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There is something about acting in a musical unlike any other kind of theatrical experience; it's what we all got into this business for, the feeling we used to imagine when we sat in the audience, watching. When you're in a straight dramatic play, you're always conscious of yourself, your character, your "moments"; in a comedy, you work toward your laugh lines, you measure the audience response from show to show, try different inflections to milk the laugh. But in a musical --
In a musical you stand in the wings, listening, as the orchestra strikes up and the overture begins, as a brassy vibrato brings a shiver of anticipation, as your heart begins to race, and in the pause between movements you find you're breathing in time to the music -- as in the space of a few minutes all the separate themes and songs of the play are compressed into a single prelude, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. And that's what it's all about really.
Because you're not alone up there. It's not just you and the words, it's you, and the words, and the music, and the dancers, and the other singers, and a hundred unseen hands; the composer, the librettist, the choreographer who has to seem invisible, has to make out movements seem spontaneous, unrehearsed. The first time I saw myself on film, I thought: That's not just me up there, I can't take all the credit; it's the script, and the camera, and the cutting, and the underscore, all working together, creating something more than the sum of its parts. It's that way in a musical. For as long as it lasts, you and the music and the dancing and the chorus, you're all partners, in a sense; an no matter how many years later, if you're in an airport or a taxi, if you hear that song you sang, or that theme you danced to . . . you're a part of it again.
from Time and Chance
Alan Brennert, 1990 I picked it up to reread, as there's stuff going on right now that involves performing, second chances, timing, and such, in the lives of a number of people around me. It's a very good book, and for people involved in theater, not just musical theater, it will ring scarily true in parts -- possibly all the way through. ** ** ** ** ** Came home after a long day of work. Soren cooked dinner, and we ate together, then he read to me ("Picnic On Paradise" -- we've been working through it for a couple of weeks, savoring Russ' prose. I'm learning, some things that I can't put into words, about phrasing and pacing in writing, hearing it read aloud, and choosing stories to read myself. (I started reading a Margaret Atwood story to him, and will finish it when he's done with the Russ novella.) Right now, we're listening to the new Elvis Costello album (due out on 23 April; I am vastly amused and delighted that Soren's found an advance copy), and relaxing. (And in the back of my mind, there are thoughts and memories of fingers on my lips, lips against mine, warm skin beneath my palms and forearms as I caressed the length of the spine, curving my hands over shoulderblades and around the waist. . . I get intoxicated by other people's flesh, and awed by the generosity of those who allow me to touch them.) Tags: commonplace book
admissable state: blessed
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Some really interesting, thought-provoking conversation today. I have cool friends! Observation: I don't completely agree with the quotes with which I started this morning's post; I'm not sure that was clear. I do think that stalking, harassment, and rape are related, and that the root of them is power/control, but they're not the same thing, by any means. But they were floating in my head, and seemed relevant, particularly with someone who simply doesn't seem to get the concept that a woman might not want anything to do with him. I'm going to quote Teresa Nielsen Hayden, who came up with some useful aphorisms regarding truth. (I'll ask her permission to quote the whole passage, but it can be found as part of a much longer, marvelous piece: Over Rough Terrain:
* Watch out for thought systems that have built-in explanations, valid within the terms of the system, for why someone disagreeing with that system is doing so and is wrong.
* You can't logically refute bullshit.
* Almost without exception, people are telling the literal truth as they experience it. Of course, if they're expressing it exceptionally badly what you get may only be a map of the insides of their heads, which may not be worth the bother.
* If there's some circumstance you're completely unaware of that by rights should enter into your calculations, logic won't tell you about its existence.
(Reive, that last is one for both of us, she said wryly.) And now, dinner, and perhaps reading aloud before bed. Tags: boundaries, commonplace book, communication
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"Who's them?" I asked her.
"Stalkers."
I shrugged. "There's all kinds."
"That's what I thought, too. Once. But I don't think so anymore. They're all the same. They get to make the choices. All the choices. That's the most important thing to them. It's all about power."
". . . All that counts is pressure. The more obsessed they are, the more power they have. They can concentrate -- focus their energy like no normal person ever could. They're like heat-seeking missiles, homing in on the signal. And if you're alive, you give off some signal. No matter how carefully you refuse to engage with them, no matter how much security you can buy. Strippers get them. So do college professors. Anyone who's ever written a book or appeared on a talk show is a potential target. It's like sexual harassment cranked up to the nth degree."
"Sexual?"
"Of course it's sexual. They call it a lot of things, but it all comes out the same. Stalkers are rapists. They try to take by force what they can't have by consent. . . ."
. . . the only thing that really distinguishes a sociopath from the rest of the world is that the sociopath lacks empathy. He feels only his own pain, cares only for his own needs. Selfishness squared. . . .
. . . All sociopaths are encapsulated. Always have every feeling they need right inside themselves. Nobody else counts. I have very mixed feelings about the writer I'm quoting above, and I'm not giving his name here, because his assistants/fans/disciples grep newsgroups for mentions of him, and then attack anyone who doesn't say he's wonderful and possessed of The Absolute Truth. . . but he's right on many counts. (I might write more about why I read his stuff, why it bothers me so, and why I continue to pay for his books, even disagreeing with him in many places, but that's a separate story.) But I'd reread the book from which these quotes come last week, before Reive started dealing again with the person who's stalking her -- and stalking is the only appropriate word. Before the current situation, he concluded that she was someone like him, highly intelligent, sharing similar interests and history (though he has distorted her history to claim absolute matches where they don't exist, from their relationship as regulars in a bar in the past to job possibilities), and, based on his conclusions, decided that they should meet. After all, they had so very much in common, of course they'd get along. Reive, on the other hand, didn't think so, and, after thinking it over, declined. Then John (we'll call him) tried a different tack: claiming that she wasn't real, only a construct by a mutual acquaintance, intended to mess with John's mind. If she was real, of course she'd meet with him to prove it. (Of course, John is so important that someone -- someone who only knows him vaguely as another figure in a bar he frequented, but of course, that's in this reality, not John's -- would hire an actress for photos, and spend two years on LiveJournal creating a persona to fuck with his head.) Then, another tack: "You don't understand what I've written -- come meet me in person, and I'm sure we can clarify things." Current explanation is that she's a girl, and worried that he's a dirty old man. That's a neat trick: implying that she's inexperienced and frightened and threatened, in the hopes that she'll decide to prove otherwise by doing what he wants, and coming to meet him. It's all about what he wants. What He Wants. The facts that she's decided that closer acquaintance with him isn't what she wants, that she feels no need to prove her existence to him, that he's been pushy and intrusive, and that he's lied about incidents -- none of these matter. Just that he wants to talk with her face to face, and because they "have so much in common," she owes it to him somehow. Bullshit. Shared interests and one-sided obsession do not make a friendship. Not even shared interests, or shared history. People make decisions. And adult, honorable, "nice" people respect the decisions made by others. They know that they don't always get everything they want out of life, and don't keep trying to force others to give them what they want. I suppose part of this is that I don't get obsessed, and I don't "get" obsessed -- so this is all a very strange situation to be watching. But it's also my friend Reive who's being stalked (though John would deny it), and one of the places he appears is also a place where I, and my friends, hang out. Not as often as he does (most of us are working, and can't afford to spend our nights getting shit-faced and stupid), but often enough that we consider it a regular hangout. [Tangent: I call Reive a friend; she considers me one. We have shared interests, shared values, shared history -- and the knowledge that those would not create a friendship, except that we have consciously chosen to pursue a friendship, to build a relationship starting from those foundations. And we knew of each other vaguely for years before we decided to do this. There was no, "I want you in my life, under my terms, right now!" crap; we felt each other out, and explored, before coming to the conclusion. And had either of us decided, "No, I'd rather stay an acquaintance," the other would have accepted that.] I'm rambling, but I'm rock-solid on some things. If John tries to force his presence on Reive while I'm around, he will regret it. And I will never again give in to anyone who demands that I be their friend because "we have so much in common," no matter what. (More on that last, and the history behind it, in another post.) Tags: boundaries, commonplace book
admissable state: adamant
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"If you want me to leave you alone, say so, I will. But I want you to know how cruel you're being. I don't demand anything from you. I'm just offering some friendship. And you're refusing." from "Reality Trip" Robert Silverberg, 1970 There's a set of connections between this character's comments, something that lusciouswife said to me, and my thoughts about the "friends" lists here in LJ-land. A couple of weeks ago, I ran across someone's profile with phrasing something to the effect of "This journal is just so that I can read and comment. If I add you to my friends list, do me the courtesy of adding me back. I'm paying you a compliment." At the time, it was the last line that really raised my hackles. It's too analogous to the sorts of men who stand on the street, loudly rating women's appearances, and then announcing, "You an ugly bitch!" to the ones who don't respond to "Hey, sexy! I'd do you!" I do not think that my interest in someone else, whether it be their writing, their appearance, their cute shoes, somehow either obligates them to open up their lives to me, or entitles me to anything more of them than they have given me by their appearance in my life. Yes, it might be nice if they stayed around longer, or wrote more, but I can't demand it. Reive, when I mentioned this to her, pointed out clearly (in words I wish I could recall, because they were succinct and pointed) that there's something inherently creepy in the concept that X's interest in me should somehow obligate me to open up to them. Rant, rant, rant. I had a friend of sorts, a writing buddy at times, who was also interested in journal-keeping, and had a habit of showing me entries in her journal, and expecting me to reciprocate as much, if not more, than she did. "Look! I'm baring my soul to you -- you should make yourself equally vulnerable!" Knowing that she delighted in telling me confidential data that had been told to her by once-friends, and that she edited and re-edited her reality to a degree that was frightening, I found it impossible to open up to her that much. I did, some, because I can be manipulated by "shoulds," but never to her satisfaction. And I suspect that some of the things I told her have since been told in distorted form to the community we shared -- but there's nothing I can do about that. I wander off into tangents and digressions. That former friend was one who dealt with information as currency, to be hoarded and sold: one revelation from the heart is worth the same, or two pieces of confidential data about others.... As far as I can tell these days, identifying points about "weird like me" folks is that we like to give and receive information without concern for getting the best bargain in exchange, that perhaps part of the joy of taking in data is being able to pass it on, and that the exchanges don't have to be exact, don't have to be direct exchanges, for them to be of value. it's not a zero-sum game. Tags: boundaries, commonplace book, communication, livejournal
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Didn't drink scotch last night, perhaps because I was alone, and beginning to brood, and didn't want to do anything reckless (believe me, there was at least one potentially disastrous reckless act I'd started considering). Apple juice, October Project's first album, and contemplation of the world instead. A quote from E.B. White in 1949, which is way too apt right now: "The subtlest change in New York is something people don't speak about much but that is on everyone's mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes, no bigger than a wedge of geese, can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition." Still, I'm tolerably cheerful. Tags: commonplace book, new york city
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Yesterday, I was home sick, having to turn around after getting into the subway station. (Details omitted: suffice it to say that I am standing at the opposite end of the platform for a while, in the hopes that my fellow morning travelers' memories fade.) Today, the office is cold, the fluorescent lighting is slightly painful, and I am being very careful about what I eat and drink, and how much. But, overall, I'm doing okay. I am going to experiment with linking, because Cory's rant in Boing Boing seems important and well worth repeating. Boing Boing itself is worth reading regularly, but this one leapt out at me, because I've done it, too, and wish I hadn't. An excerpt: "That guy has too much spare time" is one of the most odious, intellectually dishonest, dismissive things a person can say. It disguises a vicious ad-hominem attack as a lighthearted verbal shrug. The subtext of the remark is that the subject's passions -- this remark is almost always directed at someone engaged in some labor of love -- are so meritless that their specific shortcomings don't even warrant discussion. The subtext is that any sane person who considers these passions will immediately see their total worthlessness. To direct this remark at someone is to utterly dismiss their personal fire and so their ability to distinguish between the worthy and the unworthy. To read the rest of it, go to: Boing Boingand scroll down a bit. Tags: commonplace book
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