Slightly drunken Facebooking can be dangerous. Its easy to flit through old memories and old albums with a slight smile, thinking "Why didn't we work out again?" Nobody is around to tap me on the shoulder and give a perfectly solid explanation that I would shrug off or ignore anyway. It's much simpler to hang around in a hazy bliss and pretend. Ride the fantasy. String together all the good parts (or make up new ones.)
After an actor's nightmare (reprise my role in Time and the Conways? SURE I remember all my lines...) the morning brings clarity. Last night was reactive. A willful surrender. Nice while it lasted, but I'm glad to be back in the now.
Now, where the owner of the Cleveland Indians invited the acting company to watch a game from the owners box, where the beer and nacho cheese flowed freely. Where in the fourth inning, a dessert cart trucks by with mint-chocolate brownies and shots of Tia Maria in edible chocolate cups. Where we got an official welcome on the Jumbotron and one of our very own did a little dance breakdown. On top of that, the Tribe delivered a win? I am humbled.
And I don't even watch baseball.
This is what my life looks like now, though. During the week, I get to work at what I love--and during the weekend I get to stock the fridge with Trader Joes goodies and shop for clothing on the cheap. It's a lot of momentum, and again I'm tempted to give myself over to it completely. To kowtow to it and take the reins of my life in inconsequential ways(Like beating Kingdom Hearts.) To be intimidated by the whirlwind instead of accepting it with grace and humility--clearing my throat--and declaring that I've still got a ways to go. Which I do. There's plenty of life that I haven't got figured out... Plenty I'm still unraveling. I have to be the first one to admit the existence of magic before I expect anyone else to do the same.
Lovely lovely life. I have no idea how you function, but I trust your judgment.
Some parting words--If you're ever having tough times, just remember that you're in the first half of a two-part episode.
Love,
Dak
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Cleve
Cleveland is a bittersweet city.
The downtown area where we live (Alternatively 'Reservation Square' or 'The Apartments Next To The Crack House) is a mix of industrial burnout and magnificent theatre extravaganza. We're literally a block from Playhouse Square, where you can see a classical repertory company one night, the blue man group the next, Billy Elliot after that, then finish off with Louis C.K. stand-up.
The very next day, you could hang out on the corner of Chester and 13th and watch a for-reals drug bust go down.
As I said to one of the other actors here, "I want to start the second season of The Wire, but I might as well just stand on the front steps."
There are wonderful things if you know where to find them, and my "OH GOD ITS MY FIRST TIME IN THIS CITY" jitters have come and gone, so I'm no stranger to taking a stroll down Superior to the restaurants on 4th street--or swinging by Tower City to snag a book at their teensy tiny Borders. As I mosey around, I can't help but notice that most of the skyscrapers here are empty and gutted, with down-and-out homeless folks lying in the alleys with rumpled paper bags cradled under their arms. How they manage to find cover during the sporadic two-hour thunderstorms is beyond me. I wonder if the Safety Ambassadors (bike-mounted windbreakered whistleblowers) are any help. There's a smokers' pole on every corner and 'No Smoking' signs on every bus stop, and cigarette filters EVERYWHERE--as if Hunter S Thompson acid-crawled the streets on his hands and knees.
The diamonds in the rough are there for the taking, though. Last weekend I carpooled with some other cast members to the Westside Market, an indoor farmers' market of overwhelming proportions where you could get a fresh farm-raised chicken directly from the person who plucked it. Like cinnamon honey butter? Check out one of FIVE dairy vendors. Want some obscure Mediterranean cheese? Fresh challa bread? Prosciutto? Caviar? How about a crepe and an espresso while you wait for the Amish guy to wrap a steak for you? Be sure to write a shopping list (I foolishly did not.)
My home-base is a fully furnished one-bedroom apartment with free internet and HBO on demand(!) Every Thursday it gets cleaned for me(!?) and it is literally a 4-minute walk from the rehearsal space(!?!!?!?) As I adapt to the new rhythm here, I enjoy it more and more.
That is to say, I haven't DRIVEN anywhere yet. So....fuck.
Love love love,
Dak
The downtown area where we live (Alternatively 'Reservation Square' or 'The Apartments Next To The Crack House) is a mix of industrial burnout and magnificent theatre extravaganza. We're literally a block from Playhouse Square, where you can see a classical repertory company one night, the blue man group the next, Billy Elliot after that, then finish off with Louis C.K. stand-up.
The very next day, you could hang out on the corner of Chester and 13th and watch a for-reals drug bust go down.
As I said to one of the other actors here, "I want to start the second season of The Wire, but I might as well just stand on the front steps."
There are wonderful things if you know where to find them, and my "OH GOD ITS MY FIRST TIME IN THIS CITY" jitters have come and gone, so I'm no stranger to taking a stroll down Superior to the restaurants on 4th street--or swinging by Tower City to snag a book at their teensy tiny Borders. As I mosey around, I can't help but notice that most of the skyscrapers here are empty and gutted, with down-and-out homeless folks lying in the alleys with rumpled paper bags cradled under their arms. How they manage to find cover during the sporadic two-hour thunderstorms is beyond me. I wonder if the Safety Ambassadors (bike-mounted windbreakered whistleblowers) are any help. There's a smokers' pole on every corner and 'No Smoking' signs on every bus stop, and cigarette filters EVERYWHERE--as if Hunter S Thompson acid-crawled the streets on his hands and knees.
The diamonds in the rough are there for the taking, though. Last weekend I carpooled with some other cast members to the Westside Market, an indoor farmers' market of overwhelming proportions where you could get a fresh farm-raised chicken directly from the person who plucked it. Like cinnamon honey butter? Check out one of FIVE dairy vendors. Want some obscure Mediterranean cheese? Fresh challa bread? Prosciutto? Caviar? How about a crepe and an espresso while you wait for the Amish guy to wrap a steak for you? Be sure to write a shopping list (I foolishly did not.)
My home-base is a fully furnished one-bedroom apartment with free internet and HBO on demand(!) Every Thursday it gets cleaned for me(!?) and it is literally a 4-minute walk from the rehearsal space(!?!!?!?) As I adapt to the new rhythm here, I enjoy it more and more.
That is to say, I haven't DRIVEN anywhere yet. So....fuck.
Love love love,
Dak
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