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.