Wednesday, March 11, 2009


I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Self-Improving Extroverted Self-Knower

Tuesday, March 10, 2009


as danny and i were leaving the sag/wgae theater on west 57th street the other day, we passed by a gossip girl shoot on west 57th street right in front of the russian tea room. lots of cameras and lights and stuff. and then there were a TON of paparazzi on the edge of it all, leaning in and angling here and there, taking pictures. i thought, oh wow -- this is the reason why i always keep my camera in my purse! and i thought about pulling it out. but then i got a glimpse of these two -- zac efron and the other white girl that everyone is always going on about that's usually paired with him -- and i was genuinely surprised at how pretty he was.

i mean really, really pretty. like, michael york pretty, when he was in the three musketeers. no. more like, rob lowe pretty, when he was in his early twenties. okay -- nobody's that pretty. that was otherworldly. he looked like a chick pretending to be a dude. then again there was christopher walken, when he was in the deer hunter. and maybe al pacino when he was in the panic in needle park -- a movie that shall now and forever remain in my all time favorite top five. he had quite a few beautiful moments in that film.

yeah, zac was really pretty and really uninteresting. no presence, no heat. and the girl with him -- what is her name? eh, i can't remember. --gave off NO sparks at all. i don't know what i was expecting but i'm fairly certain that it was way more than zip.

danny and i had just seen a preview of the latest julia roberts vehicle duplicity, co-starring clive owen. and no, it wasn't that good. it was i'm-stuck-on-this-plane-and-i-can't-sleep-so-i-guess-i'll-watch-this good. but before the movie started, we had a really interesting talk about her and film stars who insist on doing broadway and why they probably shouldn't. his acting teacher (who passed away recently) coached ms. roberts through her broadway debut and had really interesting remarks about her acting talent.

he said that the camera really loved her and that usually in film, that's 90% of the battle. a good director can get you through the rest. it's their medium, anyway. he also said that she was in way over her head with the broadway play and didn't understand why she was insisting on doing it. she's used to a 20 million dollar paycheck, so it definitely wasn't the money.

once upon a time, the hollywood movie studios brought you to the west coast to star in the broadway show you just did in new york city. and then they kept you under contract in their little circle, put you up in a cute little bungalow and groomed you -- with acting lessons, stylists, photographers, make-up artists, you name it. eventually, they farmed you out to other studios, built up your resume, your reputation. and then poof, you were a star.

there are moments where you see that kind of thing happening nowadays -- john leguizamo comes to mind and so does sara ramirez -- but it's not the flow of things. nowadays, you can finesse your way through it if you're pretty enough. even if you're a guy. especially if you're a guy.

maybe i should have taken a picture, anyway.

Monday, March 09, 2009

i could keep it hot for you

the powers that be have started unhinging the apartment that's directly underneath mine and they usually get cracking around 8am when they think everyone is gone. their tobacco smoke comes to me through the floorboards, along with the talk radio they listen to in the morning and the bad pop music that happens in the afternoon. i can hear their conversations, their west indian accents, their bizarre african languages, the french they yell sometimes, occasionally polish or russian or even lithuanian and spanish, spanish, spanish. hardly anything is tossed out in english anymore.

most of all, the banging and ripping and drilling and loud, loud noise is non-stop. sometimes my floor shakes, like a baby elephant is trying to get at me through their ceiling. someone dropped something the other day and everyone yelled all at once. it sounded like a muffled stadium roar. it sounded like a thunderclap and then there was silence and then scrambling and more yelling. and more thunder. i remember thinking, someone doesn't know what they're doing.

one time, i didn't lock my door and this african guy came in, with all these tools around his waist and carrying something heavy on his shoulder. he was almost in my living room before he realized that he was one floor off. he almost fell backward when he saw me and started apologizing profusely in french. i was relieved that i wasn't naked or sitting at my piano in the next room, practicing scales in my underwear. that would have been really bad.

sometimes they're so loud that it sounds like they're in the next room. when i sleep in, it's almost as though i'm surrounded by them, like they're building something around me. and occasionally i have nightmares where that's exactly what's happened and i'm trapped in some wierd labyrinth that i can't find my way out of, with them banging and hammering away while i run towards a light that isn't there.

if i start cooking early in the afternoon, they can smell what's for dinner before they knock off for the day. they know which apartment it's coming from and as i skip in and out, they give me the dap and yell at me and say stuff like, what are you making -- it smells AMAZING, or i'd give anything to have a woman that can cook like you or my personal favorite i'll be home by six tonight -- keep it hot for me! this happens in the building and all the way up the block. none of them have tasted any of it but they know when it's lamb tagine or chicken and dumplings or smothered pork chops, so we have this really cool back and forth about whatever i'm making. it's fun.

that got me to thinking about a story my grandmother told me not too long ago.

when i wasn't even an afterthought in her imagination, she said that they were building train tracks about 150 yards away from the little pink house that i spent much of my infant/toddler years in, with her and my grandfather and a host of aunts and uncles and cousins and all. to supplement the household income, she fed the railway workers. they would line up at her kitchen window and get a plate of food for a set price. there were workers who came from far away, too far to commute back and forth. so my grandfather built a little house for them to stay in, and charged them for it.

the bottom line was that when it was time to make ends meet, everybody found a way to get their hustle on.

how easy would it be for me to open up my kitchen and turn it into a restaurant unofficially? well. not so easy. i'm sure the landlord would shut me down in a snap, especially when the people in charge get wise. but economic times are always hard in the ghetto. your kitchen as restaurant is what's done here all the time. you do what you have to do to make a buck and keep your lights on and then you keep it moving.

think about it. they do this in every ghetto. they do it in chinatown. everybody's on the street, selling food. there's an old lady that's infamous for putting all of her children through college by selling her dumplings on the street.

don't believe me? come on over to my neighborhood.

when you step off the subway at 137th street and broadway, there's at least two or three people yelling about what they're selling, from corn on a stick covered in oxchaca cheese to tamales. there's a guy and his mom up the street about 15 blocks apart that sell cold and hot soup -- a delicious seafood ceviche and a really outstanding sancocho (a latin friend calls this heavy stew dominican viagra), with lime and plastic spoons and napkins and hot sauce and everything that goes with it. by early evening, they're usually all out. the lady in the window was constantly cooking and selling what she made. frankly, her open window was all the advertisement that she needed. i never bought anything from her. i never had to, actually. she was always sticking her hand through the grill and giving me yummy dominican things that she was making, like dulce. (God, i miss her.)

do they do this in soho or the upper east side, or even gramercy park? of course not? do they do this all over harlem? you betcha. i'll believe that i'm not living in the ghetto anymore when they stop -- gentrification be damned.

so yeah, i guess i could make a huge pot of collards and get my hustle on. it wouldn't take much and it would probably be a lot of fun, mostly because i love to cook. but i'm hustling enough as it is with everything else in my life. and besides -- i don't want to get into any trouble...

Sunday, March 08, 2009

happy sunday

i'm going to post a sermonette every sunday. today's message comes to us from none other than the great jimmy smith on hammond organ, with billy hart on drums and quentin warren on guitar, performing -- what else? -- the sermon (1964). enjoy.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

the lady in the street

i saw her on broadway, on the upper west side, somewhere in the eighties. we were headed in opposite directions and i only glimpsed her because as usual, i was moving fast, but i recognized her immediately. she was very pale with watery blue eyes and she had not-too-short hair and she wore simple jewelry and no makeup. she was well dressed, and in spite of the shift towards better weather, she was warmly dressed, with a light tweedy overcoat and a small scarf over a nice dress and low comfortable heels. she looked like the older women in my family, the ones who coordinate their purses and shoes, who still wear hats and gloves and scarves in this really appropriate way, those who are tasteful and for the most part unadorned. she was a lady, a southern lady. she looked elegant and graceful. and she was alone.

she was moving so slowly, it was almost painful to watch her as she made her way down the street, because i remembered how spry she used to be. but she was moving. and she seemed fine. i had to stop myself from turning around and following her and saying hello. but like i said, i was moving fast in the other direction, as usual. and in those moments, i always think that i'm going to see that person again. which is a part of the reason why it hurts so badly when i don't.

she was a retired elementary schoolteacher from virginia. i remember how much i loved to hear her talk because she had the loveliest accent ever. it was lilting and sure, like it had a song inside of it. talking to her made me miss the south, very much. when i lived in the sro, we were always cordial to each other. one day when we were walking in the same direction, we had this wonderful conversation about the city and why we liked it here so much.

she told me that she was so happy to be single in the city, to go to museums and eat delicious exotic food and stroll down so many historically important thoroughfares. she had family down south, but they didn't know what they were missing. she said this with a wave of her hand and a tilt of her head, like we were our own little club. the energy of the city seemed to revitalize her, give her a spark that any other place else never could. she loved the opera, and the theater scene, and never missed shakespeare in the park.

the longer she talked, the more she sounded like me.

she was positively giddy about some show she'd seen recently, some performance that really moved her. as she described it, beaming and expressive with that lilty singsongy voice, i could see the glee on her face. and all of a sudden, she was no longer an old lady retiree.

i never forgot that conversation. would that be me, someday -- happily waxing poetic about art that moved me? what would my life be like if i ever get to be an old lady? could i really pull off old age in this town? or will i be on an island off the coast of georgia or south carolina, growing my own vegetables? either way, i think it's going to be a good life. as it turns out, the time-honored stereotype of the sad old lady in a big old house with no real money and cats everywhere isn't necessarily true anymore. single older women in this country are legion -- and apparently, they are having the time of their lives.

of the 57 million american women over 45, roughly half of them are single. that outnumbers the entire population of australia! there's a lot that can explain this. american women marry later, their divorce rate is high and they usually outlive their mates. so it's bloody likely that you'll end up single, anywayeven if you marry or have kids,. and single life is good. many women take this time in their lives to reinvent themselves and do things they've always dreamed of -- like leaving some small town in virginia in your supposed twilight years to live alone in big bad new york city.

longevity runs in my family. if it's true that i could live to be 90, when i turn 65, it really will be the beginning of everything else.

i'm starting to really hope i see that little old lady again.

Friday, March 06, 2009


yesterday, my friend and i met my neighbor and her dog madison. her spacious, freshly renovated and totally tricked out apartment is parallel to mine. i think she lives there with her boyfriend. i don't remember her name but i remember the dog's name because it's also my niece's name and my brother ramon's middle name and my uncle's name. (sigh.) we approached the entrance to the building simultaneously and the neighbor stepped out of the way to let us in first, which is when madison reared up, fought against her pink leash violently and went into attack mode. as we chatted with her politely, the neighbor scolded/admonished the dog all the way into the elevator, all the way into the hallway, all the way to the door of her apartment and all the way inside. the dog barked and snarled and yipped the whole time and wouldn't stop barking once it was inside. apparently madison does whatever he/she/it wants.

with two loud little dogs at the end of the hallway that sound off constantly at the slightest provocation, most days it sounds like somebody needs the frackin' dog whisperer.

my friend thought it was a cute dog, a tiny purebred black and tan yappy thing -- as it turns out, a yorkshire terrier. weren't terriers meant to herd things like sheep? as it turns out, these were bred to be ratters -- that is, they were meant to kill rats in small places. in the early 19th century, there were rat killing contests wherein the dogs competed to see who could kill the most rats. people would carry them in their pockets and set them loose as needed.


from what i've heard, we've got a ton of rats in this metropolis -- with no end in sight. maybe the mayor should give everyone a yorkie.

meeting madison was a gentle reminder that i have no intentions of ever getting a dog. don't i have enough to do without having to upend my day to zip home to walk phideaux, so my place doesn't end up smelling like a toilet, thanks to this loving and affectionate animal taking all of these strategic well-placed dumps all over the place? don't i have enough to pay for without having to hire a dog walker? isn't this city expensive enough without yet another expense?

well. maybe i'd get a dog if i live down south and i have a huge house that sits on 5 acres or something, yeah then i'll get a dog. it seems cruel to have one in my little apartment in the city.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

a post script

okay, i have to say this.

i write about the auditions i do because i do a zillion of them and blogging still seems like a great way to document the process. what this blog should be is a hot shot of reality for anyone who doesn't know what it's like to do this acting thing, for real. more often than not, i've learned the hard way that most people have this really convoluted idea of what being an actor is. you say you're an actor and they think of some movie star or some tv personality or some stooge on some sit-com, and and they think about how these bozos are all over the place all the time and why aren't i famous or on tv or in some tyler perry movie or something.

i remember when i moved to new york city and all these people i knew down south assumed that of course i'd be doing showtime at the apollo, so i could be on tv and wave at my momma. and whenever i'd talk to them, they'd ask me when i was going to be on the show and why hadn't i done it yet. that's what they knew. that's all they saw for me. that was their vision of what i should be doing in new york city. i had other ideas -- because like every actor, i've got my own goals and desires for my career and my life-- just like any other career anywhere else. every actor is different. and everybody doesn't want what i want.

that's why some people are perfectly happy whiling away their entire lives in the chorus of a broadway show. that's all they want.

the bottom line is that although there are a million and one variables that stand in the way of you and whatever you're auditioning for -- like, hello! there are absolutely NO black people in the cast of this show! -- get this, loud and clear: it doesn't matter if you have talent, or if you do a great audition, or if you're a massive star with the kind of charisma that can pull anyone's attention. it just doesn't matter. if it did -- if they gave the role to the person with the most talent and charisma, irregardless of race or body type -- there would hardly be any white people on broadway, at all.

there. i said it.

clearly, i didn't go to the spiderman audition so they could cast me as peter parker's girlfriend. but if they were to cast me in the show, what role would i get? think about it. they take ALL of their casting cues from the movie. aside from macy gray's 10 second cameo, did you see any black women with lines in spiderman the movie? were you hard-pressed to find any black people who were background talent? and this movie franchise is set in new york city -- arguably the world's biggest melting pot. so where were we? and if this is the case, then why would you expect them to put me in it? because miracles happen everyday?

i've got a lot of ideas that i'm growing, because i'm not very good at waiting for the phone to ring. while i'm growing things, i audition because auditioning is a skill that you have to hone constantly if you want to be good at it. and you have to be good at it and stay good at it, if you eventually want to get cast in anything. and that's only the tip of the iceberg. you have to be in a constant state of readiness -- vocally ready, and with all sorts of material prepared (if you can sing); physically together and ready for action (because what your body looks like matters); monologues all set to go for shakespeare and beyond. the more you can do, the more likely you'll work. and all of this requires coaching and lessons and workshops and workout sessions and study and so on. and all of that requires money.

don't worry. if anything happens, you'll hear it here first. but i'm not holding my breath. i'm actually hard at work.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

another day, another audition: spiderman, the musical

everybody knows that they're making popular movies into broadway musicals these days. when the star-studded movie version of the musical chicago happened, everyone in hollywood saw gold in them thar hills and opened divisions in movie studios to develop projects. the disneyfication of times square began some time ago, but this latest streak of blatant commercialism would definitely seal the coffin lid shut on all things creative and new and original on broadway. it's not that such productions would never see the light of day or the great white way. but when it takes 7 to 9 years on the average to write and develop a musical, when it costs just as much to produce a musical off or on broadway, and when film actors and hip-hop impresarios and pop tarts are starring in broadway shows to guarantee a profit, and revivals abound, it makes it seem as though the original stuff fell through the cracks, somehow. i know that they're not going to put me in brigadoon. or the sound of music. or the music man. or any of these other lily-white revivals. so that's that.

sometime ago, someone told me that they were going to make a musical out of the movie spiderman, with julie taymor directing and bono writing all the music. it sounded like something that someone who sits at a desk all day would make up. and then i read it in a trade magazine and i thought, uh-oh. and then i read all about the (wide) open (cattle) call they had at the knitting factory some time ago and i thought, ew. and then i read about an audition they had at equity earlier this year and i thought, whoa. it's getting closer. i read about the spiderman: the musical audition in backstage and i thought, okay, i'm going in. when i read the notice out loud to my friend (who also happens to be a massive comic book geek), he couldn't stop laughing. he thinks it's going to be a massive flop.

that didn't stop me from throwing on a wrap dress under my snow pants and throwing my pumps in my purse and going in, somewhere in mid-afternoon or thereabouts, straight to telsey in midtown. i would have been there sooner, but i had to wash my hair -- and every sister that's natural that reads this knows that a big afro may look cute, but it ain't nothing but some hard work. i'm determined to grow it out and so far, it's working. yay, me. but i digress.

when i got there, i was the only negress as far as the eye could see. when i got situated, i saw another negro -- and yes, we totally knew each other. as a matter of fact, chris lives two blocks away from me. as luck would have it, he went in right before i did. the words all ethnicities are encouraged to audition jumped out at me from the notice. so where were we?

everything was fairly straightforward. they wanted something like 32 bars of a rock song -- no show tunes. that was just enough to let them hear whether you could sing or not, so they could separate the wheat from the chaff. i was going to sing that del shannon song runaway -- way slower and darker than anything they were expecting. i was number 70-something on the alternative list, but i knew that i'd get in because they were seeing people until 6:30pm. the monitor was straight out of central casting: really peppy, really jaded, really chubby, really cute, kind of midwestern looking and well, really gay. (...not that there's anything wrong with that...)

as i looked around the room, all i could think was, who are these children? every one of them looked like they belonged on a playground, somewhere. it's kind of like being in college and looking at high schoolers and balking at how everyone is so wet behind the ears, but they think they're so grown and all this stuff. i don't know if it was their clothes. their hair. the way they sat in clumps and couldn't stop giggling and sifting nervously through their sheet music. i don't know. i thought they looked like a bunch of puppies.

i wish i could have given them some advice. something like, stop sweating -- it's not that deep. or how about, your clothes are way too tight. stop letting pop stars/video vixens dress you. or maybe even, go home. whatever. the bottom line is that all too often, talent doesn't matter as much as it should in these instances. a great audition won't necessarily get you the job, for a myriad of reasons. it shouldn't work that way, but it does.

i wish someone had explained that to me when i was a puppy.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

not giving is giving

i'm on the train the other night. well. actually it was evening and night was coming on fast, turning the sky dark before the world could readjust. everything was slowing down and speeding up all at once, the way it always does when rush hour stops to catch its breath. i was on the 1 and i was past 96th street, which means i was almost home. something in me began to relax a little -- probably because i was imagining my sofa, my guitar, my ottoman and a pot of tea, and so on. i was so relaxed, i dozed off a little. it was the stench that woke me up.

there's no getting away from the full on assault on your senses, and your nose is usually the first thing to get blasted. something always stinks in this city. so when i smelled something foul, it didn't phase me. but when it lingered, i woke all the way up.

it was some non-descript mangy-looking homeless guy. he was lanky, he was black, he was moving slow, and he smelled like pure filth. shockingly coatless in this freezing weather. i can only imagine that his stench was the one thing that kept him warm. he had his hand out as he mumbled something like, could you help me out. something like that. it was singsongy, kinda catchy. i didn't really pay any attention to him. there must have been a half a dozen homeless people that passed in front of me since i jumped on at midtown. the question looms large on the horizon, especially in hard times like these: do you give money to homeless people on the subway or whereever? or do you give to the organizations in the city that are supposed to be helping them?

i only give homeless people food when they ask me for money because my theory is, you can't shoot up a sandwich. usually i have fruit but if the person in question only has five teeth in their mouth, how could they possibly gum down a granny smith apple?

i was on my way to ignoring this guy when the sister in front of me confronted him. she looked like she'd just come from a long hard day out working in a field somewhere. weary as all get out. she was bigger and taller than him, and she wasn't afraid of him.

the conversation went something like this:

woman: can i ask you a question?

homeless guy: (strikes a somewhat nonchalant pose) you can ask me whatever you want.

woman: (folds her arms and tilts her head, looks him up and down) you ain't got no physical disability or whatever. you're a man. a grown man. you ablebodied. why don't you go out and get a job, 'stead 'a begging people who work for a living for their hard-earned money?

homeless guy: (totally taken aback) i...i...i can't find a job. i can't find...

woman: you can go outta here tomorrow, go downtown and sell newspapers for $50 a day! did you hear me?! i said $50 a day!

homeless guy: (waving his arms around like kermit the frog) i went down there when they first started doin' that years ago but...but i couldn't get anybody to work with me...

woman: i get up at 5 o'clock in the morning every morning and i sell papers all day and you expect me to give you money? you know what you are? lazy! you're lazy!

homeless guy: i'm not lazy! they owe me! you need to tell them to give me my rations.

woman: you need to get a job. i'm a woman, and i...

homeless guy: you bein' a woman has nothing to do with anything.

woman: yes it does! you're a man, you're supposed to get out here and work.

homeless guy: gender has nothing to do with it.

woman: gender has EVERYTHING to do with it.

...and on and on they went, like no one else was on the train. and the train was packed. and as quiet as a tomb. this sister was relentless. she let him have it so hardcore that he quickly slid his way to the other car, yelling at her all the way, but steady moving in the opposite direction until nothing was left but the smell of him. as she found a seat at the opposite end of the car, she addressed the guy that gave him a dollar and said that if he had money to give away, he needed to give her some, too. and with that, there was a collective gasp. or an exhale. i couldn't tell. you're making it worse for all of us, she said.

and with that it was over. actually, it wasn't over. i finally got off the train.

that angry little exchange sealed it for me, afresh. i don't give money to homeless people. i just don't.

Monday, March 02, 2009

it's like this

yesterday when ralph came over, he remarked that in the vacant newly renovated apartment up the street, there's a microwave attached to stainless steel kitchen fixtures and such. like i said before, my landlord owns all the buildings on my side of the street. they've got on a construction rampage for the past two years or so, evicting long-time non-english speaking tenants and hooking up the empty apartments until they looked like something out of a pottery barn catalog.

yeah, i heard myself say, they're fixing them for all the downtown white people that are moving into the neighborhood -- because the black folk who live in the ghetto already can't afford them. and then my friend laughed and said, you know they have a laundromat in the basement. but you have to have a special key to use it -- and all the new tenants get one.

as ralph balked, my mind bounced back to little debbie's place in the ATL -- dunwoody, to be exact. when it was time for her to relocate to the south a few years ago because of work, she drove in from teaneck, new jersey with her two kids and rented her apartment sight unseen. it's a gated community that has 24 hour security, with a swimming pool, gym facilities, and whatnot. the apartment is spacious with a terrace and a washer/dryer and central air, and the kitchen is extra-special fancy, with brushed steel wonderment, a built-in microwave and all that jazz. her master bedroom has its own large well-appointed bathroom. all of this stuff isn't extra, by the way. it's standard issue. it comes with every apartment in her little community -- but i don't know of anyone in ATL who isn't living like this. it's the kind of stuff that almost everyone i know sort of takes for granted when they move into a new place.

and that's apartment living down there. that's rental. if you own your own house -- and if you're young, black, professional, female and in ATL, it's a good chance that you probably do -- you get that and way, way more. i grew up in a house in ATL that sits on 3 or 4 acres, with fruit trees in the backyard and a swimming pool and a sandbox. and woods to get lost in, woods that are filled with critters and berries and spiders and adventure.

i just read this article that said the $60K you make annually in new york city is worth $26K in the ATL. anyone that's been here for more than a week knows that you can't live on $60K. not if you don't want to live hand to mouth, with roommates no less, with zip amenities in a crummy neighborhood. no. if you want to live well in this town, you'll need to make at least 100K a year -- and if/when you do, you won't come anywhere near what little debbie and her kids have. not by a long shot.

no wonder new york yankees go down south, see how beautiful everything is and lose their damn minds. people who are from up here can't seem to fathom how good everyone has it elsewhere. and those of us who are not from up here have constant amnesia about what a decent quality of life is really supposed to be.

i can't forget because i have family down south who constantly remind me that in spite of the fact that i have a nice two bedroom apartment in west harlem and my name is on the lease, it's a stinkhole and something of a joke, compared to what i could have in the ATL for the same price. sometimes i wonder how much of a millionaire i'm going to have to be to have a middle class existence in the city, or if its something i'll even want if i ever get that far.

my new york city doesn't exist anymore. it's not just gentrification, per se. and yes, sex and the city ruined this city. but it's bigger than that. the city is in transition. it's dying. what we are hearing and seeing, from dire predictions about the economy and auctioning condos to the newly minted rentals up the block, is one long slow death rattle. soon enough, new york city will be very much like paris, france -- a place where only the very rich could possibly afford to live. people who service the city will come in from the outer boroughs. and after rush hour, the heart of the city will emptier than downtown houston at twilight.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

oh, biggity-boy!

this month's national blog posting month (nablopomo) theme is giving (up). i'm not sure how much i have to say on that one but then again, writing about the theme is optional -- and writing everyday for public consumption sparks me up. i have no idea why. probably because i have to make a daily deadline, really commit to it. and yeah, sometimes there's feedback. it's easy to forget how important feedback is when what i'm doing is so solitary.

wierd. i've got a ton of ideas coming at me, like shrapnel, and i have no idea why. it's riveting, exhilirating stuff, really freeing and strange. i'm scrambling to write any of it down, document all of it somehow, so i can dissect whatever sticks later when i catch my breath.

not that i'm not writing a lot, anyway. i've got my morning pages to plow through as soon as i wake up and somewhere in the middle of my day, i sit down somewhere, have tea and scribble something else. i'm still working on the book for a jazz burlesque musical. i'm writing more songs and lyrics for two projects that are well underway. and the idea for a one person show is starting to take shape and grow stronger in the back of my mind.

okay. let's see if i can pull this off.