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.