Our love affair began on May 20, 1992 as I sped north from Portland. I had dreamed of you for nearly a year before, set a path in motion that I wouldn’t deviate from. The long drive up from San Diego with $75 in my pocket for gas and about $200 to my name in the bank and a whole lot of homemade food for the journey. Exhilarated and terrified, spent a week in San Francisco with Jonathan, both of us broke, broke, broke, then moved on to Portland for 3 days, where they confiscated my credit card at the hotel and I had to pay by check – spent half of that $200 on 2 nights in a hotel until I finally got hold of Matt (no cell phones in those days) and spent the final night at his place before heading north as the sun set, north to YOU.
 
I remember the miles between us falling away in my rear-view mirror and the sun-kissed rain forest on both sides of I-5. My mind was going in anxious circles – would you welcome me? Would I be okay? I was moving towards you pretty much sight unseen: would we be compatible?
 
Sometime after Tacoma, I passed that bend in the road, a bend I know well now, after decades. I saw you, for the first time, awaiting my arrival. I saw you, and a calm came over me. The anxiety and fear gone, and only the one feeling remained: I was home. I had finally reached you, my beautiful, mythical Emerald City, and you embraced me at once with open arms and took me in.
 
We separated once, a long, drawn-out separation. I didn’t want to leave you, but my heart’s desire lay elsewhere. It tore my heart in two as I sped away on I-90, not knowing where the future would take me, but once again, speeding along an interstate, exhilarated and terrified. I didn’t know if I’d find my way back to you again.
 
But somehow, 3 years later, I did, this time at 30,000 feet – I had to resist kissing the ground, and opened my mouth to taste your air, so very different, so very life-giving compared to that of Baltimore. The grounding factors of mountain, sea and fire in your topography have always put my soul aright. 
 
We were together again, and, though we’ve had our issues, you’ve been the one constant in my life. I grew up here with you. I’ve become here I am, my footprints all over every inch of you, your streets, your hills, your shores. You are a part of me, my rainy beautiful one, and our love is pure. 

​You had the weirdest food anxiety: always leaving two bits of kibble “for later”, always wanting me to watch you, even rub your butt while you ate. I laughed, and indulged you, sometimes. Now that you’re gone, I wish I’d indulged you more. I wish I’d watched you eat for a minute longer, wish I’d rubbed your furry little arse through all of your meals. 10 years of cuddles, of purrs, of not getting up because you were sleeping on me, of watching you ricochet sideways off the couch, of your sweet, expressive meows. Time. Always fleeting, always too short.

​Exhaustion. That’s what I felt as I spend home after 5 straight days of tech. Total and utter exhaustion. “TECH”, for the uninitiated, is that period immediately leading up to opening night of a play or musical, where all the elements of the production come together. You bring in the lights, the sound, special effects if you have them (a projectionist in this case!), the final props, the final touches on the set, the costumes, the hair and makeup – everything comes together and we spend HOURS figuring out how to merge it so it’s seamless when we finally get an audience. 
 
Though I’ve been a theatre artist for decades, I’m quite new to the world of professional theatre. Prior to this year, I was used to working a full day and THEN going to rehearsal in the evenings and on weekends, 2 hours here, 4 hours there. Usually, we’d have a week, often the call time was something like “7pm until we’re finished”, which often is close to midnight.
 
This time, it’s been two weeks of tech, 8 hours per day, with a 2-hour meal break in the middle, and it’s a great deal of slog where the actors are concerned, the equivalent of multiple takes, I imagine, for a film actor. It’s where we go over a particular tiny bit of the script over and over again to make sure the lighting, sound, FX, blocking, lines and everything else are as we want them to be. It’s a slog. A necessary one, but a slog.
 
A magical thing had also happened earlier on that Sunday of tech slog: The West Seattle Bridge had opened, after a couple years of south-end traffic gridlock, and I didn’t merely drive home, I hurtled along at what felt like light-speed comparatively, meaning I was actually able to go the speed limit instead of deal with an hour of bumper-to-bumper. I made it from the Seattle Center to my house, on the 6700 block of Rainier, in 12 minutes flat.
 
And as my car sped south, my exhaustion turned into exhilaration. This “slog” I’d just gone through? It was because we’re telling an amazing and important story. Everyone in the room wanted to make sure it was JUST RIGHT. It’s a story about real people who lived, and who did difficult things so others would benefit, and everyone on the creative team wants to make sure we honor those people and give their story justice. All our hard work, learning lines, putting in pin-curls to wear uncomfortable wigs, inching line by line through text so the lighting and sound are in synch...we’re doing it for them. And for US. They wanted a better world. WE want a better world. People like to talk about the arts as frivolous and unnecessary, “it’s not WORK, you’re just having fun.” There’s a truth to that. But telling stories like this also feels important.
 
And as the exhaustion started to turn into sparkly exhilaration, I also remembered yeah, I “get” to do this. I “get” to tell this story. I “get” to be an actor. I have fought for decades to be exactly where I am right now. This enviable position of being invited to audition in the professional arena and then getting to do the work itself. So, through the slog of tech, through the driving back and forth on a traffic-clogged I-5 to rehearsals, all of it exhausting, all of it exhilarating and it all comes down to this, in our silly world of toxic capitalism: I actually get to put “actor” under “occupation” when I fill out my taxes next year, and after such a long road, that feels extremely fucking satisfying.    

1.) The Clean Houseby Sarah Ruhl
A romantic comedy about loss, love, change and redemp-tion, The Clean House is both whimsical and touching. A serious career-oriented doctor, Lane, has hired a quirky Brazilian maid. The only problem is that the maid, Matilde, hates to clean. Instead, she longs to be a comedienne. Lane is deserted by her husband, Charles, who leaves her for his mistress, Ana, a passionate, older Argentinian woman upon whom he recently performed a mastectomy. Sarah Ruhl's enchanting play reminds us that there is humor and beauty to be find in life's most unlikely messes.
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2.) The Maidsby Jean Genet
Solange and Claire are two housemaids who construct elaborate sadomasochistic rituals when their mistress (Madame) is away. The focus of their role-playing is the murder of Madame and they take turns portraying both sides of the power divide. Their deliberate pace and devotion to detail guarantees that they always fail to actualize their fantasies by ceremoniously "killing" Madame at the ritual's dénoue-ment.
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3.) Eclipsedby Danai Gurira
Amid the chaos of the Liberian Civil War, the captive wives of a rebel officer band together to form a fragile community—until the balance of their lives is upset by the arrival of a new girl. Drawing on reserves of wit and compassion, Eclipsed reveals distinct women who must discover their own means of survival in this chilling and humanizing story of transformation and renewal in a hostile world of horrors not of their own making.
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4.) BFEby Julia Cho
Cute blondes are disappearing from her strip mall-covered suburban town, but fourteen-year-old Panny is more concerned with surviving adolescence. Raised by an unbalanced mother who thinks the perfect birthday gift is plastic surgery and a shy uncle who spends most of his time painting miniatures, Panny is afraid she’s hopelessly different. Thanks to a fortuitous misdial, she strikes up a phone friendship that seems to be the connection she’s been longing for.
_____
 
5.)Circle Mirror Transformationby Annie Baker 
Five lost people come together at a community center class to try and find some meaning in their lives. Counting to ten can be harder than you think. Over six tangled weeks, their lives become knotted together in this tender and funny play.
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6.) God of Carnageby Yasmina Reza
What happens when two sets of parents meet up to deal with the unruly behavior of their children? A calm and rational debate between grownups about the need to teach kids how to behave properly? Or a hysterical night of name-calling, tantrums, and tears before bedtime? A bitingly funny and whip smart examination of the things we don’t think we teach or children.
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7.) 4000 Milesby Amy Herzog
After suffering a major loss while he was on a cross-country bike trip, 21 year-old Leo seeks solace from his feisty 91-year-old grandmother Vera in her West Village apartment. Over the course of a single month, these unlikely roommates infuriate, bewilder, and ultimately reach each other. 4000 Miles looks at how two outsiders find their way in today’s world.
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8.) Blastedby Sarah Kane
Blasted opened in 1995, making front-page headlines and outraging some critics who thought her premise that there was a connection between a rape in a Leeds hotel room and the hellish devastation of civil war was simply an attempt to shock audiences. Brutal and graphic, “Blasted” is important but not for the faint of heart.
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9.) Ohio State Murdersby Adrienne Kennedy
When Suzanne, an African American writer, enters Ohio State University in 1949, little does she know what the supposed safe haven of academia holds in store. Years later, Suzanne is invited to return to the University to talk about the violence in her writing. A dark mystery unravels. The play is an intriguing, unusual and chilling look at the destructiveness of racism in the U.S.
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10.) Stop Kissby Diana Sun
The story is deceptively simple: two young women in New York meet, talk about their boyfriends, feel a growing, unspoken attraction for each other, and finally kiss. And that one innocent kiss sets off a savage gay-bashing. Callie is holding down a job as a radio traffic reporter when she meets Sara, a Midwesterner who, against her parents’ wishes, has moved to the city to teach third-grade students in the Bronx. Both have boyfriends, but as they get to know each other, their shared experiences and sense of humor create a strong bond. The tragic consequences of their kiss—the center of this powerful drama—serve as both an indictment of hatred and a moving study of the perils inherent in living life fully.

So, I would say I'm a singer. For a long time, actually. I don't get to do it very often, because 1.) I really don't like most musical theatre and 2.) I don't know how to read music. But I've gotten to the point where I can actually admit that I sing, pretty competently. And I've even done it on stage sometimes. For audiences. I'm also trained. I've taken voice lessons with multiple teachers in the past. I've sung in choirs, and even been in a musical or two, despite the hairy eyeball I cast upon the genre. 

Back last fall, when I first signed up for Ladies' Rock Camp on the recommendation of my friend and frequent collaborator Machelle Allman, and was filling out the application, I waffled back and forth between being a drummer or a vocalist. I've wanted to learn drums ever since doing a super female-focused and punk RAWK version of Cowboy Mouth (written, as legend would have it, by Sam Shepherd and Patti Smith, yes, THE PATTI SMITH, while shacking up together at the Chelsea Hotel, passing a manual typewriter back and forth between them) with the most AWESOME thrash band out of Olympia (Tight Bros From Way Back When). At every performance, the drummer would break several drumsticks, and after the show, I would quietly collect the remnants and I still have them today on my little artist altar. Anyway - I decided to be a vocalist, because I felt like doing the camp would be pretty out of my comfort zone as it was, since I don't feel like I am necessarily the most dynamic performer when I am the one who is supposed to be leading the charge. 

The Monday night before camp, I felt the first little tickle in my throat, which just got progressively worse and worse throughout the week, and when time came for camp on Friday morning, the plague had progressed...not sure if it was a mild flu or a bad cold, but I still felt like crap as I entered the Vera Project's doors, uncertain as to whether I should even proceed. I mean: VOCALS? With a CHEST COLD??? Awesome. Having just gotten laid off and not really being in a position where I can just kiss off the something-hundred dollars I'd paid to be part of the camp, I decided, somewhat reluctantly, to persevere. 

Despite many years of stage performances under my belt, I'm more of an introvert than an extrovert. I'm better one-on-one than in groups, especially LARGE groups with lots of people I don't know. So as I entered the big room with all the ladies, and saw many of them sitting already in groups together at tables laughing and talking, I felt shy and intimidated, and went over to sit on one of the couches by myself, reasoning to myself that I was quarantining everyone from my germs. Presently, one, then another of these ladies came over and sat by me, and we struck up a little conversation, and it was nice not to feel totally on the outside. Rachel and Eva, I thank you for that little act of solidarity. 

Eventually, we got herded off to our Instrument Instruction groups, which put me with all the other vocalists. As we went around the circle, there were a couple campers that sounded absolutely terrified either to come up with a song, or to sing in front of people, and tears came up. It was such an honor and a privilege to be in that room and slowly feel the terror shift energetically into something different: a willingness, maybe? An anticipation? Led by Kira and Stephanie, who let all our fears and preconceptions about ourselves and each other air out and transform into support and inspiration.

A little later on, we got placed into our bands. As I got my first glimpse at the women I'd be creating and playing with in that main room, I felt a little uncertain. The four of us are supposed to write a song together? We're strangers. WE can't possibly have ANYTHING in common. I didn't say that, though. I still felt like crap, so I was conserving my energy. No superfluous talk, movement or thought. I think this ended up serving me well. 

And then, of course, the magical Sue Ennis came to gave us our songwriting seminar, as we sat with our newly-formed bands in the main room. I kept looking over at that mural of what I kept thinking of as "Icharus".

OUR BAND: Barb, on guitar. Libby, on bass. Amber, on drums. Me, vocals. And our two coaches, Maggie and Darcey. 

So, this post is a bit of a "test run". When I was in 8th grade, The Day After aired on television. It was the junior high equivalent of a water-cooler topic - we were ALL talking about it beforehand, and we were definitely all talking about it the day after. As a movie, it wasn't the most perfect example of speculative fiction, but it served as great fodder for classroom discussion (especially in the middle of the cold war!). I remember a friend and I, during summer vacation, creating our own fictional bunker in case of nuclear war - we'd spend hours just figuring out how long we'd have to stay underground, who we'd like to bring with us and what kind of sewage/water/food systems we'd have to subsist on.  The Day After was probably my formal introduction to the subgenre, likely the first I'd thought of it, and was the kickoff to a lifetime's fascination.

Sub genre of what, you ask? Is apocalypse/aftermath fiction horror? Is it science fiction? I've long had a fear it will become science FACT. I like the umbrella term "Speculative Fiction". Under its wings you might find Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, etc. And I suppose, depending on the type of apocalypse, you would then go on to put things under those subcategories...zombie apocalypse might fall under horror, whilst robots destroying the world might fit better with Science Fiction. 

​In high school, I read my first Stephen King novel, The Stand, which tells the story of a world decimated through a superflu plague. Another of my friends had also read it, and we spent hours on the phone each night imagining what we might do in such a scenario, where we might travel, what and who we might bring, and how we might rebuild society. Obviously, I was hooked. 

Several decades later, I am no less fascinated and intrigued by the different iterations of fictional apocalypse, and have happily devoured many television, film and book tales with varied and imaginative end times. I’ve even written a couple of post-apocalyptic plays. And there is no shortage of end days’ paranoia, given the current political situation and global climate, to think about. Climate change anyone? Nuclear war? How ‘bout some ebola?  
 
Right now, my intention is to start an entire apocalyptic blog on the subject and of course, all its potential subcategories, because, though I have very little control over things unfolding on the world stage, at least I can have some control over this.  I'll discuss zombies, aliens, asteroids, WWIII, acts of god, no armageddon is off limits, and maybe I'll throw in speculation about how one might survive such a thing, and even discuss putting together different sorts of survival kits for your more run-of-the-mill cataclysm. I'll make book, film and tv recommendations on each subcategory, because lord knows I've consumed a lion's share!

If this is your thing and you're intrigued, feel free to take a look! And if you have any suggestions, thoughts, or ideas on topics you might enjoy reading about within the subject, please feel free to share your feedback.

So, being a woman and having to deal with the whole beauty thing. I was the ugly, fat, weird girl for the first 30 years of my life, bullied and made fun of a LOT, particularly in the last few years of elementary school and Jr. high. Things were always a struggle, I was always on some stupid diet or other that didn't work, it governed most of my waking thoughts through adolescence and young adulthood. And in undergrad, there was no shortage of male acting teachers telling me I needed to lose weight, and that (at 18-22) I was only castable as mothers and grandmothers, and Juliet's nurse. My bottom half, my legs, were especially deplorable.

My body changed drastically the year I turned 30...partially due to finding my purpose in life, and partially due to my esophagus no longer working properly. Suddenly, I had to navigate in this new, thinner body that was more "acceptable" to others. I was still fairly self-conscious about my legs, though an intense exercise in an acting class the year I was 31 made me realize that *holy shit* at least they WORKED and could DO things and I wasn't PARALYZED or anything like that. I got a taste of what it was like to be attractive for the first time, for about 15 years. Then I started aging.

Recently, I was in a show where I was apparently not young/ attractive enough to feature on the poster or postcard (each of the other actors was - it was a 3-actor show). They said that wasn't the reason, but really, what am I supposed to think? I was told I would be the internet presence and that there was an animated GIF. All three of us were on the internet photos, and if there was an animated GIF, it never made an appearance. Again: what a I supposed to think? And thank god I got to wear a long skirt and cover up my legs.

Last week, I started a burlesque class. The first week, we mostly went through the history of Burlesque (which is quite interesting!), and learned a few dance moves and a combo towards the end. As we were going out the door, the instructor said, "We'll be working with stockings next week - boy shorts are better to get stockings on and off than leggings or pants, so just keep that in mind."

OH SHIT. Stockings. Thigh highs. The BANE OF MY EFFING EXISTENCE. I tried them once a looooong time ago, and never did again. Because you pull 'em up, and if you have legs of any girth at all, there is a roll of fat that oozes out over the tops of the stockings. So, the whole week, I am realizing the impact of having signed up for a burlesque class, and I am quietly freaking out that I am going to have to have bare legs, in BOY SHORTS for next class. Part of me considered just never going back. But dammit, I paid $$ for the class, and say what you will about me but I'm NOT a quitter.

So, I put on the biker shorts I use for swimming in the summer. And I looked in the mirror. At all angles. I even turned around and bent over and looked at my back end through my legs. And okay...it was not as horrifying as i had feared. I put on leggings over them. And a skirt. And cute shoes and a top. And went to class.

We did everything else first, and the stockings were the last thing. So there I was. I had pulled the stockings all the way up, and there was that roll of fat at the top. And the instructor was telling us how to take them off so we could keep hold of the band and it wouldn't roll off, and I asked the question "So what if your LEGS MAKE THEM ROLL AUTOMATICALLY???" And was told to do my best, these were cheap stockings, and I could probably find ones that went all the way up, and that garters would help. Hm. Good to know. I worked with it.

And there I was, taking the stockings on and off in different ways, looking at my roll of fat at the top of them. And again...it wasn't that horrifying. And I didn't die. And I didn't even really look that bad. And I really didn't care if I did to other people. And I realized that, despite being 47 and perimenopausal, with big ole veiny, translucent, stretch-mark-covered legs and not conventionally attractive, I am really, really damn comfortable in my skin. EFFING FINALLY. ​

My earliest memory is meeting my great grandmother Bekins. It was at some point before we went to Spain, so before I was 2 years old. She was blind, and it was a dark, dank room – I just remember flashes of being there, but the fact that she was blind left an impression on my toddler mind. My continuous memories really begin in Singapore, where I can piece together a continuity. I have a few memories from Spain, but the earliest really is meeting Great Grandma.
​
Memory is an interesting, and tricky thing – I could pontificate for awhile on the unreliability of memory, or of writing memories down, and then the memory becomes the written memory, but it may not be exact memory. And I am prone to embellishing things to make them more interesting, and/or omitting things that are not that exciting, or that dilute or distract from the essence of the event….and then my mind continues to embellish and omit until the memory becomes something different in my mind, and then when I read the original account, maybe talk to someone who was there, read my journal from that time, etc – I realize that the “story” of the memory has become pretty far flung from what the original event was. Memory is a strange, strange thing.

I got to play Death (And the Maid) >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In a bilingual production of Blood Wedding, my first role with substantial Spanish, and my parents came to town to see it in August. Getting to do Lorca in Spanish...wow. Lorca in Spanish is like experiencing Shakespeare in English, and makes me wonder how much more awesome Ibsen, Chekhov, Euripides, etc must be in their own native languages. 

Even the auditions/callbacks were fun, plus getting offered the role(s) during the callback was a special kind of awesome!

Thanks to Ana Maria Campoy for telling me about the audition, Tina Polzin for casting/directing me & the rest of the ensemble for restoring my faith that things I don’t have a hand in producing can still be fun and transformative.

 
Three of my plays got produced:

Fate Demands It in Orlando for Playwright’s RoundTable Launch 2016! In January

How To Build A Ritual (co-written by Jen Smith Anderson, text arrangement by Richard Buckley, with contributions from the cast)  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Smashing Reality as part of The Pocket Theatre’s FringeMonth in Oct, with plays by Rebecca Goldberg & Beth Peterson for Splintered, Fractured, BROKE

I also posted 30 new short plays (one per day!) in November for Red Theatre Chicago’s November Writing Challenge, and attended the Write-O-Rama at Hugo House in early Dec where I wrote even MORE and got some inspiration. Thanks to Mandy for joining me as a fellow writer for BOTH...it was comforting to have someone to commiserate/share the experiences with.

I finally made my pilgrimage to Greece. It was amazing and transformative. Highlights:

• Hanging out with Glyka in Athens.
• The entire Delphi experience – deserted Temple of Athena, temple kittens, dining with a view of the entire valley before us, the Kastalian Spring, the slurpee at the museum, driving through Thebes on the way… etc.
• Tomato balls in Santorini.
• Sunset in Santorini.
• Making friends with two Argentines while waiting for sunset, and being able to carry on a conversation mostly in Spanish for 2 hours.
• The free breakfast at the Amalia Hotel in Athens.
• Chicken gyros with French fries and mustard sauce inside.
• Riding the Argo in Thessaloniki.
• Acropolis kitties. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
• Being able to read Greek by the time I left.

​Trip to Vegas and Long Beach in Oct – sad circumstances for the latter (RIP Josh Fischel), but it was extremely wonderful to see so many of my fabulous SPVA tribe again…more intense and heartfelt, due to the occasion, than the reunion in San Diego circa 2010.

And then went back to Vegas to hang out with my nieces (and eat Roberto’s!).

​(photos below)

​Memorable Meals:

• Pizza Rock in Vegas, across the street from our hotel.
• Ian’s birthday brunch buffet at Ivar’s Salmon House on Lake Union.
• My birthday dinner at Tango.
• My birthday dinner #2 at Andina in Portland.
• Also, last time eating at Veritable Quandary before it closed in Portland.
• Post sailing Cuban sammitch at Un Bien.
• Roberto’s in Vegas.
• Did I mention the free breakfast at the Amalia hotel in Athens? Well, it deserves to be mentioned twice.
• Tomato balls in Santorini.
• Discovery of sweet olive jam in Crete.
• And also the Thessaloniki gyros dinner that Saturday night, picked up from the corner gyros eatery a block from our AirBnB.
• Dinner with parents last night in Greece near Syntygma Square.
• Xmas Eve Indian Buffet lunch at Mayuri post Rogue One.
• Xmas/Hannukah Dinner of ham & gyros by our own hands.
• New Year’s Eve dinner at Poppy.

(photos below)

...and then the last two months of the year happened, the world got dragged into the Upside Down, and we have a demigorgon president-elect.

Choppy waters ahead, but I'll get through the with all my people near and far, and my two loves, Ian & Vixen.

Happy New Year to everyone - I know we'll get through this together and hopefully in one piece! Interesting times we have the priviledge of living in...