It's really frustrating that theatre suffers so much in Canada, a nation BRIMMING with artists. It's extremely tempting to say that Canadian drama just isn't as good as British or American drama, but this might just be a flawed perspective. Really, I don't have much perspective on it. It just seems like the Canadian plays I've read are good, but they're still missing something overall. I don't know if this is true or not, but it's hard to shake that off, either way. Maybe it's the reluctance to look at them in a better light because they haven't been produced abroad. Like the only way we can be sure if a play is good is if the outside world--that is, NOT Canadians, will love it and accept it and produce it in their theatres. That way it's not just our bias toward Canada-ness, but the actual quality of the piece stands up on its own, without our support. And our homegrown drama is still very young, since it only really took off in the 60's. And we didn't have the wonderful combination of actors, acting teachers and bright and talented directors and writers to galvanize our theatre at the right time and the right place like the kind that America saw in the 40's and 50's with the likes of Strasberg, Stella Adler, Marlon Brando, Elia Kazan, Tennessee Williams. We've a ways to go yet.

I've been checking my e-mail several times a day now. I think something's wrong with me. It's different today because usually I get, more or less, a constant stream of e-mails, whereas today I've received none. How troubling it is, how dependent I've become on hearing from the outside world. You can blame it on an addiction to the internet, but that's too easy. It runs deeper than that. After all, I'm always happy to get real mail come in through the slot in the door. The only reason I don't check it as often is because the mail generally only comes once a day, and I rarely get any, so I don't expect it. E-mail however can come at any moment, correspondence from anybody in the entire world (although they're more likely just facebook messages or those tastefully tasteless and silly jokes that my mom forwards me from her older sister, Carmel). But there's always that hope, however small, that someone will send you a message so heartfelt or thought-provoking or urgent, you'll remember that people really care about you, and you're not alone in your garret. That will make this frantic addiction to e-mail justified. But until then, it's quite a waste of time and energy, especially when I should be doing homework. I ought to limit myself to checking just once a day, like snail mail.

Anyway, back to the grindstone.

Not to pleased that I'm missing the Oscars right now....

And Now for a Hodgepodge:

Alright, I guess I should apologize. It's been almost 2 weeks since I've finished and handed in my second short story for Fiction, and I haven't written anything since. Lord knows why not though, since my mind's been alight with ideas which, to me, are worth writing down. It's really distressing how my mind works so much faster than my pen or fingers can. It's a cause of a lot of my anxiety and frustration I think, the sheer mess my mind is always in.

So, here are some of the things I've been thinking about, lately.

Acting (unsurprisingly). The concepts that have really resonated with me lately is being in the Moment. It's this choice an actor makes to allow the present moment to happen, and to react accordingly with it. It relates back to Jim's "Squeaking Door Theory", how in the text a character sneaks onstage through a door while the other character onstage doesn't notice; but the door squeaks, and logically the character onstage must react to that, even though it wasn't written into the script. To fail to acknowledge moments like that make the whole thing lose its believability for both the actors and the audience. This is basic stuff, yes? Theatre 101 right here. And it's something I've fully understood since first hearing it. Yet only recently has it become more to me than something to acknowledge--to put up with--rather, it's become something to celebrate and hope for. It's these moments that make theatre so lively, and a show with a long run fresh every night. The irony of course, is that they can't really be planned per se. But if you prepare thoroughly, living in the moment won't be something to fear. As long as I can remember as an actor I've read my lines aloud to myself, in solitude. This can be useful in some ways, but in the end, it's acting in a vacuum, paying no respect to the truth of the moment in the scene when it's being performed. I want to get out of that habit.

Right now, it's reading break, and I'm trying to balance using this extended free time to both relax and to get some shit done. I'm trying to decide between writing about Antonin Artaud or The Blue Room, a modern adaptation of Schnitzler's La Ronde. The thing that interests me about Artaud is his fascination for Balinese theatre, which got me to looking on Youtube at some clips of it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dytdVkUOR8s&feature=related

It's really mesmerizing. I can't stop watching these videos; they make me want to go to Bali and experience these performances first hand.

To be honest, I think Artaud is way more interesting, but I really don't know how to put it together in an essay. Oh well, I guess I should finish his book before I say anything.

I've started watching The Office over the break. It makes me pretty darn happy. Oh, and I drew in my notebook for the first time in months. It was such a great feeling. After having started reading Watchmen and talking to Graeme about anime it's made me want to draw again. I friggin' love it. It reaches a big part of me that acting simply cannot satisfy.

As you can see I'm following this blog: The Next Stage, and it's really inspiring and exciting to hear from people who are working in theatre and fighting to make independent theatre grow. At the same time it's frustrating because of the lack of attention that theatre is getting, and now the lack of funding, thank you very much, Mr. Harper. I'm glad it's making me angry though. It makes me want to get involved, it makes me care deeply about the state of theatre in Canada because it's not doing as well as it could be. Our art is always at risk of becoming obsolete, and that's what drives us, keeps us on our toes. And what I hear from this blog are voices of people who are working very hard and are proof that theatre IS relevant.

Note to self: make entries a little more cohesive. This can be remedied by posting more often.

Alright, so I've technically broken my resolution many times, already. I haven't been keeping a daily update on here. In my defense, I never said I would write every day on HERE. I've been writing almost non-stop throughout January, finishing one short story and quickly moving on to the next within a very small span of time, as well as editing the first one simultaneously. Work's just piled up and taken priority over this, and when I'm not working on Fiction stuff, I have to focus on my Acting homework. We've started rehearsals for Medea as well, so when I'm not at the Phoenix or editing my stories or workshopping other peoples' stories, I do need some time to cool my noodle, and perhaps share a word or two with my comrades, without whom I would become completely sucked into my lap top and closed off from the world. And though none of this is an adequate excuse, I'm not superhuman, (contrary to popular belief). Slowly but surely I'm learning how to foster good work habits, and when I have the luxury of time I can post on here more often. But until then, it'll have to be sporadic. I think resolutions, if they're really worth keeping, need to be renewed not once every year, but something like once every week. Even with my other resolution it's been tough. The past couple of weeks I haven't gone to the gym for the intended minimum of 4 days a week. Does that mean I'm going to give up? Haaayull no! If you can't be consistent, then at least be persistent.And we need to give ourselves time away, to gather our thoughts before we jump back into the squall again. And should we falter in our commitment, we simply acknowledge it, not punish ourselves for it, and keep going.

What should one write about? Thus far this has been a blog for general entries. I had intended it to be just a documentation of my unpolished literary efforts, my works-in-progress, but that didn't pan out. I guess the logic behind that was that my own life experiences lend themselves to my literary ones, so why differentiate?

For the ages, let the world know what I did on January 14, 2009:

8:10 AM. Woke up, slowly. It's always a struggle. my room is cold and dark; the sunlight never gets in.
9:30 AM. Started Day 2 of class with Kaz. The man is ancient, small and thin and very entertaining. He has silvery curly patches of hair on the sides of his otherwise bald head, and and silver goatee. He doesn't smile or laugh very much, but he enjoys himself. He is catlike in his movements, something I aspire to be, which is difficult for me. I'm pretty flexible for a guy, but I've lost what semblance of grace I got from dance. I didn't realize how tall I was until I was actually beside others in my acting class. I'm no Bryan Nothling or Brian Culp, but I have altitude. Anyway...
11:00 AM. Started read-through of Grace. We didn't get to me and Kes' scene yet. How disappointing. Soon enough, though!
12:30 PM. Forked over 20 bucks for a Phoenix t-shirt. Felt irritated because they didn't give any previous notice, so I had to give over money I had hoped to spend on food to get me through the day. But it's for a good cause.
1:30 PM. Had a lecture in Theatre History on Critiques of Victorian Ideals, specifically pertaining to Aestheticism, specifically pertaining to Oscar Wilde. That poor man had a bad ending to his artful life. It would've been terrible to see a man so intelligent, prolific, creative and congenial to have his spirit broken.
3:30 PM. Went to gym. Woohoo!
5:00 PM. Went to library, got books on Corinth, slavery in Ancient Greece, education and every day life in Ancient Greece. Still need to find stuff on Colchis, though. Dagnabbit. Got music from Wagner's Ring Cycle, and Spring Awakening. Wow, unintentional German fest!
6:30 PM Called Mom, talked to her and Ciaran and Gabby for a total of an hour and a half.
9:00 PM Watched Wayne's World with the twins. They enjoyed it, thank God, so it's not just good because of sentimental value.
10:30 PM Went over lines for Medea. At this point I don't know when I started doing other things, but I workshopped JIm's story more thoroughly, and now I'm here. And now I need only refer to this entry and I shall never forget what I did on this day that has never happened before and will never happen again. Of course, time is merely a human construct, as is the calendar. Without them, one day is just as much like any other day.

Writing Exercise

Seven days ago I ate at Denny's, and now nobody will talk to me. At the club on Tuesday, Charlie Silverman, that jowley, Victorian-minded, snifter-wielding fiend didn't even give me one of his legendary diatribes on propriety of men of high social standing. (He believes of course they should all concern themselves with cordon bleu chicken, wine, automobiles; cordon bleu damn-near everything. Even their prostitutes ought to be five star first class). Instead, Silverman decided to give me a frost-bitten shoulder, less broad and angular than his double-breasted suit will have you believe; more blunted and soft, (believe me, I know), but no less scathing. Indifference is one of his lesser-known talents among those who know him. And generally once you know Silverman, he immediately takes an interest in you. So the indifference is even more unsettling. At least with his rants he gave you the satisfaction that he cared enough to scald you and embarrass you with his rapier tongue in front of all the boys with their tumblers and cigarillos. To be crucified by Silverman was one of the highest compliments you could get apart from him wanting to sleep with you. It's very easy to forget, that like everything in the "good life", not every one is fortunate enough to know Charlie. So to be denied it is to be declared anathema. Once he ignores you you are now a leper, excommunicated into the subhuman world where all they eat is hash browns, bacon strips, Alps-sized pancake stacks, and black coffee, the most austere of drinks.

I'm going to try and take a new approach to my writing. I have one last shot at it for my Short Fiction workshop, so I think it should prove beneficial.

I've noticed that a lot of ideas I get are situations, static events that certainly hold great dramatic potential, but then I find myself attempting to force my characters to fit that situation. The characters end up becoming plot-driven, vehicles of an idea, rather than letting them drive the plot. Instead, for this final story, I'm going to start with a person, an image or a scene, not knowing where it's going to go or why the person I'm following is so darn intriguing. I'll let the story unfold before my eyes and enjoy the ride, rather than make all the minutiae work for me and cram it awkwardly into my stubborn framework. I'm doing it this way because I noticed that I enjoy my writing and it's at its best when I'm writing in the few exercises in class where we're given a sentence and we take that sentence and run with it. Like at the beginning of last term, we were given the phrase: "Sunburned, yes. But this is 1945." And somehow from that we had to build a world, a voice and a story explaining it, and even under the time constraint of 45 minutes, my writing felt free and unhindered. Last week we were required to write a scene with dialogue, where the characters are physically doing one thing, while they're talking about something else. It took me a little bit of time to start, but as soon as I did and made a choice, it got easier. I think this has something to do with using external stimuli as inspiration. I must constantly remind myself that creativity does not occur in a vacuum, that art is a reaction to the world, and all it takes are the right conditions to foster creativity, and the right element to catalyze the whole process, whatever that may be. A good artist must keep his or her senses open!