I just finished a huge week of work. Freelance is very difficult to justify in a capitalist society. Even though I work sometimes in excess of 100 hours in a week, pounding through to-do lists and making things easier for our theater company or someone else’s, even though I am proud — even thrilled — with the amount of learning and progress I am making toward becoming a more complete web developer, even though I am conquering fear after fear to become a better person, I flinch when people ask me what I do.

There’s a certain degree of male self-importance here. A fellow actor asked me this innocuous question tonight: “What do you do?” Translated from actor-speak, that generally means “What is your day job? How do you pay your bills?” I felt a little shame in saying I was a freelance web developer, working from home. Through no particular fault of her own since we are trained to equate financial success with worth, I could see my value diminish in her estimation. I quickly mentioned that I had worked at some quite prestigious agencies before I quit to pursue my dream.

But I still struggle with it. And it does get in the way sometimes. I think my wife resents that she makes so much more than me, despite my semi-feminist belief that this is a good thing. I couldn’t make what she makes doing what I do, even if I commanded a proper salary for it. I’m just not in that kind of demand as a specialist. I also don’t really care to make that kind of money. We have everything we need, within reason, and if we had more money, we would just be wasteful with it under the guise of stress relief.

Often, I want to go back and live in a studio apartment. I crave that kind of simplicity. The feeling that at any moment maybe I would just move to Johannesburg or Taipei or Switzerland and just be me somewhere else. I know that’s a common fantasy, but the part I really treasure is the place from which the fantasies spring.

I’ve always required a sanctuary, and right now, that just is not possible. In the last few years, I’ve been saying all too frequently that in a few more weeks, my schedule clears up enough that I can take a weekend off and go to a workshop, or that I can finally start a regular D&D game with some friends. But what really happens is that I’m just on to the next ten-project quarter, desperately trying not to let anyone down, and failing most if not all those people in the process.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve managed some wonderful collaborations in the past year or so, ones of which I am undeniably proud. I just can’t help wondering if I would be more successful if I focused on one thing at a time. I’m not sure I’ve set myself up to make that happen.

This felt good. Maybe more of this.

I just want to think that I’m as beautiful as I think other people are. All of them.

I filled my weekend with activities unfamiliar.

FRIDAY

I drove to Madison to audition for a film. Having been told to prepare to read for Billy — a 19-year old badboy seducer — I did not expect to be cast, but had a good feeling about becoming a member of the stunt crew, should my schedule permit.

When I arrived, I made small talk with the pretty young college students who were also hoping this might be a big break. They were perhaps more starry-eyed than me, so I tried to ease their shaking hands with a few stories from people I knoew “in the business.” Strangely, as we waited longer, my nonchalance transformed into a sort of panic. While I always want to do well in these situations, in this case I assumed that my read was mostly a pleasantry, as I am hardly the type. So why fret?

But I was fretting. I memorized and paced. I tried lines in ways unnatural. I pried into the psyche of a stock character who would be killed within moments of the audience meeting him (spoiler alert!). I imagined scenarios where my theater training would allow some talent scout to see past my less-than-photogenic exterior and note the intensity of my performance. Johnny Depp’s career was built on this!

Finally, the door opened. Applause for the previous audition; no pressure. “Good luck,” I said honestly, but quietly, to my new acquaintance and competition. Shake hands, smile, make a quick joke. It’s all going well. The director, who has seen my headshot, the headshot where I am dressed exactly as I am now, looks me over and immediately changes his mind. He hands me a different cutting, where I play a right-hand man to a crime boss, out on a wetwork assignment to kill a disobedient hired killer.

The stunt coordinator and I run the scene, after a brief moment to read. They seem impressed when I drop names (or the equivalent thereof in stunt terms): “I am well-versed in combat and weapons, but I am inexperienced with jerk harness, air ram, burns, etc. I have done high falls, though.” My first read is weak, uncharacteristic of me. My second read gets the polite applause and a broad, seemingly genuine smile from the director and producers.

Stunts? I am in. Speaking role? As I was handing in the script, my eyes darted across a stage direction I had missed. “… over the bodyguard’s distinct southern drawl…” Oof. I could have done that. I did not see it. Should I ask to read once more? No. Not my way. Let’s hope they believe the special skills section of my résumé where it says “Good with dialects.”

These past three weeks, I have been in Eureka, IL — jealous? — faux fighting people with swords and shields. Having attended two similar workshops in the past, with varied degrees of success and pain, I will focus on some of the unique qualities of this one.

Let me say first that I succeeded in the modest task which was my charge and returned with two recommended passes in the weapons tested. A “recommended pass” is essentially an A+ in the parlance of our times. Sorry to channel Maude Lebowski, but as I talk about this, I have her cold detachment toward the subject matter. Perhaps I feel this is more of a report than a blog post, an expunging of data necessary for recording. I will likely become more enthusiastic as the post expands. Stay tuned.

I rode with Amie, who later became my smallsword partner. We were acquaintances before, but a long car ride will bond or break such a connection. Ours, luckily, more fit the former. Jonathan Coulton made fast friends of us.

My good fortune continued after we found the secluded campus. My suite-mate fast became one of my better friends at the workshop and our complementary easy-going natures made the living easy, though it was not yet the proverbial summer time. In fact, JD and I entertained one another quite frequently through the exhausting weeks to come.

Several of his phrases became buzzwords of the workshop, at least for the unintentionally exclusive clique of “bros” that developed. It started with JD and I sharing My New Haircut, a satirical video of Jersey Guidos and their (stereo)typical behavior. This viral meme spread quickly until a great many of us were all speaking in our best/worst guido dialect. Whether this offended our friend, Charlie, who was from New Jersey, remains unknown; he was a classy fellow, and certainly would not have mentioned it unless he felt it was out of hand.

We coined pseudonyms for ourselves. Amie became Spencer “Spence” Pafaglioni, Jule: Tommy Dusak, JD: Billy Mills, Mark: Mikey Inoaguy, Baca: Chet Daniels, and my closeted homosexual guido I lovingly branded Kyle Rosewater.

On one particularly rowdy session of this in the car, Spence’s phone accidentally dialed 911 from her pocket. Unaware of this, Spence received a return call, wondering if she was all right. The operator had heard violent yelling and could get no answer from the caller. Not surprisingly, but to great comic effect, the operator attempted to get Spence to admit to the issue by repeating a seemingly innocent phrase. Poor woman knew not the power of the bros.

“Billy” became the punching bag of the group — mainly due to Jule’s inept crush on him — which gave rise to such repeatable phrases as: “Fuckin’ shit!”, “Blammo!”, “Fuckin’ Judas!” and “You’re cold as ice, Pafaglioni. You’re willing to sacrifice… our love.” Like many of JD’s best moments, they are nothing so special when outside of the context of his delivery. In fact, I so adore the way he described Irving the Socially Awkward Bee to me, that I will henceforth always hear it in his voice.

Furthermore, I owe the man my life. With one mighty swing of his sandal, he destroyed the brain bug that crawled its way through our bathroom toward my room. Its nefarious plan, as he described it, was to crawl into my head through my ear canal and control my brain by pulling the strings inside. I love you, JD. No homo*.

* Another phrase we overused. In time, it was revealed that all of the bros were closet homosexuals, since we all loved each other very deeply. The phrase “Fuckin queeah” was also tossed around a fair amount, whenever someone would express affection. In my mind, I continued to wonder whether we were offending the real life Jersey gay guy in our midst, but if so, he bore it with dignity.

My new friend Amie rapidly became my old friend as these workshops stretch time like Silly Putty. At once you feel like you’ve been there three minutes and three years. Everything is heightened the way things were in college. I imagine for college students the warping must be on a Dali scale.

But Amie is no ordinary college student. I learned why — at least, partially — when I met her mentor H. Russ Brown. I had known our head instructor, DC Wright, for some time but Russ was new to me. Together, they formed an instruction tidal wave, washing away old habits and leaving behind clean sandy beaches on which we built hurricane-proof structures of… torutured metaphor, evidently.

Russ and Amie acted like old friends most of the time, joking and poking one another with pool noodles. In private moments, however, their mutual trust and respect shone brightly. His mentorship had made a strong spirit stronger, and her energy renewed his faith in his teaching. She will make CT before me in time, and long before me in age, and she is one person I will envy only in the best way.

I may be biased, but I believe fight people as a group are the most agreeable people in the theater community, possibly the world. Proudly do I wear my SAFD membership because the members are typically trustworthy and honorable, not just from their training, but within their hearts.

We also drink and flirt. A lot.

Whence this harmless debauchery? Judge us not when I say that it comes from an intrinsic trust. We are constantly pushing our bodies and minds to their limits in attempts to entertain with violence. It is a singular trade and could lead one into hysterics were it not for the support of one’s fellows. Imagine for a moment the mental state of a person who must put themselves in a scene where emotions must be heightened to ultimate visibility, escalated to the precipice where violence becomes the only recourse, then balanced between perfectly tempered technique and reckless emotional abandon. Then add another person (or two) threading their way through the same precarious needle’s eye. It tempts and requires insanity.

Not to lessen in any way the plight of a soldier or a surgeon, but we tread similar stress lines without the mercy of being able to harden ourselves against them. Emotional armor is shed in the pursuit of artful pathos. Our toughness is undeniable. Our embraces and massages become hospices, for who else could sympathize?

At our best, these dramatic terms serve aptly. Like other professions, however, there are poseurs. Paying lip service to these ideals is commonplace, even among the better of us. Some are posturing to prove an insignificant alpha dog toughness, some to show they are not the meek things they really are. They may set down the mask on occasion, but it is never far. The truly tough among us tolerate facade as a crutch. Vulnerability is not weakness in this craft, as they will learn.

That got a little gooey. I imagine even my fight friends are resisting a “Fuckin’ queeah” in my direction.

The first week involved the Unrehearsed Shakespeare workshop, which was an undertaking of Herculean proportion, we thought, but turned out simply exciting and fun, with little to no stress once the performance began. If I do say so myself, I made a fine French Dolphin and Queen. I was given the role by the director who felt I would be fearless in portraying the man’s love affair with his horse.

DC kept the training atmosphere light with games during the day, allowing our bodies to warm up and relax at the same time. Brilliant, if you ask me. Sadly, I think it’s something that is avoided at the national workshops, due to time constraints and a timidity toward being unprofessional. I was unofficially the games captain at night, having brought Rock Band, Last Night on Earth and leading the way in creating rules for a live action zombie game on the last night.

Perhaps in part due to that, the instructors and interns honored me with the Noble Blade award for “embodiment of the true spirit of our art form: sharpness of the mind, strength of the body, and generosity of the heart.” Russ and DC made moving speeches in my favor and invited me to apply for teaching assistant next year. My friend, John, also tugged at my tear glands when he said that I made the workshop for him.

Before you go calling him a fucking queeah, though, you should know that in one take, during a one-day trip away from the workshop, he lit himself on fire so he could be kicked through a plate glass window and fall two stories. He escaped with only a mild twinge in his wrist, due to the actor kicking him in the wrong place and his landding slightly twisted on the bag.

And I made the workshop for him. That was a proud moment for me. I could spend a Lord of the Rings-length time thanking people here, but I won’t risk further word count.

I survived. I took some major steps. I made some forever friends. And I returned triumphant.

Exeunt.

This week, I accomplished a whole lot:

• Freelanced a web administration tool and front-end with CSS sprites and other cool technologies.
• Scribed, taught and directed a mass battle for a youth theater putting on “The Hobbit.”
• Auditioned with three theater companies (two professional) and left a pretty good impression in my opinion. It would be false to call that claim humble.
• Applied for and was accepted into UW-Milwaukee’s English program
• Worked with a car buff to resolve some outstanding issues.
• Prepped for my next big workshop, which hopefully will see me with all eight weapons used by the SAFD.

That’s outside of doing what I think has been a bang-up job at my — well, job. All things considered, I kept my crabbiness to an acceptable level despite the stress.

For those with whom I have been out of touch, I really apologize, but it’s been crazy. And it might get crazier. If I am cast in and accept roles in all the shows for which I’ve auditioned or been asked, I would be performing in four shows in just the summer months, three of which would pay me, making them professional credits.

That’s a lot. I hope you will all bear with me as I try to live so many lives. And I will obviously post shows here and on facebook and on posters, this time with appropriate directions (some people got bad directions from me for Jake’s Women, and I apologize).

I hope to actually play games with people, get drinks with people or touch people in inappropriate ways in public — or whatever it is I do with *you* dear reader — very soon.

One love.

This was originally published on 2-29-09 (Leap Day); I edited some of the specifics down, but I think it’s fairly poetic, if tainted with my maudlin style.
—
The shower has always been a place of meditation for me. While my hippie leanings tell me I’m using too much water, I’m there standing drenched in thought, the Carl Stargher of my own life. A terror to myself, and trapped in my own world of fantasy and torture.

Dreams are of empty starships desperate for living cargo. Dreams are of disapproving looks from people who know me better. Dreams are absent in the pursuit of them. They can only be caught without trying. Is intent a vanity? Is ambition as evil as I had made it out to be in my youth? Roman sin, best left to the uncaring, dead centuries.

A whisper of me can barely be heard beneath the dripping, as I pile on unwashed clothing and trudge to my daily, in need of cash and in search of meaning. I cannot count triumphs so menial, I cannot count trials so many.

At a desk, I am expected to deliver, but I can barely feel the keys beneath my fingers. I doodle a sketch of me in two years, the virtual ink barely dry on the previous regime-changing draft, and yet it, too, is two years old.

Will I be dead before I live? Every day an analysis, every day a struggle with self, but no great art to show for this pain. No genius within, no masterpiece, only the thought that infinity is nothing more than a concept. 6 billion infinities at war for dominance, none more consequential than gravity, a senseless force.

“Hide from the world, it will come for you. You have no place in this time.”

I left the Eastern satisfaction of hearth and mind for the Western decadence of bodily pleasure, and now I realize neither is substantial, even combined in some delicately balanced recipe. Mixed metaphor for a confused mind, grasping for analogy. Choking on reality.

Expunging bile brings a smile, hidden from view. Gallows humour. “Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. You’re going to lose. Smile, you fuck.”

Cling to media. Does that matter? Your reputation is that of a coward. Does that matter? You have a talent that might take you to the top of the craft, if you get some lucky breaks. Does that matter? Play a game, have some fun. Does that matter?

The answer is still no. Rework the angles, mock it up again. Comes out no.

“Tire tread on burst stomach.”

Absolutes even fail. Rely on … what? Chaos? Ridiculous. Rely on chaos. Oxymoron. But still as true as anything.

I recently updated the look of this blog to be sort of a personal motivation experience when I visit it. After all, I’m not really posting any links that you could not find on digg or metafilter or oneplusinifinity or bblinks or any other more timely and robust aggregator. Nor am I some sort of humorist who has side-splitting anecdotes told in a rip-snorting manner (at least, not typically). This is an online journal more than anything: an affirmation, a daily reminder, a space to vent, and so forth. Many things I have written recently have been in the private vault, so my “blogging” must seem sporadic at best, purposeless at worst.

That said, I will endeavour to make it more than a private repository with a — I think — pretty face. Once a week, at least, I will post something public that is not simply a link (see my coined “delecterious” at left). Also, I intend on adding a comment system to the links over there, so that we can all have discussion about the little tidbits I have proliferated within a context becoming.

Moving on.

Last night, I auditioned at Sunset Playhouse for their upcoming production of Noises Off! This was by far the most competition I have ever had at an audition. That is to say, there were probably twenty men at the first night of auditions hoping for the the five male roles. But also to say that a higher percentage of them were skilled than in my past auditions. I felt incredibly nervous, but a touch relieved as well. While I think it may still be a small step toward professional work, it is definitely in that direction. Sunset is probably community theater only by definition; they require professional quality in their performers.

Obviously, the pants-kicking my friends have been delivering is motivating me to challenge myself, but I do wonder what my limits are. When I finished Jake’s Women, I received glowing praise for my performance, which I took to heart. I came away from that production feeling like I had the chops to go pro in Milwaukee, possibly to have a meteoric rise. Confidence bubbled over. Now, reality in the form of self-doubt seeps back in, and I can’t help wondering if that was simply the stars aligning. Do I have talent or is it something more ephemeral and beyond my control? Something I channeled a few times which will flee from me should I try to put the yoke on once more.

When I get in this mood, I try to remember that everyone feels this, particularly actors. The definition of courage is the overcoming of fear and doubt to do what seems beyond one’s ability. In a context lacking valor or glory, continuing to pursue a dream is perhaps the most intrepid interpretation. Everyone has doubts, right?

They must, I suppose. But I have seen people, and maybe you have too, who seem to lack that. I envy them and sometimes rail against them. I spit words like “entitled” and “princess” and “asshole” at people who lack compunction when they assert their rights.

Often, it is deserved. Occasionally, in their confidence, they trample over the rights of others with nary a backward glance. But sometimes it is jealousy on my part. I wish that my brain did not tend toward self-sacrifice. I wish that I could be assertive without being aggressive, because I feel guilty over the slightest transgressions. And guilt is heavy. It breaks the back.

I digress here, so to come back around to my point a bit, at the auditions I was struck by something. Only a select few of the actors were going to get a role in that show. Obviously, that created Musical Chairs anxiety. That tension led us all to chat while we waited to audition. Many of us were self-deprecating, some falsely, some not. We consoled and encouraged one another, some falsely, some not. I myself walked the lying line as I told people their best qualities and avoided further quantification.

My epiphany came around the time I had relaxed enough to chat up my scene partner before I went in to read a second time. I genuinely liked him. I breached etiquette a bit, asking him questions about his preferred role and how he was going to read. But if he were to get even my preferred role and not me, I would hold no ill will. Hell, I don’t think he’s even any better or worse than I am for any role. There are some people who I would not consider for certain roles were I the director, to be sure, but therein lies the rub of this whole thing.

There’s a freedom that comes with not being the director and with realizing that the director is human. They have preferences and biases. They cast based on talent, hopefully, but they also cast based on their own prejudices, visual and otherwise. No matter how well I read for a role, I might not fit the director’s vision. Actors tell each other this all the time to deaden the sting of not being cast, but why should there be any sting at all?

It’s the sometimes arbitrary choice of a director. Taking it personally… well, that’s just silly. To get a little Harvey Dent on the problem, the only constant in the process is chance. You perform at your best, but even at the genetic level, chance is in control of your destiny in this area.

This also eliminates the desire for catty behavior toward other actors. They are all just trying to make it. Maybe some of them are prettier, or skinnier, or have naturally superb voices, or were born in to circumstances that let them train from birth to become performers, or whatever. You study your craft, you show what you’ve got, you attempt to improve, but at any one audition, the choice is often arbitrary. Feeling unreasoning spite toward your “competition” is entirely baseless and fruitless.

And that’s how I approach it. A warm, hale handshake. A welcoming smile. Praise when it is deserved. Encouragement when it is needed. Openness to the experience. Embracing not only the butterflies, but the fragile souls of your fellow artists because they are brothers- and sisters-in-arms. They are brave in the face of vulnerability. We’re in this fight together, after all.

Today:

1. Interspersed large projects between IA and Subversion tutoring meetings.
2. Run home fast to pick up back door key for new tenants.
3. Run to old place. Turn in key, get security deposit, possibly any boxes left over.
4. Run to South Milwaukee PAC for community theater meeting.
5. Run to Whitefish Bay for last rehearsal of the week.
6. Work on design for web site for new freelance people in NYC.

Today:

1. Try to finish all work built up from week.
2. Print up choreography for stage combat class.
3. Pick up garage key from new landlord.
4. Visit with out of town friends Friday night.

This weekend:

1. Teach last 3-hour stage combat class for middle schoolers early Saturday morning.
2. Company picnic Saturday afternoon.
3. Visit with out of town friends Saturday night.
4. Finish freelance web site Sunday morning.
5. Oversee stage combat performance on Sunday afternoon.

Somewhere in there, I might sleep and eat. Unpacking will have to wait another week.

I did not write today.
I deserve no forgiveness
and no shame.
I did not write today.
Another day less fettered
I will put thoughts into words into bytes into ether into eyes into thoughts.
I did not write today
and the world stayed the same.
I did not write today.
But I wanted to.

This weekend for me was one of labor. The Frantals had me over to help build some shelves. It seemed like it would have been easier going if we had some different drivers, but all-in-all, I would call it a success. The larger two of the four units we had planned are up and functioning. The shelves are damned sturdy in construction and should last them a good long while.
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