all!” He threw a fit, like a small child; however, she expected as much. She sat herself down in the chair across from him and folded her arms on the table. “If you divorce me, I promise to take only what’s rightfully mine and no more. I’ll leave you alone and you’ll never have to see or speak to me again. But if you decide to stay married to me, I think you better know where all those nickels will be going to from now on.” He sat there with a fire in his eyes. Slamming his hand on the table, “What? What are you going to do with my money?” She smiled at him and looked him gently in the eyes, “We’re going to have a child.” He jumped back, knocking his chair to the floor. “A kid? You’re pregnant!? No! No, no, no. I’m not doing that. I can’t afford a kid.” “Then you can afford the divorce I’m offering you,” she said as she slid the papers closer to him.
He picked up his chair and sat down, looking at the papers for a long time. He slowly went through all the text and signed where he needed to sign. Milly came over a short time later and helped her pack her bags. She left that house with a smile on her face, and went on to stay with her good friend until she was able to get herself on her feet.
Months passed until she found herself in a hospital bed below bright fluorescent lights. The sound of doctor’s coaching and machines beeping were swallowed up by her screams and cries of pain. It only lasted so long, and then relief fell upon her like she’d only felt once before when he had signed on the dotted line.
A cry in the distance. Her baby was washed and wrapped in a blanket and placed gently in her arms. A beautiful boy, looking up at his mother with wonder and confusion. She cried, large tears that rolled around her smiling lips. She kissed her son and held him close to her chest, rocking him slowly. “My Tristan has finally come”, she said. “And I will love you forever.”
It was a usual Saturday night at the edge of the friendly cul-de-sac. Quiet, except for the soft sound of cars passing in the background. Soft rain fell from comfortable clouds that hung drearily in the darkened sky. Pleasant. Calm. Lovely. No one heard the cry in the distance.
Heavy boots stomped clumsily up stairs trailing angry swears. She kept to the ground for fear of his return. Half an hour passed before she picked herself up and washed her face in the sink. Tinted water swirled down the drain. Tears slowly rolled down bruised cheeks. She brought herself to the couch and fell to sleep with much difficulty.
Expletives were her alarm to open her cloudy eyes. He was cursing through the kitchen searching for Advil amongst the mess. “Why hasn’t this been cleaned up yet?” She slowly rolled off the couch and peddled softly into the doorway. He turned and saw her puffy face, analyzing it for a moment before continuing his search. “Where the hell’s the Advil?”
She sighed and walked towards a cupboard above the sink, retrieving a small bottle from the bottom shelf. She smacked it against the counter and quietly walked upstairs to take a shower. The hot water stung at first as it flowed down her face, but began to sooth after a few minutes. She didn’t step out for another half an hour.
He had gone to work by the time she was getting dressed. She went throughout the house and tidied things here and there. After a couple hours of cleaning and organizing she sat down in the recliner and shut her eyes. She let her thoughts wonder for awhile before coming back to reality.
Her cell phone was buried deep within her purse. She fished for it, shoving cards and wrappers and papers and accessories to the sides. Through her contact list she found MILLY, a friend she’d has since high school. The phone rang on the other end as she leaned on the kitchen counter with her cell pressed firmly against her ear. The ringing stopped for a moment, silence, and then a click. “Hello darling.”
She talked with Milly for nearly two hours, pacing about the house. She caught up with her old friend for the past few months they hadn’t spoken. They laughed and shared gossip and talked about the things that people talk about. Before the conversation’s end, she had to tell her secret of her husband’s inebriated abuse. Milly was stunned, and begged her to come stay with her, or anywhere but where he would be able to hurt her.
She explained how if she left him, he’d find and kill her. If she tried to divorce him, he’d kill her. If she tried anything at all, he’d kill her. Milly sat silently on the other end of the phone, hearing of her friend’s demise. “I don’t understand how he became like this. He loved you so much. You two were perfect. Remember how everyone in school joked how you two were like Tristan and Isolde? We thought you’d taken a love potion and became inseparable from each other. You were so happy then.”
Tears ran down her eyes and she remembered these fond moments in her life from years ago. There was another long silence between the receivers. She wiped her cheeks and silently spoke, “I guess I’m still waiting for my Tristan to really come. Someone whom I can truly love and who will love me forever. I’m still waiting for him.”
Milly asked what she was going to do, with which she got no answer. She hadn’t thought about doing anything, as she knew what the consequences would be. Her husband had become a creature who lived in the house with the sole purpose of terrorizing her each night and then sleeping in her bed. They didn’t talk anymore. He never kissed her or said he loved her. It had been months since they’d last made love.
He didn’t want children anyway. And long ago he had drunkenly told her that there was no point in shacking up unless you planned on bringing little brats into this hell hole of a world we lived in. He had smacked her around good that night. Telling her if she ever got pregnant he would take care of it for her. She had done nothing but cried all that night.
With reluctance Milly hung up the phone and let her friend go back to her desolate wasteland. She went upstairs and laid herself on the freshly made bed, and let herself wonder some more. Her mind was filled with thoughts that made her smile. She stumbled through scenarios and ideas until finally sitting up with wide eyes.
That night she was lying in bed waiting for him to come home. From downstairs she heard the door slam shut and his mumbling voice crawl slowly up the stairs. When he came into the room he clumsily pulled his boots off and flung them into the corner. She got out of bed and helped him take his shirt off. He grumbled and pushed her aside but she didn’t let up. She unbutton his shirt and unbuckled his belt. Slowly unzipping his pants and shoving him onto the bed. He smacked her a few times, but she continued to whisper in his ear and caress his body.
This routine was attempted at least once a week for the next several months, but was often times replaced with the usual punching bag scenario. But she toughed through it bravely and finally gained the courage to sit her husband down one weekend afternoon to have an official and sober conversation.
She slapped a stack of papers on the table and threw a pen at him. He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at her. “What’s this?” She explained they were divorce papers, and that she wanted out. He slammed his cup against the table and stood up in her face. “There’s no way in hell I’m divorcing you! You’ll try and take every nickel I have and that’s not damn near much at all!” He threw a fit, like a small child; however, she expected as much. She sat herself down in the chair across from him and folded her arms on the table. “If you divorce me, I promise to take only what’s rightfully mine and no more. I’ll leave you alone and you’ll never have to see or speak to me again. But if you decide to stay married to me, I think you better know where all those nickels will be going to from now on.” He sat there with a fire in his eyes. Slamming his hand on the table, “What? What are you going to do with my money?” She smiled at him and looked him gently in the eyes, “We’re going to have a child.” He jumped back, knocking his chair to the floor. “A kid? You’re pregnant!? No! No, no, no. I’m not doing that. I can’t afford a kid.” “Then you can afford the divorce I’m offering you,” she said as she slid the papers closer to him.
He picked up his chair and sat down, looking at the papers for a long time. He slowly went through all the text and signed where he needed to sign. Milly came over a short time later and helped her pack her bags. She left that house with a smile on her face, and went on to stay with her good friend until she was able to get herself on her feet.
Months passed until she found herself in a hospital bed below bright fluorescent lights. The sound of doctor’s coaching and machines beeping were swallowed up by her screams and cries of pain. It only lasted so long, and then relief fell upon her like she’d only felt once before when he had signed on the dotted line.
A cry in the distance. Her baby was washed and wrapped in a blanket and placed gently in her arms. A beautiful boy, looking up at his mother with wonder and confusion. She cried, large tears that rolled around her smiling lips. She kissed her son and held him close to her chest, rocking him slowly. “My Tristan has finally come”, she said. “And I will love you forever.”
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Composing a Symphony
Tchaikovsky speaks here, privately in a number of letters, about his creative process. He explains the magic that is experienced when inspiration appears and how such an even turns him into what he states as "a madman." His body trembles and he writes and writes and ideas flow until a worldly interruption comes crashing through and brings him back to reality. He notes that those moments are somewhat tragic and it will take a long time to find that inspiration or idea again, if there's a chance at all.
What I enjoy most is his statement in regards to creating powerful, moving music. He basically states that one cannot just use the education and knowledge of music to compose a piece and have it truly affect those who are to experience it. Even true musical geniuses create through some form of emotion that they experience. If one is going to move listeners, than one must be moved in creating such a piece. Like anything creatively, if it does not have your heart and soul poured into the piece, it won't be able to evoke the heart and soul of those around.
This is easily identifiable for myself as an actor, performer, or entertainer (three completely different things by the way). I am unable to give a rightful performance that truly touches an audience without being completely given in to the moment. I must feel every pain, elation, idea, etc that my character is feeling otherwise this character is not truthful and therefore not real. An actor who acts dryly and without motivation brings nothing to the stage but empty words and actions. To connect and share with an audience one must truly become a character and feel everything they feel, and then turn oneself inside out and pour those feelings out for everyone to see. You lie naked before a large group of people, in this private moment that can last for ages. Anything less is meaningless.
Sure, there is an enormous amount of research and practice that goes into creating that final product; and, like Tchaikovsky talks about in later letters he describes the process of picking apart and examining his ideals as he attempts to sew them together into a final piece. He talks of violently shredding himself down in order to take away parts written through love and enthusiasm, but that must be put away due to them not working in the ultimate picture. He talks of the meticulous work that is had in working and reworking his sketches before they truly work. An actor must research their character, real or fictional, to every last blood cell in order to fully understand them and/or create them. Then one must understand what does and doesn't work and be strong enough to strip away such hard work of blood, sweat, and tears in order to make an ultimately better form.
I relate to the creative process in many mediums as I feel that anything creative shares almost everything in almost every way. In the end, however, what it really comes down to is creating something emotionally inspired in order to emotionally inspire.
What I enjoy most is his statement in regards to creating powerful, moving music. He basically states that one cannot just use the education and knowledge of music to compose a piece and have it truly affect those who are to experience it. Even true musical geniuses create through some form of emotion that they experience. If one is going to move listeners, than one must be moved in creating such a piece. Like anything creatively, if it does not have your heart and soul poured into the piece, it won't be able to evoke the heart and soul of those around.
This is easily identifiable for myself as an actor, performer, or entertainer (three completely different things by the way). I am unable to give a rightful performance that truly touches an audience without being completely given in to the moment. I must feel every pain, elation, idea, etc that my character is feeling otherwise this character is not truthful and therefore not real. An actor who acts dryly and without motivation brings nothing to the stage but empty words and actions. To connect and share with an audience one must truly become a character and feel everything they feel, and then turn oneself inside out and pour those feelings out for everyone to see. You lie naked before a large group of people, in this private moment that can last for ages. Anything less is meaningless.
Sure, there is an enormous amount of research and practice that goes into creating that final product; and, like Tchaikovsky talks about in later letters he describes the process of picking apart and examining his ideals as he attempts to sew them together into a final piece. He talks of violently shredding himself down in order to take away parts written through love and enthusiasm, but that must be put away due to them not working in the ultimate picture. He talks of the meticulous work that is had in working and reworking his sketches before they truly work. An actor must research their character, real or fictional, to every last blood cell in order to fully understand them and/or create them. Then one must understand what does and doesn't work and be strong enough to strip away such hard work of blood, sweat, and tears in order to make an ultimately better form.
I relate to the creative process in many mediums as I feel that anything creative shares almost everything in almost every way. In the end, however, what it really comes down to is creating something emotionally inspired in order to emotionally inspire.
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