Scene Twelve.

It's hilarious to me the way the things I write about in my plays end up actually applying to my life, even though I wrote them about a year before. It's mostly the scene with Jack and Gloria in the hospital from The Sidewalk - their discussion on the sort of existential separation of mind from soul and body, and the gigantic BITCH that is the decision making process. I sit here on my bed, way too early in the morning, and wonder about what I should do about so many things in my life that aren't what they should be, or what I expect them to be, or what I wish they would be. I have tired and tried and tried to come up with a solution to get me out of this frustrated rut, but nothing seems wiling or able to excavate the mines and lift my little cart up to sunshine. It's not that I'm depressed by my dilemmas, but it is a severe weight on my shoulders that I want lifted, that I want fixed, that I want to return to some state or normalcy. My life has changed infinitely in the past year: I made some really great friends that I cherish quite a bit, I've seen (and created) some fantastic theatre that has only reinvigorated my passion for this craft, and I met and began an amazing relationship with someone that I consider to be one of the most perfect, amazing, wonderful human beings in the world. But therein lies my quandary. I never stopped to think that it could all be too good to be true, but lo and behold it snuck up on me and proved that my thinking about it does not stop things from taking a turn for the worse - but that's an overstatement: from creating new challenges to get over in my life, things I have to beat the shit out of in order to get back to the good. Break open the coconut with the machete so you can drink the juice, Lane. I'm trying, Blog Voice. I'm trying.

Note To Self.

Remember this:

You are lucky. What you have is incredible.
Do not take it for granted.

Morning Reading.

I cried this morning, because I re-read this:

"Then I get home, and I have one of the most fantastic conversations with a friend of mine. Who I sorta like. And he sorta likes me back. And it feels SO good to feel that again. Nothing's certain, of course, because he doesn't know me that well and he could end up not wanting to date me. But, somehow, I have a really good feeling about this. Like, all of the pent up waiting and awkward real life sightings of one another are almost like a romantic comedy status movie. I'm just waiting for the "we both have a bad day, and suddenly we actually run into each other moments and everything gets better". He makes me really happy. He's smart, witty, loves theater (but doesn't live, breath, and do his laundry in it), is attractive, and is an all around amazing guy."


I love you.

People Like Us.

This song is BRILLIANT. Get thee to iTunes and buy it right now.

People Like Us
by Michael John LaChiusa


QUEENIE
Oh, the city. So many lights you can actually pretend one of them's shining on you.

Always wanted to see the lights of Broadway.
I always wanted to hear the traffic roar.
I always wanted to be a part
Of New York City's great big heart.
And now I am. I couldn't ask for..

I was that girl. I'm all of them. Trapped in a room full of shadows and not enough light. And soon we will fade away, into the walls, into nothingness. The end.

BLACK
People like us: We get through the day
Surviving the city way better than most.
We go through the motions
From nightcap to nightcap:
Here but not here.
With the heart of a ghost.
People like us: We meet up some night
In a room full of strangers who call themselves friends:
It feels like a dream
But it's too hard to tell
Where the dream begins
And the real world ends-
And where- where do we belong?
We might have to ask ourselves:
Where- where do we belong?
People like us:
Private stock.
Where?

QUEENIE
People like us. We take lovers like pills.
Just hoping to cure what we know we can't fix.
And we'll lay in their arms
And we'll say pretty things:
We'll be there but not there
But we'll still get our kicks-
People like us: We sure get our kicks:
And we heal awful fast and we don't even scar:
We are here but not here
Ina roomful of friends
We could join in the fray
Or stay here where we are-
And where- where do we belong? BLACK: Where?
Do we need to ask ourselves
Where- where do we belong? BLACK: Where?
People like us:
Damaged goods. Where? BLACK: Where?

BLACK
We dance alone on a crowded floor.

QUEENIE
We weren't given much.

BLACK
And we don't expect much more...

QUEENIE
-"More" is not a word we use.

BLACK
"More" would never be enough

BOTH
People like us: We slip by through the cracks
We'll never be famous. So who's gonna care?
Nobody needs us
And everyone's had us-
We're here but not here:
We've been there but not there-
And where- where do we belong?
We only have ourselves.
Where- where do we belong?

QUEENIE
People like us.
Lost.

BLACK
And found.

BOTH
Where...?
Where...?

You've Got To Be Carefully Taught.

A couple days ago, as I sat in the waiting room of the dentist's office, I rolled my eyes and readjusted my position as two families of children came pouring inside, loud, rambunctious, and altogether way too excited to be at the dentist. There was an Asian woman who, mysteriously, had a blonde/blue-eyed son, about six, and a dark haired daughter who was probably four. Following them was an elderly Mexican man with a great shock of white hair and eyebrows, and a Looney Tunes-eyed boy and his sister, who were four and three respectively. (I know this because they told practically everyone in the room.)

As strange or unexpected as this may seem, the children found each other and began running crazily around the small room, screaming their heads off about nothing in general and jumping off the chairs, shouting "ka-pow!" and "ka-zam!" as they did. Eventually, they realized that Elmo's World was playing on the TV above their heads, so they stopped and turned their attention upward, laughing hysterically at things that were far from amusing.

I found myself thinking back on my childhood, when I would have found that very joke hilarious, and would not have realized the network's sly didacticism sneaking its way through the airwaves. I also would not have known what didacticism was, even if I had been aware of it.

A song started and the little girl grabbed her new female friend and they began to dance in the way that only small children can. Her brother was quick to pull his sister away and say, "Let's all dance! You dance with me and she can dance with him. Boy with girl." He put his arms where society taught him they were supposed to be. His sister pulled away: "No, I want to dance with her. You dance with him," and quickly reunited with her first partner. The blonde boy, clearly the oldest and wisest of the group, turned to the other boy, reached out his hands, and said simply, "Do you want to dance?"

Something in that moment made it very clear how our culture teaches us, as we grow up, that men dance with women and that's the only possible combination. We're not aware of same-sex couples (unless our parents are such) and, conversely, we're not aware that there is anything wrong with two men taking hands and shaking their groove thing. We only know what we are taught, and seeing this rendered the delicate nature of parenting all the more apparent to me, and made the importance of future parents teaching their children that there is nothing to be ashamed of just that - important.

A few weeks ago, Hunter and I were walking into the movie theater from the parking garage and a car sped by behind us as the man in the passenger seat shouted a homophobic epithet at us. We weren't holding hands, we weren't even close to each other. It was the first time that someone had ever said something like that to me, outside of a friendly jest, and it was the first time that I had realized that even when we're not touching in any way, it is still clear that we're a couple. Being gay isn't something that goes away depending on your action. It's something that sticks to you, that flies around the air, and, apparently, causes those who were taught that homosexuality is wrong to be disgusted by your having a conversation with the man you love. I was not offended at all, and it hasn't affected me in any way, insofar as I think about that man in the car and why he can't (or won't) realize that we're just like him...

Only smarter, nicer, and more attractive.

All I Ask is a Chair That Tilts...

As Heath Ledger's Joker says in The Dark Knight: I'm a man of simple tastes.

It doesn't take a lot to make me happy, to please me. My favorite things are, for the most part, miniscule and, to most, unimportant, but these little things bring me unimaginable joy and make life worth living. Of course, I do enjoy big things - new cell phones and iPods, vacations, etc., but I find those things meaningless in the grand scheme of life; in the bigger picture. I have compiled today a sampling of the things that are meaningful to me - the things that make me incomprehensibly giddy - the things that make me love this crazy thing I call my life. (This is, by no means, an all-inclusive list.)

Joni Mitchell's soprano and the baritone of Rufus Wainwright, the strings in "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon, good acting, being scared shitless in a movie, a well-sung Sondheim tune, when Michael John surprises me, William Finn and Fred Ebb's sense of humor and ability to break my heart, seeing Hunter smile and listening to him talk about Dreamchild, hearing Heather say something mean or seeing her laugh, how my mom calls me Lanny, Sherie's "And totally miiiiine" riff in "I Can Do Better Than That," inside jokes with my sister about our family and watching trashy MTV with her, opening a new CD, finishing a really amazing book and closing the cover, going to Sam French and being so conflicted about what to buy, laughing out loud at something funny when no one else is around, remembering when Kelly was our best friend and how excited a new cast recording would make her, writing anything at all - no matter how small or stupid it is

The world is good, she said.
Enjoy its shit, she said.
'Cause this is it, she said...

Things I Found Under the Seats in My Car Today.

- Pay stubs for four weeks
- An empty Target bag
- An empty Barnes & Noble bag
- A receipt from Panera, a receipt from Mythos, a receipt from Starbucks, a receipt from the Starbucks in Barnes & Noble
- Three pens
- Six water bottles in various states of consumption
- Two empty half-size cans of Sprite from Heather's house
- An empty Starbucks cup with "Blaine" written on the side
- A newspaper from July 9th
- Directions to Hirshee's house and then to the Morgan-Wixon Theatre
- A program from Songs From An Unmade Bed
- "How I Paid for College" by Marc Acito
- A Samuel French bookmark that I'm pretty sure came out of "How I Paid for College"
- Disc One of the Rent OBCR

3:15.

I feel every minute pass through my body;
Every second, every millisecond, everything.
I don't know what to do, but stare at the ceiling
Until I pick up someone else's pen
And write.

It still feels like forever,
These last 15 minutes.
It feels like a never-ending sequence of more time
And more time and more time, etc.
Like it will never stop,
Like my eyes will never dry,
And like my head will fall off
And plummet to the floor
And roll down to my mother's desk
Where she'll pick it up and cry.

My hand feels every word I put down.
It's exhausting even to write,
And I pray for my thoughts to stop coming
To save my appendage.

turkey sandwich bagel tour ballroom grass water bench Kane ditching class and Ravenhill I'm rest as corny

I am.
& crazy.

Bursting with Surprise.

I don't think my love for Sondheim has a depth.

I've listened to Evening Primrose probably a hundred times. I know basically every word by heart, and, during my obsession-with-Neil-Patrick-Harris phase, there wasn't a second when at least his songs weren't blaring from my speakers.

But today, while driving around Palmdale, the air conditioner on full blast and the volume turned up louder than the air coursing through the vents, I was brought to tears by the beauty of this piece, by the simple, incredible, gorgeous poetry that Sondheim has constructed, and the way that poetry sits on the music and on the voices of Neil and Theresa McCarthy or, in today's case, Anthony Perkins and Charmian Carr. I honestly cannot think of anything at this precise moment that is more beautiful or breathtaking than the four songs that comprise the score.

Things in life are so uncertain, and there are so many highs and lows, but the one constant in my life for the past seven years, since I sat in a little theatre in West Virginia and saw a production of Into the Woods and bawled my way through "No One Is Alone," has been my love of the music of Stephen Sondheim. He was there when I was lonely, when I was confused, when I came out, when I didn't get along with my parents and almost completely lost track of my life, when I regained it, when I grew up.

This is the nerdiest post anyone has ever seen, but, honestly, the boundaries of my connection to his music do not exist.

Too Much To Think About At One Time.

I'm sitting here on my bed waiting to leave for the theatre, and I'm thinking of how much different my life is now than when I began this play nine months ago. I'm thinking about how I felt like I didn't have any friends at school, how I felt like my life was a complete failure, and how I honestly thought about dropping out, coming home, and working at U.S. Pole until something better came along. I'm thinking about how stupid I was, how I cared about things that didn't even matter, and how I wrote this play out of nothing but raw emotions and severe depression. It's amazing to think of how much of that - of me - is present in these characters, and how much of that emotional nonsense runs through the dialogue. I'm not saying that makes it bad, but this is definitely a play about feelings and thoughts, not about actions at all, which makes sense since I wasn't doing anything when I wrote it.

I'm thinking about the chair in our hotel room in San Francisco, and how I sat in it until one or two in the morning in the pitch black, the only light coming from my screen, and finished the last four or five scenes of the play while my family slept and I tried to shake the memory of the Color Purple tour that I'd just seen.

I'm thinking about taking this picture as soon as I'd finished the play, the headphones still in my ears from transcribing the Cole Porter lyrics from the Anything Goes revival recording.

I'm thinking about the people who are going to come and see this play. I'm thinking about the reactions they'll have to the language, to the kiss, and to the end. I'm thinking about old women covering their ears, either to avoid hearing another "fuck" or to protect what little hearing they have left from the "loud" music. I'm thinking about how some (read: most) people won't understand it, and how we're not trying to tell you What It Means, or What to Think. I'm thinking of this summer, of all the things that have happened, and how some of the words that I say in this play, or that other people say, mean so much more to me now than I ever thought they could.

At Five in the Morning.

I can't sleep.

I can't remember the last time I actually slept under my sheets and blankets, instead of on top of them all, covered only by a brown throw my mother got from Target when I complained about freezing my ass off in my dorm room. I sleep on top of the bedding for no apparent reason, just because I think it's comfortable, because it reminds me of taking a nap, and because this way I don't have to make my bed.

When I was little, I was plagued by horrible cases of insomnia that were not, in fact, insomnia, but the inability to sleep due to an overactive imagination and an irrational fear that something was going to happen to me while I was sleeping. This is what happens when your parents let you watch whatever the hell you want on TV before you are rational enough to distinguish between fiction and non. I remember seeing the first ten minutes of an episode of Law and Order where Jerry Orbach or Jesse L. Martin or someone discovered a woman murdered in her bed, her arm splayed over the side, hanging limp and dripping blood. For a good four months I slept with my arms under my body, as if this would prevent that from happening to me.

Eventually I got over it, and I was able to sleep soundly and effortlessly every night, with a few exceptions including the night before the first day of school every year and my first night in Canyon Point A6-304B. It isn't that I am falling back into my old habits tonight, it's just that I have a lot going on in my brain - too much to let it rest long enough to fall into that static-y haze necessary to bring about sleep.

I think about The Sidewalk and how big of a deal this is for me; how this is the next step for me, and although it isn't much of a step at all, it is a chance, once again to prove myself, to show people that I know what I'm doing, that I am a talented capable director, and that I can act, believe it or not. It feels foolish to have to constantly prove myself to the people in this town, when, at UCLA, I never felt that I had to prove anything. Here, Cabaret showed the 300+ people that saw it that I think differently than the other people in Antelope Valley theatre, which isn't saying much, but it's something. Yet I was still passed over numerous times (and once quite noticeably - and offensively) for directing slots this year, gaining the spot I have by my own self-promotion and Danise's apparent approval of the script. As much as I would rather be working on a musical right now - or on a play that I didn't write, I'm happy to be bringing this piece to audiences (albeit only two of them) and grateful to be given the chance to share these stories with people who are not used or accustomed to the kind of play that I have written. While its structure, content, and style may seem commonplace and maybe even trite and boring in larger, more cultured communities, here, in the good ol' A.V., it is radical, new, and unexpected. After all, this is the town of The Fairy Godmother Flies and Glama and whatever that melodrama show was that Palmdale Repertory Theatre produced this year that I didn't see. This is the town of asinine, absurd, sub-par original works that are treated with the same "let's-put-on-a-show!" lack of seriousness and devotion that has made me leave shows at intermission once or twice in the past. And by "once or twice," I hope you know what I mean. I try to be open minded - I try to sit through shows if there are redeeming factors. I mean, I saw Homer in Cyberspace TWICE, for the love of God. But the lack of professionalism - and not just the lack, the complete disregard for professionalism - in the Antelope Valley is what I have been saying for years is my battle, is what I am trying to change, is what I need to conquer. I respect these towns and the theatre here, because, without it, I probably would not have decided to devote my life to theatre. Without it, I wouldn't know that it's bad, I wouldn't know that there is anything to change or fix. I would just be doing plays in my spare time and spending the rest of it doing God only knows what. That's why I care so much. That's why I want to elevate the theatre here to the next level, to the level and respect that Los Angeles and New York and even smaller towns have for the most beautiful art form ever created.

I also think about Hunter, while I'm lying here in the blue TV screen light. I think about how I miss him when we're not together, I think about how amazingly lucky I have been these past three and a half months, and how grateful I am for him, for his love, and for the ability to love him. I think about how amazing he is, and how he can fight the hell out of this - that if anyone can kick the shit out of cancer, it's him - the strongest, most incredible, beautiful human being that ever existed. I think about him sleeping yesterday, his fingers interlaced with mine, and his face resting on my other hand. I think about watching him and seeing him (which are not the same thing) and knowing that there is nothing to be afraid of, and no reason to be scared about anything - cancer, my show, school - not anything. I think about him imitating Wall-E today, and making a joke about skeletons in the closet a couple weeks ago, and I smile and I relax and I mellow out.

Life and love are beautiful things, and I have learned, just recently, not to take either for granted.

I'm going to sleep now.
Good morning.

Sestina.

He asks him to take his hand
And lead him to the quiet,
And the shelter, and the peace
Of the non-existant minutes
Falling off the planet as we speak
Into apocalyptic finality and joy.

He speaks of this everlasting joy:
Of lips touching, and also a hand,
That claps onto everything awful they speak
And renders it calm and quiet.
Together they sit for endless minutes,
And dream of nothing but serenity and peace.

Regretting a lack of said peace
Would seem foolish, and devoid of joy,
And would give weight to the minutes,
And drown the silence, and shatter the steadfast hand.
Instead they praise their quiet,
And love, hope, and humor is all they speak.

In fact, these things they speak
Are those that do exist and form their own peace.
These things are anything but quiet
And resound and echo and scream with joy
At the reunion and the joining of the hand
With the other after thousands of separate minutes.

And when there is nothing left but minutes,
Nothing left to do and nothing left to speak,
All that they will have is his hand in his hand
To offer some solace and peace.
If all is certain and solid, they'll have the joy
To take with them into the deep deep quiet.

Forever falling into the perpetual quiet
Will be nothing next to exuberant minutes
Spent vomiting laughter and cleaning up joy
And knowing there is no need to thank or speak,
Just a need to absorb the sonorous peace
And grasp your lover's hand.

In the quiet, they do not speak,
But, as minutes pass, he takes his hand,
And joy floods cities and they are taken over by peace.

Shows I Must Direct Before I Die.

Carousel by Rodgers and Hammerstein
Elegies: A Song Cycle by William Finn
Evita by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice
Falsettos by William Finn and James Lapine
Follies by Stephen Sondheim and James Goldman
Hello Again by Michael John LaChiusa
Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine
A Little Night Music by Stephen Sondheim and Hugh Wheeler
A New Brain by William Finn and James Lapine
Rent by Jonathan Larson
Songs for a New World by Jason Robert Brown
Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine

SHOWS I WOULDN'T MIND DIRECTING...
bare: a pop opera by Jon Hatmere, Jr. and Damon Intrabartolo
Bright Lights, Big City by Paul Scott Goodman
Company by Stephen Sondheim and George Furth
Edges: A Song Cycle by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul
Gypsy by Arthur Laurents, Jule Styne, and Stephen Sondheim
The Last Five Years by Jason Robert Brown
Passion by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine
Ragtime by Terrence McNally, Lynn Ahrens, and Stephen Flaherty
The Wild Party by Andrew Lippa

Cowabunga.

Something happened today that made me realize the true depth of my feelings. I was sitting here and all of a sudden I was washed over with this emotional tidal wave and when I toweled off and made it back to dry land, I was aware and certain of how I feel and how it's more than anything I've ever felt or known before.

The Cast.

Most of my worry was for naught. We ended up with a phenomenal cast, and I can't wait to dive into rehearsals.

The original cast of THE SIDEWALK is as follows:

TAYLOR BRADLEY | Rebecca/Sara
TYLER HECKATHORN | Carey/Isaac
JILL RYAN | Diann/Anna
PEGGY SELF | Gloria/Dr. Howard
LANE WILLIAMSON | Cole/Rhodes
ADAM WILSON | Jack/Billy

Stress-Induced Post.

Stress Face Number One.

And so the blogs about directing The Sidewalk commence. I find myself at home in the middle of the week, for the first time since Spring Break, and doing nothing but worrying myself into a complete and utter state of idiotic panic. Auditions are on Friday for the first major show I've directed since Cabaret (December of 2006), and I am still not caught up from the marathon weekend that was last Thursday-Sunday's performances of The Medium at UCLA. I feel entirely unprepared to charge into the theatre and see the amateur actors of the Antelope Valley bring my words to life. It seems as if most of the people I was counting on to come in and make this play good are turning their backs on the project for whatever miniscule, trivial reason they can think of. Which doesn't make any sense to me, as at least one of them has repeatedly told me how much he enjoys working with me as a director, and how much he respects me as an artist. GET OVER YOURSELF AND DO THE FUCKING SHOW. You know how people describe a feeling of drowning when everything seems to be coming on top of them? A feeling of suffocation, like they can't escape some sort of impending doom? Yeah. That's exactly how I feel. And what's worse is that I don't feel like I'm giving Hunter as much time as he deserves, I feel like I've been so preoccupied with this ridiculous, meaningless shit that I haven't been able to devote my time and my brain to the one thing in my life that actually deserves it. I should be with him right now in the gayest theatre in West Hollywood, seeing a super gay song cycle, and feeling that indescribable sensation that sweeps over me whenever I'm near him. I should be telling him how much he means to me and how grateful I am to have him in my life, and how none of this STUPID shit matters. But no. I'm here, sitting on my bed in Lancaster, staring at my unopened script, afraid to open it and do some actual work because I'm scared to death of the things I have to pull together in the next sixty-one days. I tell myself that if this were someone else's play, I wouldn't be so upset about it. I wouldn't be so nervous that I'm going to end up with three or four completely untalented actors that I'm forced to work with. I wouldn't be so frustrated about re-doing the scheduling over and over and over again. I wouldn't be so physically, emotionally, and mentally sick right now. I would be happy, and excited, and prepared. But this is the child of my brain - the first actual, real, big production of something that was created entirely by my brain cells and fingertips. Sure, I've directed my plays before, but at Highland, with people I knew would be amazing. I'm just in the mood to complain, clearly, and you, lucky blog readers, get to waste your time with my inane rambling. I apologize, I just need to get some of this out - to cleanse my system of this unnecessary worry. I'm sure it will work out, actually, and I'm sure Hunter understands, and I'm sure that once I slap the world in the face, it will wake up and realize it should stop treating me like crap.

Show Queen.

In the past week, I have listened to the following recordings for the first time:

Adding Machine
A Catered Affair
In the Heights
Gone Missing
The Magic Show
Passing Strange
South Pacific (Revival)

and then, I turned on Assassins and realized how much I actually do love Sondheim more than anything else. Ever.

Notation.

I found a notebook in my desk today with several pages outlining play ideas and other miscellaneous crap from last summer and as I am reading over these things, I can't help but laugh at the ridiculous way my brain works. These notes are unfiltered streams of consciousness in which I wrote down every single thing that popped into my head. I thought I'd share a bit, just for a laugh.

First page:

WORKING TITLES
-Cream and Sugar: something to do with coffee, obviously, with making things taste better/differently, lightening dark things?
-First and Second (And Third and Fourth): original idea was a numbering of the scenes like this - four scenes in the play, a full-length one-act, or with a 2/2 interval, but needs some significance to his life, some relation - relationships, marriages (but he's not old enough and that would be insanely comical), what are some things that we number? Things that we say are first and second, etc. Dates. Calendar dates. The first of the month, etc. Also - romantic dates. First date. Series of dates maybe? Two-person play in a restaurant or two "story" characters, and outside visions/memories, like a comment play. Perhaps a good idea. Also - cream and sugar. Coffee in the restaurant. Got it.

Second page:

CHARACTER SKETCH
Who is Marshall Best? Marshall is the character who keeps appearing in all my work. You should be well acquainted by now. Marshall is twenty-something, gay, an artist - but not a painter. Or is he? A photographer, maybe? Try to stay away from playwrights/directors/actors. This is a man who captures the world not with words, but with images. "Who's with his camera - alone?!" A sort of Mark Cohen sans any sort of relation to Anthony Rapp. More of a Jed Resnick Mark. FOCUS! So he's a photographer, is he? Very well. Let's use our favorite Isherwood quote as a frontice piece (sp?) A concept, perhaps. The images are developing. The someday is now. Mid-life crisis before he reaches middle age. Maybe he should be older. Like [NAME REMOVED]. Maybe I could use that. Yes! Perfect, I think we've stumbled onto the essence. He has just been dumped by his long-term boyfriend and his life is crumbling as he nears his birthday. He goes on the date (one date, not four) and everything sort of peters out. Maybe he sees his ex in the restaurant. Exposure! Good title. Exposure or something else. Don't Touch the Negatives or something. Too hokey. But is Exposure too dramatic? One would think so. I guess we can try it out. -

Third page:

EXPOSURE a play by Lane Williamson
*An Outline of Sorts*
Things That Need To Happen
1. Establish his age, his backstory, that he is just coming froma relationship
2. Other possible characters
-Mother/Father
-Boyfriend
-Teenage Student
-Neighbor w/a Crush
-Musician friend
-One-night stand
-A waiter in "real time"
3. Lived with his father, mother killed herself maybe - "the pressure of the world is just too much" something like that, father alcoholic, abusive, no! He's a nice guy.
4. Teenage student trying to get into his pants, thinks it will further his career, help him along, not teens - twenties

Fourth page:

RESEARCH
1. Rent "Pollock"

Fifth page:

AND ONE
(Marshall Best, late-thirties, sits in a restaurant sipping a glass of wine and waiting. Soft piano music in the background and the quiet lighting of a bar. It is very dark and somewhat murky. [The following two sentences are crossed out:] Something is different about Marshall. We don't know what. [Back to normal:] A bright light suddenly flashes across the stage and we hear a click! as it appears. As it quickly dissipates, another man, Lloyd Charles (new name!) appears. He tentatively makes his way to Marshall's table.)
LLOYD: Marshall?
MARSHALL: Mm. You must be Lloyd.
LLOYD: Yes. I am. Hello.
MARSHALL: Hi. Please. Sit down.
LLOYD: Thanks. I've, uh, I've never been here before.
MARSHALL: Nor have I.
LLOYD: Really? How'd you choose it, then?
MARSHALL: I know the pianist.
LLOYD: Oh. Oh.
MARSHALL: Funny word. "Pianist."
LLOYD: I know people who say "Pi-AN-ist" to avoid the obvious homonym. (?)
MARSHALL: It is "pianist," isn't it?
LLOYD: I'm pretty sure.
MARSHALL: And you're an English professor, aren't you?
LLOYD: Yes. Yes. I am. You're a - photographer?
MARSHALL: Yes. When I was a child, I wanted to be a painter, but I didn't like getting paint on my hands, so I switched to plastic and film.
LLOYD: I see. (Aha.)
MARSHALL: It's much easier this way. And with the trends in modern art being what they are...Ah, [scribble] But I don't want to bore you.
LLOYD: Oh, no. I love art. I just saw an exhibit of some Pollocks the other day and was - amazed, I suppose, at the - the technique and apparent passion in each one. You can see the blood, sweat, and tears that went into each one.
MARSHALL: Yes, I agree. As much as I despise that type of work, you can't help but ["deny" is crossed out] appreciate the commitment. Pollock and Rothko and about the only modern painters I can stand.
LLOYD: I believe I have some notecards somewhere at home with Rothko prints on the front. Wonderful, just wonderful. [I have notecards with Rothko prints.]
MARSHALL: What ["sort" is crossed out] kind of English do you teach? I mean, are you a classicist or modernist or romanticist?
LLOYD: (laughing) I teach dramatic literature. Modern mostly. From Williams and Miller on. My students claim I'm biased toward Stoppard, but I find I'm more of an Albee person.
MARSHALL: Albee is absurdist, no?
LLOYD: Not absurdist in the terms of Beckett and Ionesco, but yes.
MARSHALL: And explain to me how Virginia Woolf is absurdist.
LLOYD: The actual woman or the play?
MARSHALL: The play.
LLOYD: Well...it's not, really. I suppose there are very flimsy arguments to support the converse (?), but I wouldn't call it absurdist.
MARSHALL: Nor would I.
LLOYD: Did you see it with Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin?
MARSHALL: Yes.
LLOYD: Brilliant. I thought, "If I die right now, let God speak like Kathleen Turner."
(Marshall laughs.)

[And then I abandoned it, because it's awful.]

Sixth page (stop reading when you're bored):

The shape they took in his mind led him to think that they weren't that bad. Together, they fit like pieces from different jigsaw puzzles, pieces that weren't meant to be together, but, if you pushed hard enough, snapped into a semblance of unity. They were all different, all different in appearance, personality, and disposition: some were actors, some chefs, some were computer nerds, some were handsome, some were beautiful, some were ugly as sin. Some loved him, some liked him, and some grew tired. And, in truth, he had grown tired, too. Tired of waiting for magic, of waiting for love, of waiting for the pieces to come together. And so was the start of his new outlook, of his new life."

Seventh page:

Nexus?

Prisoner in cell being doused
w/buckets of cold water
to force him to stay awake.
He screams and jumps forward
and the chair legs walk
across the cement. He is
drenched, terrifying.

Eighth page:

Sonnet I

If words were more than two dimensional
And time a greater judge of things to come
If things we said were unintentional
Who are the souls whose love we would become?
Were they the warriors of olden days
Whose fight was brave and strong (or so we hear)
Perhaps they leapt from cubicles ablaze
And flew with smoke and steel and dread and fear
We live our life in fractured, hollow shells
We're victims of events we can't control
We don't recall the tales our father tells
We know not what our days will now unroll
But if your love is really there and true
Who knows just what these feeble hearts could do?

Villanelle.

It’s at the base, it is my core.
What’s left is left inside it there.
And still I love you even more.

It says the things we can’t ignore,
And shakes and shivers through the air.
It’s at the base, it is my core.

I put my eyes down on the floor
And firm, soft arms do me impair.
And still I love you even more.

It comes and fights until we’re sure
Enough to break the final stare.
It’s at the base, it is my core.

Excuse the thoughts that out I pour,
For these lone words can’t stand as fair.
And still I love you even more.

I’ve lost the days I had before
And all I am I long to share.
It’s at the base, it is my core.
And still I love you even more.

Little Bit of Praise.

I have to take a moment to praise ABC. Recently, the network has taken great steps in incorporating important gay stories into its shows, and every little bit is a step toward awareness, toward acceptance, and toward intelligence about gay lifestyles and same sex relationships. The Kevin/Scotty storyline from Brothers and Sisters culminated in what is, to my knowledge, the first homosexual commitment ceremony on network television, and one of the most beautiful, romantic proposal scenes ever written. On Grey's Anatomy, inarguably one of the network's most popular shows, two gay soldiers made out for an extended period of time in bright light, not hidden or obscured by a hand, a flower arrangement, or a window pane. I applaud you, ABC, for your guts, for daring to open eyes, and for maintaining quality programming when other networks fall victim to mindless sitcoms and ridiculous reality shows.

I have
never
wanted anything
so much
in my life

and I have it
now
finally

don't go
anywhere.

I'm Gonna Spend My Time This Way.

WHY...
...can I not have a car here?
...is Acting at nine in the morning?
...do I care that I have class at nine in the morning, when I had class at 7 in the morning for the last four years?
...am I happy regardless of these problems?
...did I ask that when I already know the answer?
...did the programming schedule tell me I was taping last week's episode of "Step It Up and Dance" when, in reality, I was actually taping "Inside the Actor's Studio" with Matt Damon?
...am I so fucking exhausted?
...can we not be together every day?
...does everything make me think of him?
...did I eat so much today?
...am I not a huge cow?
...am I typing everything I think?
...do I miss my mom right now?
...do I love that everything makes me think of him?

Oh, right. Because I love him.

L

My, How Lucky!

Please read the following e-mail I received from the T.A. in my Acting I class this afternoon:

"Dear Class, I hope you are all enjoying this class and that your quarter is rocking right along your way. I very much look forward to our progression together. I have spoken to Gulu and we have agreed that it is necessary to set a few guidelines for the class. The particulars of these guidelines are attendance and attitude. Last Friday eight students were absent from class. That is one third of the entire class, which is unacceptable. Attached is a syllabus outlining the attendance policy for the class. Each student is allowed one unexcused absence. For twelve students in the class the unexcused absence has been exhausted. If you think that you might be one of those students please feel free to contact me. I would like to say a few things. I think that this is one of the best programs in the country. I have seen undergraduates from this school hold their own quite well with Yale Grad students, Julliard students and professionals. You should all take pride in the fact that you are here. You should also remember that for each one of you here,there are at least twenty people who didn't get to be a part of this. What you are being asked to learn in this class relates to any character you will ever play and any type of performance (Classical, Contemporary, Absurdist, Commedia, Film, you name it). You have the chance to craft the way that your mind and body works. Don't take it for granted! I have also been watching you guys. I think I learn just as much from listening to and watching you as from practicing my own work. I hope that will be the same for us all. Across the board you all have what it takes physically, vocally and intellectually. Whether you will take the raw materials and talent that have earned you your place here and transform it into skill is a question of discipline. You are the first freshman class to be allowed an acting class. The attendance policy speaks for itself. What I want to address is the environment we are creating. When your classmates are working, you are expected to give them your attention. If someone is whispering and giggling or whatever and I hear it, then the classmate who is working or Gulu can probably hear it. Some part of their attention which should be focused on the task at hand will be directed to that person and their selfishness. That is not fair. You should ask yourself this question: How does one grade a class like this? There are no tests, quizzes, or papers. I think you'll find that it boils down to whether or not you show up and when you do, does your attitude contribute or detract. It will always be that way. I think you are all doing wonderful work and hope to make this the best opportunity possible for all of you."


One of the few things I dislike about this program is the persistent need that professors and teaching assistants feel to remind us how lucky we are, how grateful we should be, and how extraordinary what we're doing really is. WE KNOW. Trust us. We are all more than aware that the planets were in perfect alignment on our audition day and Zeus was watching over us and Jesus was in the pencil of the man or woman watching our audition and conducting our interview. We see the work being produced here and the actors in grades above us and we know that you, my dear TFT, are churning out some damn fine actors. And we want to be one of them. WE DO. The constant haranguing doesn't do anything to support our love of the program, it just makes us drained, exhausted, and likely to YAWN even more. I don't mean to complain. No, actually, I do. We don't need to hear your speeches anymore. We know we can touch Shakespeare's folio, we know that you are probably a good teacher even if you are crazy and choose not to wear underwear. Give it a rest. For the love of God, give it a rest.

Untitled Blog on the Theme of Discovery of One's Passion.

Tonight I realized what I'm meant to do.
I found my passion, once and for all.

Directing it is.
I know for certain now.

Thank you, Abraham, for letting me work with you tonight and for being a responsive, ready, willing, and capable actor.

It felt good.
It was exhilarating.
I am very happy.

I need to do it.
I need to express my vision.
I'm sick of helping out other people and doing nothing of my own, not that I don't love helping, but I want to create something new, something made from scratch instead of stirring someone else's batter.

Hopefully I'll get the opportunity.

Top 25 Most Played.

Just because I think it's interesting.

1. Save the Last Dance for Me - The Drifters
2. You're So Vain - Carly Simon
3. When My Boy Walks Down the Street - The Magnetic Fields
4. These Days - Nico
5. Suffused With Love - Sondre Lerche
6. Love to Me (demo) - Adam Guettel
7. It's Gonna Take a Miracle - Laura Nyro
8. Beauty Mark - Rufus Wainwright
9. Vicious World - Rufus Wainwright
10. My Old Man - Joni Mitchell
11. A Case of You - Joni Mitchell
12. Falling In Love At a Coffee Shop - Landon Pigg
13. Oh My - Office
14. Castle-Time - Chris Garneau
15. Manhattan - Dinah Washington
16. You Get What You Give - New Radicals
17. My Phone's On Vibrate For You - Rufus Wainwright
18. I Can't Decide - Scissor Sisters
19. Another Sunny Day - Belle & Sebastian
20. Perfect, Finite - Michael Winter, Songs from an Unmade Bed
21. Take Your Mama - Scissor Sisters
22. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters - Elton John
23. All I Want - Joni Mitchell
24. Go or Go Ahead - Rufus Wainwright
25. Hero and Leander - Adam Guettel, Myths & Hymns

Vindication.

It feels good.
It really does.

Chug Chug Chug.

In the past few days I have seen alcohol practically wreck the lives of most of my really close friends.

My roommate was passed out outside our building throwing up between the hours of 3 and 6am this morning.
Is my entire group of friends hanging by loose threads right now because of alcohol? YES.
Is it stupid as hell? Yes yes yes.

I just want this to be over.
This is why I don't drink.
I like knowing FOR SURE what I did last night.
I like keeping my friendships secure.
It is the smartest decision I have ever made.

I have seen the way my father gets. I have been pinned against a car, holding keys away from someone who is trying to drive. I've been told that I am worthless and that I shouldn't exist. I have watched someone be unable to sit up at a table because she is so drunk. I have seen someone cry in the back seat of a friend's care because of a drunken night's mistakes. Seeing what alcohol did first to my family and now to my friends...I don't care if I never drink it again. I don't understand it, I don't know why people do it.

I know there are people who drink responsibly and I applaud them, but others...it just really makes me sad. It really does.

Lord What Fools.

It's the beginning of the quarter. And you know what that means?
It's fraternity rush week.

During this most festive of weeks, all the frat houses throw parties and have dinners in hopes of having a lot of manly young men pounding on the door, begging to be a part of their Brotherhood. As I walked back from Westwood this evening, I passed by one of the houses and had to stop and stare at the absurdity.

The brothers had parked an old, beat-up car on the sidewalk in front of their house and the prospective pledges were being given sledgehammers and pickaxes and told to go to town. I stood across Gayley and watched as each gentleman pounded away, smashing out the windows, knocking the doors off their hinges, and collapsing the roof. And not once or twice, but three times did one guy get the sharp end of the pickax stuck in the top of the trunk. I watched in amazement at this act which seemed to appeal to the very bottom level of human behavior, playing on the male stereotype and some insane animalistic urge to attack, to destroy, and to effuse testosterone in copious amounts. They all looked so excited, so thrilled, so in love with what they were doing. It was disturbing and frightening to think that this is some desire that society has repressed in order to prevent torture and murder, but whichever member of the frat had thought of allowing the pledges to tear apart this car had, albeit probably inadvertently, created a surefire way to illicit attention by appealing to something so base and primal in the human male's subconscious. I mean - who wouldn't want to stand on the street and beat the shit out of something?

I swear to God, there are times when I am really happy I know better.

Things That Annoy Me When I'm Sick.

I don't know if you've met me or not, but if I am the slightest bit sick or sleepy or stressed, I am very easily annoyed by people that I don't normally care for in the first place. Here, my friends, is a list of things that have driven me up the wall in the past veinticuatro hours.

random, stupid noises

indoor third floor basketball

whispering that is just as loud as normal talking

the awkward asking of permission to smoke pot in the shower

the fact that DayQuil doesn't taste like a milkshake

sounding like I'm Kathleen Turner

sniffling

the abrasive feel of four hundred tissues being wiped across my nose

sleeping with my head elevated

and, perhaps the worst of it all:

not being around the person who made me sick in the first place

But I quibble. I'm not really that sick, I'm just a psychological hypochondriac and freak myself out to this massive extent. In reality (and not this strange Woody Allen-land in which I so frequently live) my life pretty absurdly fantastic and I am excited for callbacks for Dog Sees God tonight and for rehearsals for The Medium to begin. And to see him. And to see him.

Yes.

I'm wild again
Beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I

Couldn't sleep
And wouldn't sleep
When love came and told me I shouldn't sleep
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I

...

I've sinned a lot
I mean a lot
But I'm like a sweet seventeen a lot
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I

...

I'll sing to him
Each spring to him
And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I

Something Important.

At the ripe old age of eight, I got pissed off at my Birthday Party/Sleepover because the guests chose to partake of finger painting with my mother, instead of adhering to the rigorous rehearsal schedule I had painstakingly worked out for our impromptu production of Aladdin. That same year, my cousin, Ross, veered from the script of my poetic and moving six-minute masterpiece, and spilled prop water all over my sister, causing her to cry and wreck a crucial moment in the dramatic action. These hiccups in the plan led to extremely violent temper tantrums in which I would scream at everyone in the room before dissolving into a puddle of tears and self-loathing.

When my uncle announced to the family that he was getting married, I ran across the street, literally grabbed my friend Elizabeth, and pulled her onto the back patio where my sister joined us in a last-minute celebratory production of something circus-like. When Elizabeth's father came across the street to claim her for dinner and a bath, severing all hope of a three-ring engagement jubilee, I was forced to announce to the audience as they came down into the yard that this evening's performance had been cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances and that life, in general, sucked right now. I threw props and costumes and decorative set pieces around the yard, screeching about how it wasn't fair, until my uncle came over, put his arm around me, and told me it was the thought that counted to him. I felt like an ass, cried all over him, all over my soon-to-be-aunt, and desperately tried to return their stolen thunder.

Such was my childhood.

Eventually I realized that no one likes a dick. When I direct now, I'm nothing if not gracious to my actors. If something goes wrong, I don't rip down the curtain and flip off the stage manager. But part of it does, still, remain. If I see a show and I feel like the people involved aren't doing their best work, aren't trying to give me an amazing theatrical experience, it pisses me off. It disgusts me more than I can say. And then - then Little Lane crawls back in and angrily swears at the world for putting this piece of schlock in front of him. I was thinking about that today; about how I've always had this need to create theatre that affects people, and how before I even knew what theatre was, I felt it in my body and soul and used it as a means of expression. To me, it's not something you do in your free time. It's not something you do for fun. It's something you do because you have to. Because it's who you are. Because it's what you are.

Hunt-ing.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I was this happy.

Cleansed.

I love you now.
I'm with you now.
I'll do my best, moment to moment, not to betray you.
Now.
That's it. No more. Don't make me lie to you.

I am genuinely inspired by this piece of theatre. Never before have I left a show in a complete, absolute stupor. Post-John Doyle's Sweeney Todd, I was close - but never in such a state that I could barely move or speak. The beauty of Sarah Kane's play is far from obvious. In fact, many people who saw the production ahead of me described it as gratuitously violent to the point that they were so disturbed they lost any idea of where the story was going or simply left to avoid any further discomfort. Rumors that it was violent for the sake of being violent and that it "all has no point" circulated like the PennySaver and, as much as I tried to close my ears to this sort of talk, it was virtually impossible. But didn't I mention beauty? Yes. Yes I did. And lots of it. Inside Neil Peter Jampolis' chain-link cage of a set, on a floor that, over the course of the play, is smeared with blood, chewed (and spit back up) chocolate, urine, paint, water, and mud, the nine actors in Patrick Kennelly's production of Cleansed presented the most exquisite, moving, passionate, honest, sincere, and heartbreaking love story I have ever witnessed. It is not a play about violence or nudity or torture. And I see that; it's brilliantly clear. It's a play about limits, about testing those limits, about endurance and boundaries and the lengths we go to in the name of "love" and love. Seeing this play changed my life. I feel so capable of love and unable to be afraid of expressing it. My perspective on theatre has grown so much since I arrived at UCLA and this production was further proof that I am where I belong - and I hope that, one day, I am a part of a theatrical piece that causes someone to have a reaction like the one I had after seeing this play.

First Impressions.

The night we met
Your shirt was striped
Black on white
And we didn’t touch.
Not a hand grazed a forearm,
Not a shoulder bumped another.

I don’t remember
What you looked like
The night you let me go.
Not your face,
Only mine
Stays mirrored in my mind.
I knew you loved me
In the way you held me close
And let me cry
And didn’t walk away
When I told you to.
I knew you loved me.
You lose.

I caught you off guard,
(Remember that?)
When I kissed you
And you barely knew.
The ground was cold.
It was late.
You sat facing me
With your legs in between mine.
People walked by.
You didn’t move.

The day we met
You were thirty-four minutes late.
Your t-shirt was tight,
Just like your body,
And your hair was styled under the hat.
You hugged me
And chomped your gum in my ear.
Salad for me –
Pasta for you.
Fifteen dollars plus twelve.
You drove me back.
You hugged me again,
Long and soft.
Did you want to kiss me?
I don’t think you did.

I never saw you again.

My Choices.

Here is a list of who I think should win the Academy Award this evening. Will they? Maybe. Should they? YES.
P.S. I've seen almost everything nominated this year.

Performance by an actor in a leading role
George Clooney in "Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.)
Daniel Day-Lewis in "There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax)
Johnny Depp in "Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" (DreamWorks and Warner Bros., Distributed by DreamWorks/Paramount)
Tommy Lee Jones in "In the Valley of Elah" (Warner Independent)
Viggo Mortensen in "Eastern Promises" (Focus Features)

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Casey Affleck in "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" (Warner Bros.)
Javier Bardem in "No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage)
Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Charlie Wilson's War" (Universal)
Hal Holbrook in "Into the Wild" (Paramount Vantage and River Road Entertainment)
Tom Wilkinson in "Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.)

*(Of these films, I only saw "Charlie Wilson's War," so I will abstain from a decision.)

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Cate Blanchett in "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" (Universal)
Julie Christie in "Away from Her" (Lionsgate)
Marion Cotillard in "La Vie en Rose" (Picturehouse)
Laura Linney in "The Savages" (Fox Searchlight)
Ellen Page in "Juno" (A Mandate Pictures/Mr. Mudd Production)

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Cate Blanchett in "I'm Not There" (The Weinstein Company)
Ruby Dee in "American Gangster" (Universal)
Saoirse Ronan in "Atonement" (Focus Features)
Amy Ryan in "Gone Baby Gone" (Miramax)
Tilda Swinton in "Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.)

Best animated feature film of the year
"Persepolis" (Sony Pictures Classics): Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud
"Ratatouille" (Walt Disney): Brad Bird
"Surf's Up" (Sony Pictures Releasing): Ash Brannon and Chris Buck

Achievement in art direction
"American Gangster" (Universal): Art Direction: Arthur Max; Set Decoration: Beth A. Rubino
"Atonement" (Focus Features): Art Direction: Sarah Greenwood; Set Decoration: Katie Spencer
"The Golden Compass" (New Line in association with Ingenious Film Partners): Art Direction: Dennis Gassner; Set Decoration: Anna Pinnock
"Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" (DreamWorks and Warner Bros., Distributed by DreamWorks/Paramount): Art Direction: Dante Ferretti; Set Decoration: Francesca Lo Schiavo
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax): Art Direction: Jack Fisk; Set Decoration: Jim Erickson

Achievement in cinematography
"The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" (Warner Bros.): Roger Deakins
"Atonement" (Focus Features): Seamus McGarvey
"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" (Miramax/Pathé Renn): Janusz Kaminski
"No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage): Roger Deakins
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax): Robert Elswit

*(No choice.)

Achievement in costume design
"Across the Universe" (Sony Pictures Releasing) Albert Wolsky
"Atonement" (Focus Features) Jacqueline Durran
"Elizabeth: The Golden Age" (Universal) Alexandra Byrne
"La Vie en Rose" (Picturehouse) Marit Allen
"Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street" (DreamWorks and Warner Bros., Distributed by DreamWorks/Paramount) Colleen Atwood

Achievement in directing
"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" (Miramax/Pathé Renn), Julian Schnabel
"Juno" (A Mandate Pictures/Mr. Mudd Production), Jason Reitman
"Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.), Tony Gilroy
"No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage), Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax), Paul Thomas Anderson

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)
"Atonement" (Focus Features) Dario Marianelli
"The Kite Runner" (DreamWorks, Sidney Kimmel Entertainment and Participant Productions, Distributed by Paramount Classics): Alberto Iglesias
"Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.) James Newton Howard
"Ratatouille" (Walt Disney) Michael Giacchino
"3:10 to Yuma" (Lionsgate) Marco Beltrami

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)
"Falling Slowly" from "Once" (Fox Searchlight) Music and Lyric by Glen Hansard and: Marketa Irglova
"Happy Working Song" from "Enchanted" (Walt Disney): Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz
"Raise It Up" from "August Rush" (Warner Bros.): Music and Lyric by Jamal Joseph, Charles Mack and Tevin Thomas
"So Close" from "Enchanted" (Walt Disney): Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz
"That's How You Know" from "Enchanted" (Walt Disney): Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz

Best motion picture of the year
"Atonement" (Focus Features) A Working Title Production: Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner and Paul Webster, Producers
"Juno" (A Mandate Pictures/Mr. Mudd Production) A Mandate Pictures/Mr. Mudd Production: Lianne Halfon, Mason Novick and Russell Smith, Producers
"Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.) A Clayton Productions, LLC Production: Sydney Pollack, Jennifer Fox and Kerry Orent, Producers
"No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage) A Scott Rudin/Mike Zoss Production: Scott Rudin, Ethan Coen and Joel Coen, Producers
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax) A JoAnne Sellar/Ghoulardi Film Company Production: JoAnne Sellar, Paul Thomas Anderson and Daniel Lupi, Producers

Achievement in sound editing
"The Bourne Ultimatum" (Universal): Karen Baker Landers and Per Hallberg
"No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage): Skip Lievsay
"Ratatouille" (Walt Disney): Randy Thom and Michael Silvers
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax): Christopher Scarabosio and Matthew Wood
"Transformers" (DreamWorks and Paramount in association with Hasbro): Ethan Van der Ryn and Mike Hopkins

Adapted screenplay
"Atonement" (Focus Features), Screenplay by Christopher Hampton
"Away from Her" (Lionsgate), Written by Sarah Polley
"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" (Miramax/Pathé Renn), Screenplay by Ronald Harwood
"No Country for Old Men" (Miramax and Paramount Vantage), Written for the screen by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
"There Will Be Blood" (Paramount Vantage and Miramax), Written for the screen by Paul Thomas Anderson

Original screenplay
"Juno" (A Mandate Pictures/Mr. Mudd Production), Written by Diablo Cody
"Lars and the Real Girl" (MGM), Written by Nancy Oliver
"Michael Clayton" (Warner Bros.), Written by Tony Gilroy
"Ratatouille" (Walt Disney), Screenplay by Brad Bird; Story by Jan Pinkava, Jim Capobianco, Brad Bird
"The Savages" (Fox Searchlight), Written by Tamara Jenkins

Ssim.

There are things I miss.

I miss being "in love."
I miss being in a show.
I miss being sane.

And other stuff.

L

The Stage(s).

I go through stages when it comes to reading. Sometimes, I'm normal, and I can read a play or a novel and have the same amount of interest in either of them, finish them, and read something else. Sometimes, I lean more towards novels, and the thought of reading a play makes me nauseous or I get bored with keeping track of the different characters in my head and I end up wondering what it is I like about theatre in the first place, or why I persistently write the very shit I am so furious with at that moment. Other times, it is the opposite. I develop some sort of novel-ADD, prohibiting me from turning through anything that isn't clearly marked with character names or italicized text to tell me specifically what's going on. And then I remember. A couple weeks ago, one of my teachers said, "Plays are meant to be heard, not read." While I believe that's true, I also think that there is something incredible about the ability of a person (albeit a theatrical person) to pick up a dramatic text, read through it, and create a production in your head. I suppose a similar phenomenon occurs when you read a novel - you imagine what the characters look like, the color of their bedroom, etc. - but it's not the same. I believe (and it's sort of crazy) that when a playwright creates a play, the characters are thrown into existence, and that they are spiritual beings (read: ghosts), floating around, waiting to "possess" an actor; that everything I am reading was said by this person who exists in and of this play, specifically and solely. Where the play begins and ends, so does his life. All writers use things from their lives or the lives of others in creating their stories. It is a fact that there is no such thing as an original idea, just original ways of expressing said idea and, therefore, each and every event is a haunted image of something previously recognizable. If not, how would we connect, how would we relate? We would be alienated, in the Brechtian sense of the word, from the action onstage, much as we are in a great deal of musical theatre. The theatre is an elevated, modernized method of storytelling - in place of cave paintings, we have scenery; instead of an old man by the fire, we have me and you and every other actor in the world. This is the essence of my belief in the power of theatre to reach people, to change things, to speak. But, I digress. The point of all of this rambling is to simply say that, right now, the thought of reading a novel is highly unappetizing, despite the fact that I just spent $17 on a 562 page novel that will find a nice, comfortable home in the bottom of my desk drawer under a copy of Love! Valour! Compassion!.

Arrows.

sheets and sheets
and legs of journeys
intertwine and lock at night
in the black bright light

Mainly for Myself.

As much as I complain about them, I really do love the people I go to school with. I have been blessed with such amazing, talented friends throughout the past five years of my life and I am very, very grateful for each and every one of them.

Music Thing.

1. List your top five favorite musical artists
2. List your top five favorite songs from each artist.
3. Tag five people to do the same

1. Rufus Wainwright
2. Joni Mitchell
3. Scissor Sisters
4. Elton John
5. Miscellaneous Current Favorites Category (from Top 25 Most Played)


Rufus Wainwright
1. Vicious World
2. Beauty Mark
3. Something from Release the Stars
4. Poses
5. My Phone's On Vibrate For You / Natasha / Harvester of Hearts / Gay Messiah

Joni Mitchell
1. A Case of You
2. River
3. Carey
4. Both Sides Now
5. The Circle Game / All I Want

Scissor Sisters
1. Might Tell You Tonight
2. Music Is The Victim
3. Take Your Mama
4. I Can't Decide
5. Land of a Thousand Words / Return to Oz / Laura

Elton John
1. Tiny Dancer
2. Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
3. Bennie and the Jets
4. Rocket Man
5. Your Song

Miscellaneous Favorites Category
1. "It's Gonna Take a Miracle" by Laura Nyro
2. "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon
3. "Save the Last Dance for Me" by The Drifters
4. "When My Boy Walks Down the Street" by The Magnetic Fields
5. "These Days" by Nico

Answers To Your Questions.

YES, acting is hard.
NO, I do not have a lot of homework.
YES, it's difficult when I do.
YES, I still like it.
NO, I do not hate my classes.
YES, I get satisfaction out of what I do.

YES, my major is just as relevant as yours.

Jesus.

The Joy That Is Julia Murney.

The thing I love about Julia Murney (other than her stunning voice) is the way she performs the hell out of a song and you can see it in her entire body. Watch her hands. This woman is amazing.

"How Lucky Can You Get" by John Kander & Fred Ebb


"The Life of the Party" by Andrew Lippa



and one of my favorite songs of all time:

"I'm Not Waiting" by Andrew Lippa



BRILLIANT.

L