Dear Blog,

How have you been? It's been, like, over a month since I've written -- I am SOOOOO sorry! There was just a lot of family and birthdays and travel craziness last month (or rather, Hans was traveling), and I haven't had as much in-depth analysis to give, so much as running from one thing to the next. We'll catch up soon.

Love,
Jen

You Say I'm a Bitch Like It's a Bad Thing...

When I started stage managing and production-assisting at the Lyric, I got adopted by my two big sisters, Flawn Barber and Lisa Anderson Bongers. I was twenty-five, and they called me "The Baby" (they're five-foot-ten and five-foot-twelve, respectively, and had lots of fun high-fiving over my head). I made rookie mistakes, tons of them, but I fixed the mistakes and learned.

In stage management - any management, from what I hear - you can't give everyone what they want all the time. If you see a behavior that's hurting the organization and/or the production, you have to do something about it. Being nice and accommodating, excusing the behavior, deferring to (for example) a heavenly vocal talent that happens to belong to a total scrote-bag... all of it only compounds the problem. And when you do something about a problem, someone's going to think you're a Bitch, because someone isn't going to get to do whatever the hell they want anymore.

Flawn and Lisa, though never bitchy, were The Bitch when it had to be done, and we all drank a lot of wine on those nights, because nobody ever wants to be The Bitch. For a naturally nice person, it's a little traumatic. And I knew I'd grown up, and learned to stand up for myself and work for the good of the production, when they started calling me "Baby Bitch." It was a badge of honor.

There were a couple instances when I tipped the scale a little too far, and threw what could only be called a Crazy Screaming Bitch Fit. In public. At the workplace. Not the proudest moments of my life. That sort of thing doesn't say "respect my authoritah." It does indicate that things have gone too far, and something should have been changed before that point. And eventually, I found balance (which, technically, must be found at every moment, but I don't want to get into metaphysics just now).

Fast-forward to 2009. Baby Bitch is a baby improviser, in a troupe with nobody in charge. I don't want to be in charge - I'd rather focus on learning the craft and having fun (which is an important part of the learning, too). It's not fun to be in charge. The worst thing about stage managing was having to be The Bitch when everyone else was having fun. "Sshhhh!" "You missed your costume fitting." "Please don't eat the props until we've gotten through the scene they're in." "When you peek through the curtain, the audience can see you. I know you're the lead tenor, and they're here to see you, but right now you're in a cell waiting for the guillotine."

Side note here: 9:KCiF will probably be the most fun I've ever had as a stage manager, and I can't wait! The best thing about stage managing is that you get to make a show run smoothly for amazing people.

Anyway... nobody in charge. Not fun to be in charge. Then some problem starts, nobody deals with it, and it reaches a point that makes everything else less fun. I wasn't the only one to recognize it. So, The Bitch paid the troupe a visit this week. She'll probably hover nearby for a while to gently point out problems at an earlier stage next time, so they can be fixed and we can move on to the fun.

I miss Flawn and Lisa, and I want some wine.

It's a sign.

Taken at the KC Renaissance Festival, at the SpherePlay contact juggling booth, on a rainy day in October 2008.

Seven and the Ragged Tiger

Quick, who's the band?

It was Duran Duran, and that's the name of the last studio album they released, in 1983, before taking a twenty-year break. There were only five guys in the band, but (as explained by Simon LeBon), adding their two managers made it seven. The ragged tiger was a metaphor for success.

Saturday night, before the final blackout, the Hypothetical Seven were briefly seven again. Two of the founding players, Matthew Reiss and Dan Spurgin, came out to Bonner Springs for the show, and were kind enough to join us onstage for our last game, 189. Matthew used to host the shows, so Joe asked him to get the ask-for, and when I heard his stage voice for the first time in nearly two years, I got a little teary inside, in a warm, long-lost way.

It didn't make me think we should keep being the Hypothetical Seven. In fact, I feel that much stronger that we're doing the right thing. In anything but a one-liner (or other fairly superficial) game, you really couldn't throw a few H7's from the 1990's onstage with the current bunch and come out with anything but mud - whereas before Matt and Dan left, there was enough continuity in style that some players would come back after a few months off or even a couple years.

Heh... H7 also used to play a clean show. Nothing wrong with that. It means you can invite more people (like kids) without fear of offending or traumatizing them. It means you don't go for the easy gag, you can make the funny without resorting to lowest-common-denominator blah-blah. But, man, oh man, was the show raunchy. There may have been more f-bombs dropped in that hour-forty-five than in the entire previous fifteen years of the troupe's existence. Our "Musical Improv" game ("Day in the Life" plus guitar) revolved largely around the toileting habits of Dan's new baby. We had an especially good round of "I Like My Men/Women," and by good, I mean rrrowwwrr.

It wasn't just a blue show, though. It was a good show. The energy almost crackled out loud, we were so on. We had our best turnout in a while, too: enough people to make the Imp look reasonably full, and they were really into it. Our first half was a marathon of twelve-count-'em-twelve games, all of them longtime H7 favorites that we had to play one last time. Then we played Hypertext for the longform, with a one-liners encore. It. Was. Exhausting. The audience edits Hypertext, and they kept us moving!

I'm pretty sure I stayed out of my head most of the show, and by the end of it I felt almost drunk with happiness. The good kind of drunk. I was too happy to sleep, like my smile was keeping me awake, and I was really trying to sleep because we had a tech rehearsal for Sketchy Thoughts at ten-freaking-ay-em Sunday morning. Yay, coffee, and thanks for the donuts, Nick!

So, what does the future hold? Maybe a reunion of original H7'ers, for one thing, which I hope I'll get to tech if it happens. I love those guys (and occasional gals). I'm getting my sketch fix with Sketchy Thoughts - please come see the show next Saturday! - and I'm even writing something for the following show. As for the small bunch of us now improvising without a name, we're keeping the June 13 booking at the Imp, and we can't tell you what we're doing. It's a surprise.

Requiem for a Legacy

Look, I've had a lot of death-y things happening lately. Grandma Sophie passed away in January. Last week I found my cat unconscious in insulin shock, and I thought it was the end (she made a miraculous recovery at the vet's, and her diabetes may have gone into remission). I spun myself out on the highway the other day, my own damn fault.

And then there's the impending end of the Hypothetical 7.

I don't want to write this. I don't want to explain. Jess has already explained, and did a good job of it. Go read her blog instead.

A photo in the Facebook group album spurred a discussion a few weeks ago between a few original H7 members from the 1990's, about a reunion show. I think that would be amazing -- a hell of a complicated feat to pull off, as they're spread about the country, but amazing. But something in the tone of the discussion made me feel like I was at my own wake, hearing people talk about how much they missed me, only I wasn't dead, I was just horribly paralyzed and couldn't tell them not to bury me alive.

What's the point in sustaining a legacy, when the people you do it for bury you alive?

But they're right. The true character of the Hypothetical 7 was lost when the last two founding members left in the summer of 2007. The remaining players made a great effort, but struggled with relative inexperience, teaching newbies (from a relatively inexperienced position), adapting to a changing artistic environment in the improv world, geographical relocation, loss of the audiences who came to see specific players...

And why stick with a name if that fifteen-year history doesn't do jack for your box office? I suspect that a couple years of that legacy actually hurt our reputation. Like when this shit resurfaced... Whoever Alan was writing about, that is NOT us, not now. We aren't even the same troupe (though we're mostly the same individuals) that played a so-so set at 8:KCiF.

Oh, we aren't trying to fool anyone. We aren't putting on false mustaches and accents: "Ze Hypot'etical quoi? I do not know zis Zeven of vhich you zpeak!" On the contrary, we're stripping it down to the real us, a few people who love playing together, and have a lot to learn, and can put on a good show when we aren't trying to wear someone else's skin. H7 brought us together. From here, we go forward.

Girl Anachronism

I spent the whole weekend looking Victorian!

Hans and I went with friends of ours, the crew of the Independent Airship Nimbus (more on that later), to a Steampunk-themed sci-fi con in St. Louis this weekend. Steampunk is an aesthetic movement and sci-fi subculture stemming from the supposition, "What if steam power, not electricity, were the major force behind the technological advances of the past two centuries?" Anachronism is a major element, juxtaposing futuristic and historical imagery - for example, wood-and-copper robots or Art Nouveau architecture on a space station. Exposed gears and other mechanical elements are a common motif.

The historical period in question is, of course, the Industrial Revolution, which began with the introduction of the steam engine. Victorian England is a frequent source of inspiration for character and re-enactment, but the romance of neo-Victoriana is tempered by grit and science, and the gloom of Goth is replaced with geeky wit and a sense of play. Literary influences range from Mary Shelley to H. G. Wells and Jules Verne.

Friday night was low-key, as most of us had been awake all week preparing our costumes and room decor before driving across Missouri. We got settled in, missed the opening ceremony (oops), and went to Steak-and-Shake for dinner, an experience of multi-layered anachronism.

Those who didn't fall asleep right after dinner (like I did) had a Nerf war. Our crew's weapons were hardly recognizable as the plastic toys we purchased at Target, but looked more like something out of "Firefly."

I skipped Saturday afternoon's excursion to the Science Museum, to chat with a cross-genre author and catch up with an old friend, and of course, squeeze in a little reading and alone time. Here's a shot, though, of some of the crew against a perfect historical backdrop:
No, I don't know what Buffy is doing to Hans.

I'm hoping someone posts pictures somewhere of Saturday night's dance, and I'm in some of them, because no pictures of my rollerskating doll costume ended up on our camera. Yes, rollerskating. At the River Market Antique Mall in KC, we found a set of the old adjustable skates that slip on the bottom of regular shoes, and I got a pair of red fringe-tongued lace-up boots at the Goodwill in Lawrence. Hans painted the skates copper and riveted them to the soles of the boots. I didn't have time to add little details like gears, but they still looked cool and functioned perfectly for a long time. A couple hours into the dance, though, the rear rivets finally popped out of the rubber heels, probably because I was trying to pogo. Advice for dancing in rollerskates: keep the wheels on the ground. I would like to emphasize, though, that the only time I fell was one of the times Hans dipped me!

The rest of the night can be summed up with the following picture:

Jump Rope Rhyme

Ophelia, Ophelia,
You let Prince Hamlet feel ya!
Drowning in a shallow lake,
How many minutes does suicide take?
1
2
3
4
5
6
7...


Tee hee! Can't you see the babygoths chanting this at recess? Here's something you don't already know about me: for about a three-year period, second through fourth grades, I had the ability to jump Double Dutch. That's when two ropes are going across each other and you in opposite directions. It's kind of hard to do.

Are You There, Del Close? It's Me, Jenifer.

I think I hit some kind of an improv milestone recently. A bad thing happened, but it may be indicative that I'm developing more trust in my own instincts:

Saturday, January 17:
I fucked someone over in a class scene today. I didn't mean to. I have felt fucked over in a scene, plenty of times: my idea got blown off, someone rolled onto stage like a bulldozer and wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise, my physicalization might as well have been invisible. Snaps me right into my head every time, if I managed to get out of it in the first place. And today I handed someone a huge denial. I can think of a lot of reasons that what I was doing wasn't wrong. But it was still a big fat denial - not only of the person and his idea, but of the discovery. Why couldn't what I came in with, and what I heard when I got there, BOTH be right?

On the other hand, now that I've been on both sides of a fucking-over, maybe fewer will happen, or (from the fucked-over side) I won't even read it as a fucking-over. It's never an intentional fucking-over. Nobody's doing something to me. Everyone's just doing. What happens to me onstage and how I handle it are my own responsibility.

I found some kind of a trigger during Improv Gym last week, too, and I am really grateful to Nathan. He put us in physical poses to start a scenic exercise, and all he did to me was push my shoulders back a little, and my chin up. About half a second into the scene, I reverted into a more withdrawn physicalization and a low-status character. By the time we got through everyone and discussed the exercise, I realized what I'd done.

Me: You gave me a high status pose.
Nathan: I did that on purpose.
Me: And I played against it.

The rest of the session, I barely recognized myself. My old friends doubt, fear, hesitation... I don't know where they went. I found boldness. I found emotions coming from somewhere real inside me, not just my brain saying "pretend to be angry, pretend to be overjoyed." I don't have some kind of perfect visualization that puts me there, but I think I was able to call that state back on Saturday, in class and in the Student Showcase at the Imp.

I also tried an experiment in that same Improv Gym. During the Great Kiss Debate, John said (I'll link to it later) that it's difficult to heighten from a kiss, which is why it would probably be the end of a scene. So I initiated a scene with a kiss, just to see what would happen. The first thing that happened is that my scene partner was not expecting to be kissed, and flinched. I've flinched from an unexpected kiss before, and just botched the scene. Scott incorporated the flinch into his character, and how his character felt about my character, and we ended up with a really cool, if somewhat sad, scene.

I'm noticing a lot of violent themes in my scenes, and I'm often the one who brings in the violence. Beatings, bloodletting, devouring my scene partner as a dinosaur. I die a lot, too. I can really milk a death scene. But as much as I enjoy playing a corpse (entire third beat of a French Braid scene!), I hope this is just a phase of discovery, and I am not destined for niche horror improv.

The Next H7 Show!

Bonus feature for blog readers: the poster thought process!

• Between all the troupes, we're still mostly west of Westport. How about westward expansion, invasion from the west, Old West, the Westport Wagon?
• Antique photos, bar maids, Fluffer Nutter as conjoined twins.
• Chat w/Patrick: Norman Rockwell family scene gone wrong.
• Sideshow family tree.
• Chat w/Alex: Use troupe logos.
• Logo/sideshow family tree.
• Diagrams. Schematics. Molecules.
• Kaboom. Poster in my head. Elements.
• Chicken wire.

Sophia Greenberg Adelman, 1911 - 2009

What I learned from Grandma Sophie was, strangely enough, spirituality. She put up a small Christmas tree every December, and she lit the menorah for Chanukah as well. We're a Jewish family. That's not to say that every member practices Jewish ritual, or believes the same things about G-d. From day to day, I don't necessarily believe in Anything. But in technical terms, maternal lineage, we're a Jewish family. Grandma Sophie was halfway famous for leaving the synagogue due to an argument with the Rabbi about Kosher dishes. She started taking her kids to the Unitarian church. Her favorite philosopher: Baruch Spinoza, one of the few historical Jewish excomunicatees, a pantheist. G-d was not a separate entity from the world; G-d was to be found in nature. Nature was one of the most important things to Grandma Sophie. Plants, birds, her cats and dogs. Her backyard seemed like a tropical, mystical world to me, with the pink tulip tree arching over a gate that led to a creek - which was down a steep eight-foot incline. The point is, it's really all the same... but whatever it is, it's still there and worth acknowledging in some fashion.

She always said she'd watch over us after she died, just the way she believed that her father did, and later her husband, Grandpa Joe. If she would watch over my garden this summer, it might grow something (I'm not great with plants). She has quite a few people to watch over, of course, but even just a little bit would help.

Heaven has nothing to do with what happens to your soul. It's what you want the people you leave behind to think is happening to you.

Improv, Lately

Yes, I am avoiding other thoughts right now. The funeral is in twelve hours.


Improv Gym Workout Report

Okay, I was feeling a little out of my league. Not many beginners showed up to the first session, last Thursday. I got sucked up into the vortex of my head. I was tired, and a little stressed from things that have nothing to do with improv. Introductions, the kind where you go around in a circle telling who you are and something about yourself, make me panicky. I started feeling claustrophobic, too. I took some deep breaths during the break, and got it sort of shook off in time to be - and I really loved this - The Character Who Gets Killed Many Times. In the guise of a re-re-reanimated overbearing mother. Nathan and Tom were my sons, but Nathan was the sherriff, so he kept shooting me in the face. The beauty of it was, after the first time, I knew it was going to keep happening, and quick. The floor was nice and bouncy for falling, and did not leave bruises.


Rock Star Show

I want to talk about our little costume experiment. Yeah, yeah, no "costumes" in improv. Whatever. But I loved, loved, loved playing in a different skin. It was like a mask or a candy shell. And ka-pow, all of a sudden, I was not in my head. Finally! It was kind of like living through my body, not my mind. Maybe the boots did it. They made me feel lithe and springy. Yeah, kinda like a superhero. Or a supervillain.

An odd corollary to the idea that I might feel protected by a costume, and therefore freer to let the actions and ideas come through: I think I play better in a tank top. I've noticed it in rehearsals and classes before, but I wasn't convinced until this show. Sticking to the guidelines of decency, of course, but somehow when I'm less protected by my clothing, when I'm more vulnerable, I feel braver. Like "This is my skin, World. Gimme your best shot." I had a concern about the tattoos being a distraction, but they probably aren't. I've seen ink on other improvisers. I guess you don't notice it after a while.

I still have awkward pauses, especially at the top of a scene. I need to work on doing/saying something immediately, as well as using the edit moment to make the next choice and get into the scene without the deer-in-headlights thing. It also feels like I've developed some kind of edit-waddle, in an attempt to avoid the dreaded edit-stomp. Maybe I'm ducking because an edit is a self-conscious moment for me (slight pull to the head, but too quick to matter), right out there in front, interrupting what people are doing, not in the old scene, not yet in the new.


Warmup vs. Makeup

The eventual answer to this dilemma is that if I'm doing a show with costume and/or makeup, I do not have time to watch the previous show, because I need to be finished with the look before we start warmups, and it has to be done backstage in order not to ruin the initial impact. During warmups, I sacrificed my attention - I was in the same room, but I was spiking my hair and shadowing my eyes in front of a mirror. I listened for my turn, and only missed it once, but I should. have. been. focused. I wasn't holding up my section of the Group Mind. On the other hand, I think I gave a better individual performance as a result of having myself all put together. So: no compromise, my prep time just has to start earlier.


Group Smoke Ritual

This was a first! H7 has usually consisted of a majority of non-smokers. At intermission, Cerrome went out for a cigarette on the back porch of the Imp. Jess knows I carry cloves (a pack can last me weeks), and convinced me that as rock stars, we should be out smoking too. Tiffany popped along and said "I want one!" Then Joe and Zak, who carry their own smokes, came outside. Patrick, who is a smart kid, didn't want to stand out in the freezing cold to watch the rest of us smoke. Okay, it may not be the healthiest group-bonding thing, but it did reinforce our rock star attitudes for the second half!


Armandothon

Tiffany is an animated monologist. Her mind goes everywhere, and she talks almost fast enough to keep up with it. Her speeches are pretty short - at that pace, three minutes would be sensory overload. So, with shorter monologues came shorter beats... five of them, with super high energy. It was fun, and funny, but it wore me out - somewhere in the fourth beat, I had a moment of "Blackout? Please?" Made it to the end, though, which came in at 34 minutes. I'll have some of it up on the Youtube soon.


Anarchy in the H7!

We have been directorless for a month. We grew artistically when we had a director, but I think now we can grow without one. We're taking turns running rehearsals, focusing on our different strengths, accepting different styles of in-chargeness (the word "leadership" seems so stuffy!), having different purposes for rehearsals at different times (i.e. in-depth work vs. upcoming show prep). Our resident revolutionary, Patrick, made this observation: "I'd like improv practice to occur as the co-existence of equals, each leading and following when appropriate. This has never worked in my experience, but I think it could. It would take EVERYONE acting as responsible as the classical 'leader/director' and also not having any ego issues." Perhaps we can work toward such a point; the possibility intrigues me.

And now, a special guest: Death...

My other grandmother, Grandma Sophie, is finally nearing the end. She's 97, and the last few years have been painful for her... when she's been conscious or lucid enough to realize it. She's been in a nursing home for - has it been three years? Not a retirement apartment or assisted living, but the real thing. The only-a-matter-of-time ward. She stayed in her house until there was no longer a choice in the matter: falls, injuries, my mother visiting twice a day to make sure Grandma was taking her medication... which she often wasn't.

She isn't dying of anything. Her body is breaking down from the inside.

She's wished for this for a long time. Maybe since Grandpa Joe died, in 1991. Until she moved out of her house, she never stopped talking about him, or for that matter, to him. I'm not so sure he didn't answer her.

It's a matter of days now. Maybe a week. I'm trying not to think about all the family rituals that will have to be performed.

Oh, god. Performed. Improv. I have to go sew a skirt. I'll get back to posting soon; there were other things I meant to write.

Upcoming Improv Shows (Mine)

Hypothetical 7 Rocks Your World!
Saturday, January 10, 9:00 PM
Roving Imp Theater, 115 Oak Street, Bonner Springs KS
Tickets $7*, ages 16+

We slip into our rock-star alter egos for the first show of 2009. Makeup, miniskirts, needle tracks... you don't wanna miss it!

*one admission price also covers a 7pm show by the Imp's house troupe Biblioclast if you want to make a night of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Imp Class Showcase / The Harold
Saturday, January 24, 7:00 PM
Roving Imp Theater, 115 Oak Street, Bonner Springs KS
Tickets $5, all ages

John Robison's students - a multi-level bunch of improvisers from all over the KC area - perform short games in the first half, and the classic longform "The Harold" in the second half.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ELEMENTS OF IMPROV, featuring Fluffer Nutter, Those People and the Hypothetical 7
Saturday, February 7, 8:00 PM
Westport Coffeehouse Theater, 4010 Pennsylvania, KCMO
Tickets $8, ages 16+

A bite of the sticky sandwich Fluffer Nutter (Jessica Robins and Nifer Honeycutt), the KC debut of the hottest new thing in Lawrence, Those People, and the H7's return to Westport after a year on the road. I'm workin' the booth magic for this one - can't hardly wait!

The Year of Living Honestly

I have something to tell you.

It's not that I've been lying all this time. I consider myself a pretty honest person, with good intentions and friendly relationships. Nobody's always perfectly truthful, are they? I mean, part of being a nice human being is to spare people's feelings, or deny one's own needs for others' sake.

And I don't tell big lies... but when one gets in the habit of casual omissions and little twists on the truth, how hard would it be to find oneself caught in a humongous fallacy? What do I gain by painting a pretty picture if it's a total Weekly World News fake?

I'm not going to scrutinize '08 and earlier, post some kind of confession or lie-detect-o-meter. There's no point in that. I'm not planning to blog my every thought, but there will be some topics I spend more time dealing with than previously... or dealing with, period.

I just want - no, I need to ask myself more this year than in the past: How do I REALLY feel? It's myself I need to be more honest with. When I'm not, it usually lands me in some kind of unpleasantness. I'm sometimes afraid that my honesty will lead to a bad situation... but if it's going to go badly either way, I suppose I have nothing to lose, and may be pleasantly surprised.

I might end up coming across as a bitch at times. On the other hand, if I'm honest earlier rather than later, I might avoid certain instances of bitchiness. Bottling isn't good for anybody. I've known this for twenty-plus years. Why is it so hard to remember?

When I'm in a bad mood, I'm not going to pretend everything's fine. It's better that people around me are forewarned of my category-five emotional hurricanes. I might be less likely to take shit out on people who don't deserve it.

If my feelings are hurt, I'm going to say so, to the person who hurt them, even if I already know that no harm was meant. I can't rationalize it away when my blood runs cold like that. I just start carrying around resentment, and sometimes driving myself away from a friend. Maybe with honesty and time, my feelings will become less easily hurt. (That's not to say I won't give myself a chance to cool down. Honesty doesn't have to be immediate. It just shouldn't be put off too long.)

I'm not going to pretend to agree with opinions when I don't, because they're just that. Opinions. Artistic, philosophical, perfectly mundane - what's so hard about disagreeing? It's not like I have to get into a heated argument. And if someone would like me less for my taste in movies, or my views on what should be legal that isn't, why should I care that they like me at all? Being liked isn't the most important thing in the world.

OH, and I could be more honest about positive feelings, too! I do have them now and then. If I think someone is amazing, why shouldn't I tell them so? If I appreciate someone's friendship or kind words, it's ridiculous to think they wouldn't care to know that. Hell, if the sun is out and my head doesn't hurt, that's reason enough to smile for a few minutes. If I don't remember the positive side of having feelings, none of the rest is worthwhile.

*Sigh of relief* I'm so glad that's off my chest.

It's 2009.

Yippee.

Go away.

Go, Speed Racer, Go!

Improv. It's going SO much better. It's getting easier to tweak myself into characters. Hesitations are getting shorter. Emotional connections with scene partners are getting more emotional and more connected. I'm still making plenty of mistakes, but I'm also taking more risks.

I found an unexpected source of energy yesterday. It kept me in all-systems-go for the duration of class in the afternoon, and despite the fact that I had to stop moving a couple times (like to eat dinner and watch Red Rubber Ball), carried through to H7's 9:00 show. There's just one problem: it's illegal and dangerous.

I was running late before class. It usually takes at least half an hour to get from my house to the Roving Imp. I made it in fifteen minutes. If you cross train tracks at 70 mph, you barely feel them. The PT Cruiser handles great in the 90-100 mph range. I'd never broken the century mark before! Nobody in front of me on the road... YEAH! Heart pounding, watching for deer, grinning like a mad-lady, knowing that if I were to get pulled over I'd probably laugh my ass off. Ready to make the call, "John, I'll be in class as soon as I'm done getting a speeding ticket." Didn't have to. No cops. I wanna do it again.

We have small, small audiences at the Imp. Tiny audiences. And in January, when Second Saturdays start in Westport, there's no chance in hell anyone will make the drive from KC. I'm kinda bummed, too, about missing all those shows for the rest of forever. At least I can see Tantrum on Second Fridays.

I can't begin to say how good it felt to be back in the booth at the Sketchy Thoughts show. I love being part of a show, part of a group, but having my own thing to do. I love doing what I know I'm good at - growing as an improviser is great and all, but hitting those cues makes me feel like I'm on fire, in-fucking-vincible. I'm not going to quit playing onstage with H7 - Hans is handling the booth for us, and getting pretty sharp at it. But if any other troupes need a hand with tech, and my schedule is clear, I'd love to make light and sound happen for you. You know how to find me.

The Artist's Way

First of all, I'm seeing a glimmer at the end of the "sucky improv" tunnel. Maybe articulating the problems made them start to go away. Not gone yet, but a little better. The extra practice certainly isn't hurting either! And there are ups and downs with Grandma and other family things, but I'm learning to roll with the tide. I like surfing metaphors lately. Maybe I should learn to surf someday.

The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity is a book with tools for strengthening or regaining one's artistic side. It seems to me a little more directed toward writers - it's by a writer - but it's a worthy resource for any type of artist, or anyone who wants to live an artistically richer life. It's set up as a twelve-week program, of the personal development type, and in fact draws some principles from addiction recovery. It's heavy on the introspection.

There are a couple of non-negotiable structured activities involved: daily Morning Pages and weekly Artist Dates. The Morning Pages are three longhand pages of writing, preferably stream-of-consciousness, as soon as you wake up in the morning. Every morning. For three months. I didn't hit a perfect record either of the two times I've attempted the course. An Artist Date is when you take yourself to do something that gives you a new reference, knowledge, mental stimulation, all of the above. Going to a museum or concert, sketching in a coffee shop, picking wildflowers.

Oh, yes, the author is sort of a hippie without a grasp on the fact that people have to have jobs and earn a living. But she's an employed hippie, with tons of writing credits and a bunch of books published. She does expect you to be willing to give up everything you know to fulfill your destiny as a creative force in the Universe. "Leap, and the net will appear," is how she puts it. That's an important principle throughout the course. At any rate, whether the whole course suits you, or you just half-ass it and read the quotes in the margins, there is something to it. Even half-assed, it helps shake you out of a drought.

Sometime in the near future, I'm going to open up the book and try the course again. I might make it through this time. If not, no harm done. A few years ago, I started the course at the same time as a group of friends, and we met weekly (or as weekly as a bunch of artsy people can meet) to discuss it. If anyone I know is interested in doing the course as a small group, please get in touch. Here's more information:

Official Website: http://www.theartistsway.com/
View available copies at Biblio.com Used Books

Roadblock?

It's been a while since I've written anything about improv. Every now and then I think of mentioning something, but the moment passes before I can get to the computer. Mostly right now, I'm just at a sucky point in the learning curve. My emotional connections have been tenuous, and I'm afraid I used up all my original ideas in a few workshops over the summer, because nothing is coming to me when I need it. On the best of days, I'll hit a couple high notes amid the white noise. Other times it just feels like I'm dead inside. It's been like this for several weeks now. Even when a show or a rehearsal goes pretty well overall, something's still not igniting the way it should.

I wonder if I didn't go into some form of shock when I started doing shows with H7, performing in front of an audience for the first time in years. During the months I played in rehearsal and took workshops with no intention to ever play in a show, everything was fine. I've spent most of my adult life as a behind-the-scenes person, and I thought it was what I preferred. I'm still not sure how much I really enjoy being onstage in front of people. The rush I was getting was from the scenes and games themselves, when they went well, not from the audience response. But I don't hate being onstage. That was a possibility for me. That's why the first show was terrifying - not the chance of screwing up, but the chance of discovering that I'd have been happier staying in the booth.

I'm pretty convinced that external stress factors into the equation. Now I'm doing what I can to alleviate it, and not bring it with me to rehearsal. Another epiphany there: while improv is generally a good stress-relieving activity, it is no match for some stress, and heavier artillery must be used on the stress in order not to fuck up the improv.

I do trust that if I keep working at it, I'll get through whatever the hell went off track. This isn't a position I've taken many times in my life... more often, I've taken the it's-time-to-do-something-else approach. Too many things to try in too short a life. But I don't think my shelf-life in improv is only a year. I don't believe that it will never be awesome again. There were too many times that improv felt like surfing (or, like I imagine surfing would feel).

So, I'm taking the Saturday class at the Roving Imp, rereading Truth In Comedy, and possibly revisiting The Artist's Way. More on that soon, it's an interesting book. Oh, and continuing to watch movies that get me in touch with my inner ass-kicker.

A Goal.

In the midst of everything else, I am setting a very, very important goal for myself over the next several weeks:
a. Obtain copies of Charlie's Angels movies. Perhaps some TV episodes as well.
b. Watch them. Watch them a lot. Watch them some more.

For some reason, I feel the need to connect with my inner gunslinger/combat artist.

If anyone wants to come over and watch them sometime, that's cool. Firefly might be on the list as well. You know where to reach me.

If by "soon," I meant in geological measurements.

I'll return soon with your regularly-scheduled profundity.
-Me, about three weeks ago.

Yeah, so, no. It's not like there hasn't been anything on my mind. In fact, in the past month, my mind has been more full of stuff than it has in a long time. My lungs have been full of stuff, too. I've had this cough since the first weekend in September, and I can't shake it. I sound like Violetta. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but I'm calling a doctor tomorrow.

The last couple weeks have been quite the adventure in gerontology. Grandma had a stay in the hospital, to correct a problem (no need for details), and it's pretty much corrected, but the stress and the changes in location seem to have knocked her further and more abruptly down the memory slide. That happened this summer when she fell, too, and had another hospital visit. Before that, she was getting used to the retirement center, and the independent-living apartment was working out pretty well. At the time of the move, it seemed appropriate.

There's no Medicare-covered test to confirm whether someone has Alzheimer's. There's an optional and expensive method, and there's post-mortem brain autopsy if someone really thinks it's important at that stage, but doctors tend to diagnose it by observation instead. The drugs that treat Alzheimer's can also slow non-Alzheimer's memory loss, so there's little need for absolute certainty. And for a couple years, Grandma didn't seem to be following the Alzheimer's patterns so much as just getting old and forgetful.

In other words, denial was easy.

Now the common symptoms are showing up. The same question three times in five minutes. Simple, everyday words disappearing from her vocabulary. Routine tasks becoming less routine. The frequency of forgetting family names is increasing exponentially. Today when I called, she didn't say "Hello, Jenifer" like she usually does, or ask how Hans and the animals are - those are little signposts that tell me she still knows exactly who she's talking to. I know that she'll recognize me when I see her tomorrow. I see her often enough that I should still be that familiar. I hope. It's starting to sink in that one day, she won't know me.

She's still herself. The disease hasn't eaten her personality yet. She's as kind and as stubborn as ever, still cares about the people around her - never mind her problems, why haven't I seen a doctor for that cough? She still knows her own life history. She's a very intelligent woman, and what may be the worst part of all of this is that she's entirely aware of what's leaving her.

All right. I had some things to write about improv, but they'll have to wait. Hopefully not another three weeks. This post is long enough, and I'm kinda worn out these days.

Say good night, Gracie.
Good night, Gracie.