It's About the Yucks!

'Does anyone remember laughter?' Yeah, well, then you find out that the joke is on you.

Work yesterday: all nails in the hands, crown of thorns, sweating blood in the garden (I don't have a Christ Complex, really!) On the El in the evening: a soul-killer, look around see a tin can packed with little dead sardines, salted, and ready to be consumed. These are my fellow human beings (oh little Grasshopper, never join a club that would have you as a member).

Bedtime: I decide to bring out the blow-up mattress (no, not the blow up doll) to watch Monday Night Football (Packers and Rams --- have to root for the Packers --- the manufacturing sector needs all the help it can get). I have this vision of sleeping on air. Of course, all night, I toss and turn, dreams of fire and ice (Apocalypse and Four Horseman stuff).

I'm up early, frazzled already, doing 'expense reports,' documenting where I have expended myself - here, there, everywhere. I've 'reaccessed' the Fool all right...there is a man, there is a banana peel, life is where these two opposing forces meet.

The Divine Belly Laugh

'To every season...turn, turn, turn.' Holiday is over, Carla's off to New York, back to 'the wheel.' Still reeling from our 'seminar,' yesterday. We explored the archetype of 'the Fool.' The Fool is the happy, carefree madman, who is in communication with the Divine (Divine Madness), through the belly laugh. We did a whole series of creative visualizations to reconnect with this aspect. I definitely experienced this as a series of little 'breakthroughs.'

Not to get too 'psychological,' I saw that all my own wounds have been self-inflicted, and that all the healing I require is within my grasp. These 'psychic meditations,' have allowed me to 'reaccess' my abilities. I always get recharged when I go to Invision. Creative Visualization has opened a completely new world. I am 'inspired,' to 'let my freak flag fly!'

I am confirmed in the knowledge that we are all more than our bodies. There is a 'knowledge,' that is beyond thought. The tools are simple: a grounding cord, a gold sun, a rose. We can create, we can destroy. There is a joy in the doing! A BELLY LAUGH, INDEED!

Playing the Villian

Up before the sun, heading to a 'seminar:' the 'Archetype of The Fool,' at Invision ('a psychic meditation class'). Should be a brain-twisting experience.

I'm really impressed with 'A Dead Man in Deptford,' Anthony Burgess' take on the life and death of Christopher Marlowe. He 'supposes,' details of Marlowe's life, and he puts flesh on the bone.

We 'witness' the little circle (the Durham Circle) of intellectuals, the 'magicians' that surround Sir Walter Raleigh: Marlowe, the Earl of Northumberland (the Wizard Earl), the mathematician James Herriot. They smoke an exotic weed (tobacco) that Raliegh has brought back from the New World (Virginia). They discuss science, faith, politics.

Durham Circle Speculations: Does God exist? Is the new religion (Protestantism) any less backward than the old (Catholicism)? Giordano Bruno tells us that God is the Sun (the earth circles the sun). Is God a simple force, unattached to the human? If there is a God (the unmoved mover), it's opposite must exist (this is nature's way). God/Devil (like yin/yang) are natural forces, two sides of the same coin. Mathematics: the secret language of the universe.

We immediately identify with the Durham Circle; they are 'modern,' in that they are not 'men of faith,' but men looking to 'discover,' the ways of the world.

Raleigh has his rivals, his enemies, and this 'speculation,' is dangerous territory. Marlowe has a very public face, plays such as 'Tamburlaine,' and 'Dr. Faustus,' are causing a stir in London (Robert Greene: Marlowe is of Merlin's race). Marlowe's characters play the athiest, they conjure the devil. The man who conjures words for these villians, risks becoming a villian himself.

Marlowe plays an exquisitely dangerous game, and we play right along with him.

A Guest, Aghast, A Ghost

First weekend in a while without 'Goodbar,' no expectation, no obligation; not so much a sadness, as an emptiness, an emptiness that will be filled, with...the next thing.

I've been thinking about loyalty (see previous posts), and I hear the beginnings of a monologue in my head: "What am I loyal to? My genetics, my family, my job, my country, my world? Once you get past 'to be alive seems kind of cool,' it all starts to get a little muddled. Put a man on the rack, turn up the electricity, and then see what faith, and what thought, will survive the pain. Pain: no good. Lack of pain: good..."

Lennon once sang, 'god is a concept, by which we measure our pain,' Dylan once sang, 'it's all right Ma, I'm only bleeding,' Buddha: 'life is suffering.' I guess if you start out with low expectations, any joy, any happiness seems like a bonus.

Anthony Burgess: a man's life --- a guest (born), aghast (lives), a ghost (dies). Lennon again: 'A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality.' Dylan again: 'I'll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours.'

A Good Day

A rarity: I slept in late; a slow and leisurely morning, sipping coffee, listening to Otis Redding (sublte and exquisite soul), and Gillian Welch (sweet, hard-edged country), reading a New Yorker article (people are more resiliant than we think, most of us can bounce back from life-altering trauma), feeling very philosophical; a 'what is this,' 'what is that,' frame of mind. Day after Thanksgiving, the holiday of food and family. Is it egotism to think, 'no one feels what I feel, no one thinks what I think, no one sees what I see?' Communication is very difficult, once you get past, 'hello,' it all quickly devolves into the great pool of uncertainty. Lonliness is just another coat we wear.

Must stay humble, must not get too high, nor too low, whatever the temperature happens to be now, no matter, be assured, it will change.

Might make another pot of 'French Roast,' find another article to sink into, spin some more discs, get ready for a long run, draw a hot bath, read some more of 'A Dead Man in Deptford,' go to a movie or play, have another good meal, think about the 'great unknown,' not clinging to any one thing. Might, or then again, might not. Either way, it already feels like the makings of a 'good day.'

Loyal to What?

The highlight of the day yesterday, (besides the excellent omelet I cooked up) was reading Anthony Burgess' 'A Dead Man in Deptford.' Storms were raging late afternoon; wind, snow, slogging against the windows, me and the birds hunkering in. I'm now more than a third into the text. Burgess (the conjurer, the sorcerer, of the 'race of Merlin') brings the streets of Elizabethan England alive: 'as we walked, oft slithering, the cobbles were slimy and the rats peered from the kennel as the sun westered and would break the heart of the man who yearned above our filthy lot with its vision of heaven in trumpet colours.'

Loyalty becomes a life and death concept in this Elizabethan Police State. Loyalty to faith and thought (Catholic, Protestant, Atheist), loyalty to country (France, England) loyalty to Queen (Elizabeth, Mary). If you make the wrong choice, (which side holds power now) you can end up on the rack, hanging from a hempen collar, disembowelled, a player in some macabre street theater.

Marlowe, loyal to family, loyal to poetry, loyal to...well he's a spy for Walsingham, who runs Elizabeth's secret service, so Marlowe is loyal to a secret theater where it's hard to tell what is in a man's heart and head. What is real, what is shadow? Who is friend, who is foe? This all has resonance today: see Washington D.C. (the secret theater of the CIA) see Iraq (a police state devolving into chaos). Friend and foe begin to look like one another, two sides of the same coin. We decide to be loyal to which shadow?

Fungible

Yesterday, time seemed to come to a standstill, I could see the seconds ticking out before me, in super slow motion; I had time to do everything, at least twice, but there was so little to accomplish. Drinking coffee just made me spin at a higher frequency; the world dawdled, lagged behind me. I can't say I was bored, I was facinated at how time could be so fungible.

I made my usual round of calls and e-mails; I received the usual silence, apathy, misunderstanding in return.

I jumped into Anthony Burgess' 'Dead Man in Deptford,' a novel about Christopher Marlowe (yes, this is my new obsesssion). Burgess assumes that you know everything about Marlowe's world, and thankfully, since I just finished 'The Reckoning,' I do. Marlowe lived in a world of spies, conspirators, skullduggery, betrayal. If I hadn't read 'The Reckoning,' I think I'd be totally baffled, dazzled by Burgess' incredible verbal dexterity, but baffled. Burgess (see 'A Clockwork Orange') doesn't make it easy, but from the first words, you know you are in the hands of a master novelist.

Marlowe, Poet/Spy is a perfect subject for Burgess; 'Dead Man in Deptford,' is an audacious labor of love.

Art is Madness

I found this quote at another blog (About Last Night): "In any creative activity, art is madness, craft is sanity. The balance between them makes the work." Simon Callow, Charles Laughton: A Difficult Actor.

Of course, I immediately logged onto Amazon and ordered the book; Laughton is one of those mythical, towering figures; he directed one movie, 'The Night of the Hunter,' a haunting masterpiece.

Just finished 'The Reckoning,' about the murder of Christopher Marlowe. Seems Marlowe was not only a talented poet/playwright, but a spy in a world of spies. Elizabethan England was a 'Police State,' where everyone was suspect: Catholics pretending to be Protestants, Protestants pretending to be Catholics, Atheists pretending to be either Catholics or Protestants. The Queen was torturing and imprisoning, hanging and quartering anyone who fell under suspicion.

Sir Walter Raleigh, the Lord of Essex; prominent men executed for 'thought crimes.' Religion = Politics = Power. Marlowe was an extraordinary artist who played a double, a triple game. Finally, there was a 'great reckoning in a small room,' just another man, meeting a violent, unhappy, untimely, death.

Goodbye Goodbar, Hello Goodbar

Too much wine, makes the baby go blind. The closing of 'Free Henry Goodbar,' was an exciting, ecstatic event. The show itself was ok (it's a live beast - different every time), the audience was the largest we've had, (we filled every available chair, plus people on pillows on the floor) and it was all a satisfying capper to a successful run.

The aftershow party was great: La Cassette is a wonderful, soulful band. Great musicians, cool sound, the start of something big.

I rode the crest of the wave, imbibed a little too much wine, by the end of the evening, my head was spinning. Carla and I were the last to leave.

We still need to shoot the video, then the long process of editing. We are thinking of taking the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Fest next August. This seems to be the right show, the right cast --- it's certainly an 'on the fringe' piece. There's no time for reflection - DON'T BE DENIED!

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath: the main point is to overthrow all existing conditions.

'This is a song about Johnny Rotten...'

'Anytime, I can Give It'

'If you want it, here it is, come and get it...' Badfinger's (Paul McCartney penned it) song plays in my head this morning. I'm in that frame where anything (mostly good) seems possible. We're always in dialogue with the universe, sometimes it's happy talk, sometimes it's all about doom. Both seem credible. Neither can contain us.

Cynical Idealist?

Dylan: people who talk about 'morality,' good and bad, are wired to the wrong frequency.

Soldier in Iraq: The people who can't kill will be subject to the people who can. What happens, with the best intentions, when you find yourself holding the gun?

'What's the frequency Kenneth?'

It's been said that the truth will set us free. What if, in order to live, we must blind ourself to the truth?(See the story of Oedipus). Are culture, society, law and 'morality,' all necessary fictions?

Orwell: power is a boot-heel in the face of the other.

Don't we 'lionize,' the powerful, and despise the weak? The idealist envisions the ideal world, the cynic sees a bleak reality. Bertolt Brecht saw himself as the 'optimistic realist,' maybe 'cynical idealist,' would be the more useful mask.

Dreaming of Richard

"I Want to be Sedated,' three chords of glory. Everything clicked yesterday, I went 'on the road,' with my business collegue and we took care of business at Cook County and the Museum of Science and Industry, we lunched in China Town. I was relaxed and 'in the flow.' Later the tribes gathered at Peter Jones, we did a loose and happy line-through of 'Goodbar,' in preparation for our closing weekend. Then Pat, Noel and I 'jammed in the black forest,' (Noel and I on guitar, Pat armed with microphone). We sounded rough and trashy. I love banging away on my Telecaster (it plays like a dream). I was the last to leave, I cued up Otis Redding's 'Dock of the Bay,' and let the sound wash over me. A smiling Richard Nixon hovered over the set, silent, frozen in black and white.

The Secret Wolf

One of my favorite books, (it changed my life) is 'Impro,' by Keith Johnstone, it is about comedy, acting, creativity and STATUS. It makes the point that essentially we are hierarchical animals (like a wolf pack, or dare I say it, a group of baboons) and all human activity can be seen with new eyes, if we understand that 'status transactions,' underlay all we do and say. Pretty all-encompassing.

It's very useful for someone writing plays, all drama (tragedy and comedy) is essentially a series of status games played out for the audience's edification --- laughter or tears. I'm on this track this morning because it's easy to see some of this with appropriate distance, for instance: Elizabethan England -- the whole society is built on a sophisticated system of status, based on 'royal blood,' property, wealth, and family connections.

The same 'system' is alive and well today in the Military/Industrial/Corporate Behemoth we have constructed in USA, INC. There is still 'royal blood,' please refer to the Prescott Bush Dynasty, and all comedy and tragedy emanates out of the various ways individuals deal with displays of POWER (Big Monkey Man wielding Major Toys of Destruction).

The satisfying role (for me) is to make 'play,' of all this 'status energy.' The absolute master of this was of course, William Shakespeare, he wrote in very dangerous, risky times, but he was clever enough to play at all times with subtly and craft. Christopher Marlowe made the mistake of jumping into the game directly -- thus, the knife in the eye lays him low.

Pretending, imagining, acting; playing the game of status, 'shadow play,' takes on Power, slyly, indirectly. The direct route is a loser's game. If we are to play the role of 'wolf,' better to be the 'lone wolf,' dressed in sheep's clothing.

Fire in the Mind

I am working on some 'big deals,' but they are moving so slowly, it really is like watching paint dry. So I need to find a million ways not to go completely batty with boredom.

Maybe this explains, Black Forest, the plays, the performing. I fill my life with 'manufactured,' drama, this is necessary, because I work extra hard not to get caught up in the day to day soap opera.

I like to see life through someone else's eyes, so I'm attracted to biographies, histories. This becomes my 'material.' I understand the idea of 'writing from your own experience,' but I also think it's important to journey outside yourself (is it possible?), to imagine another life, to assume another voice.

So I'm submerged in Elizabethan intrigue at the moment. Christopher Marlowe, famous playwright, atheist, homosexual; was he an anti-catholic spy? And what was his relationship with the Earl of Northumberland (also known as the 'Wizard Earl'). Was Marlowe killed in a simple 'bar fight,' or was there some more nefarious, secret, purpose? 'The Reckoning,' has totally fired my imagination.

I'm 'time-tripping,' and it's such a sweet obsession.

Dim Sum, Yum

Sunday: slept in late, went for 'dim sum,' (the floor show: little steel carts pushed around by tiny chinese women) at Furama an authentic Chinese restuarant on Broadway. We treated our friendly neighbors to a dim sum brunch. It's amazing all the things you can wrap in a dumpling.

In the afternoon: crashed on the couch.

In the evening: read 'The Reckoning,' (about the murder of the Elizabethan playwright, Christopher Marlowe); Catholic (Mary Queen of Scots) and Protestant (Elizabeth) spies consipiring against each other (France vs. England) for money and status. The skull-duggery and betrayal makes the head spin.

Monday: welcome to the working week. Well-rested, expectant. No laughter, no applause. Must fill the silence with...sound and fury?!

Pure Light of the Void

Nirvana! Last night's 'Goodbar,' show was an absolute blast. One of the actors (Pat McDonald), 'bought the house,' invited 30 friends, and as our 'friendly audience,' they joined us on our little 'trip,' of a play. What an immensely satisfying experience. The cues were 'tight,' line readings were sublime, everyone in the cast found new meanings, and levels. At the same time, we were loose, there was a freedom, a comfort with the text, a dynamic, easy comarderie. Pure joy.

Afterwards, I heard words like: 'amazing,' 'fabulous,' 'wonderful,' 'strange.' A couple of people wanted me to 'explain,' the piece. I can't say that I'm really up to the task. How about one of those public service announcements: 'this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs.' One guy came up to me, shook my hand, and told me that he understood it all. He saw the threads, the connections...he connected Howard Hughes with Nixon, he knew all about Dr. Hoffman and Sandoz Laboratories...

There's a touch of sadness in all of this...nirvana is not forever, at least not in this realm...the moment of joy appears, expands, and as you bring it to your breast...it slowly, dissipates, finally vanishes...but it exists...I have held it in the palm of my hand...a light unlike any other...

A Flash

I veer from futility to satisfaction, all in a day. Maybe this is a 'normal,' state, or to put it another way, maybe there is no normal. Running down business deals: all beginnings and no endings. I've been chasing for so long, it seems like I'm the one being chased.

In the theater world: we run our little theater company (it's only a mirage), at our little theater (it's only a gallery), perform our little play (it's a figment of my imagination). We create a spectacle of light and sound that disappears in a flash. There's nothing to hold on to...

The audience: a friendly, bemused, befuddlement. I am intent on being fully in the moment, even as the moment vanishes before me like the great cloud of unknowing.

A Small Room

My job: visions of dark futility. I see myself dancing on the water, dancing in the light, but there's a dark tug at my feet, a voice in my head reminds me: 'it is impossible for a man to dance on the water.'

My job: to absorb other people's pain. I see wads of dark pain, pain like mud, sliding down my body in little riverlets. My body is golden, sunny, untouchable. The mud cannot soil me.

My job: a judgement, a punishment. The mirror tells me, I am on a train, the train moves relentlessly forward, I cannot stop the train.

A boat, docked at Deptford, England, 1593 -- 'The Scourge of Malice.' This boat navigates the oceans still. A simple, plain description of a life: 'a great reckoning, in a small room.'

Do You Want to Play?

Yesterday, I was primarily the 'invisible man,' making calls, sending e-mails trying to get someone to talk to me. I was mainly unsuccessful. It's not hard work, just unfulfilling. End of day, feeling kind of low, I headed to Peter Jones. We had a 'tuneup' rehearsal in anticipation of weekend performances. Our cast is such a great group, all professional people, (two in advertising, one a lawyer, one a film director, and me -- the 'sunny' one) who are strangely attracted to theater and acting. The 'tuneup' is to keep lines fresh; all of us came together to this place without complaint.

The dark place where money isn't. There's something about totally committing to the creative cause that is liberating. I came out of Peter Jones, re-animated with the fire, inspired by people who want to do good work, want to commit totally, who can see the benefits of a life lived fully.

So strange --- the way we get to this place --- we pretend.

Where the Money Isn't

'Goodbar,' finds it's way in the world, and I'm beginning to jot some notes for the next play.Then...the right message comes at exactly the right time. In the latest New York Times Magazine, an article about playwright John Patrick Shanley (he's written 23 plays, none have appeared on Broadway).

Shanley: 'playwriting is the last great bastion of the individual writer. It's exciting precisely because it's where the money isn't. Money goes to safety, to consensus...it's not individualism...theater is just too exciting for dullards.'

Beautiful.

Jumping at Shadows

Show Biz, then No Biz. This is the fractured nature of my existence. I live in this 'nether zone,' a world, where I'm constantly chasing shadows.

Finally saw 'The Motorcycle Diaries,' last night. It's a road movie (life sometimes sure feels like a road movie -- we are going somewhere, for some reason), shots of the motorcycle and the open road immediately hypnotized me (did anyone say, 'Easy Rider?'). Actually, 'The Motorcycle Diaries,' is the 'anti-Easy Rider,' (Fatty and Che vs. Captain America and Billy). The movie is beautiful, sad and inspiring too.

Life, love, passion, politics...energy ebbs and flows...

Ballad of a Thin Man

There must be the crash. Sunday, I came to a standstill, hit the wall and bounced. I went for a long, dizzying run, took a long bath, plugged in my walkman, listened to the Who's 'Quadroprenia' and Lennon's 'Imagine.' Turned the TV on, without sound, and watched the Chicago Bears beat the New York Giants. In the evening, I finished Dylan's 'Chronicles.' Bob leaves us hanging, in 1961, on the verge of a tremendous creative breakthrough.

The young Dylan had an amazing quality: the ability to be 'astonished,' and 'inspired.' This is key to unlocking creativity; to be knocked down by the power of Art. Dylan's descriptions of 'discovering' the music of Woody Guthrie and Robert Johnson, are thrilling and essential. Dylan describes how he becomes attached to the 'invisible empire,' of folk and blues archetypes and metaphors. He becomes immersed in a more expansive world, a world of mystery, beyond notions of good and evil. It's Bertolt Brecht's and Kurt Weil's 'Pirate Jenny,' that shows Dylan that it's possible to create new works that 'transcend' his precursors, Guthrie and Johnson.

Dylan will soon create songs of steely vision, songs that 'melt iron.' 'Chronicles,' is breath-taking, thrilling, visionary.

The Next Big Thing

Night and Day. If Friday's performance of 'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath,' was all about blown lines and blown fuses, Saturday's show was about abundant laughter and applause. We really rocked the house. It was our best show yet.

The audience is the sixth member of the troupe; Friday's audience was silent and brittle, Saturday's was vocal and joyous. The actors really fed off the energy, and all the perfomances seemed to find a new confidence. The emptiness and lonliness of Friday, became a fulfilling camaraderie. How strange. Theater is a 'live animal.' The trick is to find a level of consistency even if the audience is 'unreliable.'

I am convinced the show can evolve and get even better. The same words and actions repeated to the point of unconsciousness, leads to new discoveries, nuances and shadings. The whole thing is an alchemical, magical process, made of simple words and actions. The best feeling in the world: to reach for something invisible, ineffable, to imagine you have it in your hands, it vanishes, dances in front of you, leads you to the next big thing.

The Watchman

Last night I went to Peter Jones Gallery to 'watch over,' the 'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath,' set. The Gay and Lesbian Film Fest, had an aftershow (a gay version of 'Charlies Angels,' at the Music Box) party, and our set was the 'dance floor.' Two days after the Republicans successfully demonized the Gay community, a festive group came to talk, dance, drink and look cool.

I was dazzled by the energy of the party-goers, there was nothing, dark, nefarious, scary or threatening about any of these folks. I don't think they are pushing some radical 'agenda,' except maybe being accepted as free and equal human beings who deserve all the rights and responsibilities due anyone else.

Heavens no! Fear of the other is a powerful force. The event went smoothly, the set is fine, we laid rugs on the floor to protect David's beautiful paint job. I hopped a cab and got home about midnight. Looking forward to two solid shows this weekend. The human comedy (spiced with tragic overtones) continues...

The Wild One

'Little Bush's' win was a huge, collective, psychic 'whack.' One of those 'slap up the side of the head,' wake up moments. There is a huge cultural divide in the country. The Red and Blue states are different worlds, with different markers, different realities.

Everyone in my circle (this says alot) was 'diminished,' by Bush's victory. There was a collective depression that hung over all of us. I refuse to succumb. I can see the 'reality,' I can see that my version takes a back seat to the 'Red Staters,' who now hold all the levers of power definitively.

So, I choose to revel as a 'contrarian.' This can help define a new vision. To live in the 'belly of the beast,' without being consumed. To know who you are, you must also know who you are not. I see the best of America in New York, Chicago, San Francisco; large, shambling experiments in multi-cultural, cross-fertilization. These places are pieces of the picture, but not the whole picture. So we must expand the frame.

The best 'movements,' have always been forces in 'opposition.' 'What are you rebelling against? What have you got?'

World Gone Wrong

There's 'the world,' then what we see, think and feel about it. It can be quite a jolt when the two don't match up. I find it hard to believe that the 'little Bush,' has not been totally repudiated. So much for the 'mini-tidal wave.' I will not be retiring my 'bush evil doer' pin anytime soon.

MORAL VALUES was the number one issue this election?! There's nothing worse than Righteousness wrapped in religious certainty. How do you spell HYPOCRISY? Social Conservative Conundrum: wouldn't more gay marriage, mean less abortion? I'm so glad to live in a 'blue state.' All my favorite places (Chicago, Brooklyn, San Francisco) are solidly blue. Long live the INFIDELS!

One of the lessons of life: we must live with contradiction. Things don't always 'go our way.' There are lessons in losses. It's important to have something to be 'for,' but it's also important to have something to be 'against.' Bush's Circle of Crony Capitalists make Dutch Reagan's formulation ring true: 'government isn't the solution, government is the problem.'

Dream ticket for 2008: Hilary Clinton/Barack Obama.

Georgeous George!?

Election day. It's cloudy, rainy here, but I think there is something in the air. I predict a huge turn-out throughout the country. Kerry will win in a mini-tidal wave. 3-5 points up in the popular vote, over 300 electoral votes. Then the real battle begins. If Kerry thought the campaign was brutal, just wait...he must be prepared to fight tooth and nail. The Republican conservative movement is going to go through a 'death rattle,' and they will not go gently into the night.

I am fascinated with the Dylan book. He's writing as a 63 year old man, about the 19 year old kid. He writes, acts, as if he knew a secret all along: he was a man of destiny. He soaked everything up, lived like he knew he was going to need all the tools.

He sings Woody's songs to Woody in the hospital. He lives on other people's couches. Sings in the clubs, picks up a buck here and there. He meets Mike Seeger and realizes that he's gonna have to do more than just sing the old songs, no matter what, Seeger can do it better.

Dylan submerges himself in the history of the American Civil War. He believes that this time in America holds the key to the country and to his 'art.' He is not writing his own songs yet, but he begins to think he needs to let his creativity out of the box. Two of Dylan's heroes: Georgeous George (the wrestler), Harry Belafonte (the calypso singer).

Dylan's story is the story of a kid, with a guitar wandering the streets of New York (Whitman was here, Poe was there), realizing that anything is possible. New York is a place that harbors no 'favoritism.' Inspiring!

World is Turning

Yesterday, the first Sunday in a long time, we did not have a rehearsal. I still found myself at Peter Jones, laying rugs down on our floor, to protect it from the dancing hordes expected later this week. The Gay and Lesbian Film Fest will be having a party at Peter Jones on Thursday. They will be using our set as a 'dance floor.' So, now they truly will be 'cutting the rug.'

In the afternoon, I met Carla at the Lucky Platter, and I had a true 'Platter' treat: spicy turkey meatballs (over linguine) and chocolate cake. A decadent reward for a successful weekend of theater. Then we went to see 'I Heart Huckabees.' What a rambling, shambling, mess of a movie. I enjoyed it immensely, although, it was so close to my own experience (all our psychic meditation work), it seemed kind of redundant.

I topped the evening off by sinking into Dylan's 'Chronicles.' It is filled with suprises: little Bobby Zimmerman, a tough little dude who knew exactly what he was doing. He tells us, he was not driven by love or money, no, he was 'a visionary,' who believed that the old folk songs he was singing in little clubs in New York held a secret. He read Balzac (materialism is madness) Clausewitz (politics is brute force) and Thucidydes (human nature kills anything superior). Old Grandma Zimmerman: happiness isn't on the road to anything. Happiness is the road.

This morning, surfing the political blogs, I must weigh in: Kerry wins big. Tomorrow, the world (the worm) turns again.