The Bard as Mentor

I get up, brew some coffee and surf the blogosphere. All these voices crying out in the wilderness. I add my own two cents.

I am immersed in the world of 'the Bard.' Young Will Shakespeare lived in a time of great religious turmoil. Protestants and Catholics torturing and oppressing each other, with one or the other gaining the upper hand, depending upon who sat on the throne (Henry VIII, his son, or his daughters - Mary, Elizabeth). Unfortunate victims (Protestant or Catholic) drawn, quartered, guts removed, heads chopped off, eyes poked out, burned at the stake, dragged through the streets, heads impaled on poles. At the same time, the Plague roamed the land, snatching the old, the young, the unlucky.

The poor, unfortunate, the vagabonds were jeered at, punished for being weak, unattached, adrift. England was grim if you weren't a 'gentle' man. Choosing to be an actor, a playwright was a 'risk,' it was not considered a 'noble profession.'

Seems all this turmoil and uncertainty was useful to the young playwright. As per Dickens, 'it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.' I think it has always been so. The same madness is alive in the land today. The writer, the artist transforms the madness to his own devices. Heaven and Hell exist side by side in the eternal now. Here you find the dream, here you find the nightmare. Shakespeare could live with both the dark and the light (the comedy and the tragedy). This is extraordinary. An example to live by.

'Star Stuff'

Some things have endured, (Shakespeare, Sophocles, Beethoven, Da Vinci, Chaplin). I think survival of their works (by fate, by luck, or quirk of history?) are life-affirming, magical, transcendant. Most things are insubstantial, ephemeral.

Theater and Music have an advantage over other arts (painting, cinema): plays and symphonies are reanimated by the actors, directors, musicians, and conductors of the present day. Watching 'King Lear,' on Sunday, was a resurrection, a reanimation of Shakespeare's text. The King lives again in the body of a Chicago actor in 2004.

This is magic, a ritual, a sacrament. How many men in the last 400 years have played 'Lear?' And as the words tumble from their lips, do they in some mystical way 'become' Lear? Do they join a strange, community of men that extends from Shakespeare's time to ours?

If you're lucky enough to know one of the actors (for instance, our friend Winston) you are reminded that the actor, (the sorcerer's apprentice) is a man just like you, one who may have a 'gift' a 'talent,' but also, one who has the quirks, flaws and humanity of anyone riding the el, walking down the street.

This is an important lesson. We are just human beings, made of the 'stuff that dreams are made of.'

The Deeds of Men

Yesterday was an intense rehearsal for 'Henry Goodbar.' I struggled with my 'love scene' with 'Yvonne.' Still working on the lines; when it comes to 'physicality,' (my special challenge) I'm probably the weakest actor of the group. I am confident that my lines and actions will evolve. It is a strange alchemy. I'm actually better with monologues than with scenes ('he likes to play in his own sandbox, does not play well with others').

Afterwards, we went to see our friend, Winston, in 'King Lear' at the Theater Building. Winston was superb, he plays 'Edmund,' the bastard son who betrays his father, his brother, the King, the King's daughters, etc. Edmund is one of the best, most complete villians in the history of theater. Winston's performance was bold, beautiful, inspiring. His grounding in the language really gives him a special power, he brings the words of the 'Bard' vividly alive.

'Lear' is a difficult play, it is a bleak vision of a world totally askew: daughter against father, father against son, conspiracy and black deeds all around. The King is a madman, losing his faculties, led by a fool and a blind man, stumbling to a cold demise.

The production: performed brilliantly, excellent direction, the language sings. Shakespeare's explosion of words: beautiful, magical, other-worldly. 'Lear' seems 'modern' and relevant. At the same time, it comes from another time and land. Theater is a ritual, a resurrection, Lear lives and dies again and again. The language, the poetry dazzles, Edmund/Winston the rogue extraordinaire is justly punished. The King succumbs, the cold, unblinking sun looks down on us all. Long live the King.

The tragedy is strangely exhilarating; language, poetry, transcends the silly, the false, the horrible deeds of men.

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

I am back with the living. The last few days, all energy escaped me. I have been one of George Romero's Zombies from 'Dawn of the Dead.' This morning, I can feel new energy coursing through my body. As per Dylan: 'the ghost of electricty, howls through the bones of her face...'

The play, 'Goodbar,' has gone through more toil and trouble. Two days ago, Manny left a message that he did not feel well, that he was dropping out, and needed to get away from acting for awhile. My first reaction was to call him and tell him that he should rest up, get better, but that he couldn't 'quit the show.' He was tentative, said he was going to the doctor, and wasn't sure if he was up to it.

Yesterday morning, I called Noel (he auditioned for a different role) and cast him as 'The Bard.' Noel came to rehearsal and immediately took to it, he is a film director and acting teacher and he made strong choices and will add to the piece. Carla talked to Manny later in the day, and asked if he'd be willing to videotape the Rashid role.

Manny reversed himself and said he wanted to be in the show. Too late. We are already on to the next actor. Manny brought this on himself, once someone opens the door to 'dropping out,' we must make the decision for them. Nothing will stop this show. Nothing will keep us from our task. 'Don't be denied.!'

I am hoping to convince Manny that videotape is the best way to go. I no longer trust him to make rehearsals and do a live show. This has been a wild ride, but Carla and I are taking everything as it comes.

Mystics with 'Practical Feet'

A germ, a bug, got the better of me. My energy totally escaped me. Yesterday, I barely hung on, going through the motions of my job. By mid-afternoon, I was laying on the back porch, in a fetal position, listening to the birds, trying to soak in some of the sunshine of a beautiful fall afternoon. I ate two Tuna steaks (power/brain food) and two containers of frozen yogurt (chocolate and vanilla), and tried to fill myself up with a new strength.

I rented John Boorman's 'Deliverance,' a great movie that still holds up, it's a dream/event that I lived through many years ago (1970?) and started reading my new book, 'Will in the World, How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare.' I first read about this book in a review by Adam Gopnik in the New Yorker. Adam is a great writer who always has something new to say, he never falls into cliche. The book 'speculates' on Shakespeare's life (there isn't much hard evidence, except for the plays and sonnets) and proposes how the life informed the work.

My first impression is that Shakespeare, much like Bob Dylan, was/is a man open, aware of the world, able to soak up everything, and willing and able to transform the raw materials of a life into art. High and low art the same. A magician (the art is almost inconceivable, looks like magic) who uses the things of the world as they are, and recombines them to create new configurations, for example: 'Hamlet,' and 'Mr. Tamborine Man.'

Two poets, magicians, mystics, men with 'practical feet,' who can make words sing, but who never forget the ground, the humor, the common story of the human and all the things men do.

Back to the World

Yesterday was a lost day. I was up at 4:00 a.m. pretty much completed my work by 10:00 a.m. I fielded some calls later in the day, but bascially I was one of the 'the walking dead.' Lack of sleep made me very edgy, brittle, zombified. I closed my eyes, listened to music, tried to unplug from the world.

I sat quietly on the back porch, watched the birds playing on their cage, eating, listening to the sounds of the world around them. I could not concentrate, or think, everything just kind of passed over me. I made a hearty meal, veggie burgers, celery, cottage cheese, onions, mushrooms; chopped it all up, mixed it in a bowl. It tasted better than it sounds. Topped it off with a frozen yogurt.

Went to sleep early. This morning, back to the world. It's dark, quiet, looking to kind of ease into the weekend and the world of Black Forest. Expectant, aware, not dead yet.

Comedy is King

This morning up at an ungodly hour: 4:00 a.m. The Who song, 'I'm a Boy,' playing in my head: 'I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but my mom won't admit it, I'm a boy, I'm a boy, I'm a boy.'

I went on a wild goose chase last night, looking for the Windy City Rollers -- I rented a car and wandered the south-side (Racine and 71st) looking for the roller rink, knowing that I shouldn't be in that neighborhood. It isn't racism, but intelligence, that tells you there are some places where you do not belong. I decided not to stop to ask for directions. It turns out that the Martin Luther King Roller Rink is on 76th, not 71st. So, I missed the event without shooting a frame of video. I went to sleep, in a very unsettled state.

I finished the Moliere biography. I guess I'm more intruiged by the man, than his plays. He was a satirist who had one great patron: the King of France. Moliere attacked the silliness and hypocrisy of aristocratic society. The King liked to laugh, so comedy was king. Moliere's targets included the Church and the medical profession. Both were riddled with superstition and stupidity. Moliere was a man ahead of his time, although, the King made him a man of his time too. Nearly every play Moliere wrote, created some kind of scandal.

At his deathbed, neither a priest nor a doctor could be found to attend to him. After his death, his wife pleaded with the Church to bury him in sacred ground. The Church refused, he was not only a thorn in their side, he was 'a comedian,' a profession populated by the lowest of the low. The King allowed Moliere to be buried in a Christian cemetary, but he was buried five feet deep, because, according to the church authorities, consecrated ground only went four feet down. 100 years later, the French Revolutionaries dug up Moliere's bones and put them a mausoleum.

The comedian had been resurrected.

Dream a Little Dream

Yesterday was a good road day. I and two of my business collegues took a trip to Hartland, Wisconsin about 2 hours north of Evanston. The trip was smooth, I supplied the music (The Who, Santana, Dr. John, Ronnie Lane), the road easily unrolled before us. We visited a technology company tucked into a small office park just outside of a sleepy little town (Hartland).

I'm still in a good frame, taking things as they come. I'm alive, attentive, not holding on to either the good or the bad. Beyond good or evil, (these are judgements), instead, just noticing the passing phenomena. My favorite line heard yesterday: 'You ask me a question, I give you a dream.'

The Essential Work

Some days, a meditation sets the tone for the whole day. Yesterday this was so, I was clear, no dread, everything fell into place. I could 'see' everyone clearly -- Kevin's dread and invalidation, Paula's motherly concern, Randy's cloud of uncertainty, Ziggy's cold skepticism, Ed's cautious enthusiasm. I could see these things without taking them in, I would notice the energy, let it pass through; I remained unsullied. I maintained the 'calm center.' I was at my best in every meeting I attended: engaged, articulate.

Two years of 'psychic meditation,' has given me tools to navigate the roiling waters. It is essential to sit for at least 30 minutes, running through my visualizations, blowing roses, bringing in gold light. It's so simple, so insubstantial, it's easy to forget the importance of grounding and letting the universe flow through you. But it really is the essential work.

I am the Moth

Living in the moment. Moment by moment. It's working. We had a very productive rehearsal yesterday. David and I gave our feedback, as Carla took the actors through their paces. Black Forest has become an a well-functioning, focused, collaborative. We have learned how to 'give direction,' to keep things positive, to add to each other's vision, without taking anything away from one another.

The key is to be attentive, to be 'aware,' to what others do, and not neccesarily to what they 'say.' We are all walking, talking contradictions, but ultimately, our actions define who, and what we are. This is good to know as a playwright. The words tell one story, the physicality tells another. Sometimes they are aligned, and sometimes not; there is always a 'sub-text,' and if we can be clear on both levels, I think we make the work even stronger.

Anyway, Monday, the work week, that familiar 'dread' has subsided. Everything I do, has a certain, validity, I must be 'aware,' in the moment, at all times. Then, even the dark corners can glow with the light of abundance, certainty and knowingness.

Let It Come Down

Up early, dead black night, I immediately head to the kitchen to brew up a pot of coffee. No dreams last night. Yesterday, I pretty much floated through everything, in my own bubble, not grasping, just taking it all in, letting it go. Visited the old homestead: my father quoted Lewis Black, 'we are all snowflakes.' Seems about right. Are there any rules? Who knows?

Today, rehearsal at Peter Jones Gallery. David heads back to Sante Fe tonight. I have 'low expectations' for the play, (I'm happy with the piece, an excellent cast), things are going well, but my attitude is: 'play it as it lays.' Maybe its the best frame of mind, not expecting, letting things come.

The 'Lick' of Wisdom

Back to 'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath.' Yesterday, David put the finishing touches on the lighting design, we made decisions on the card and poster, and did some major schlepping (moving and tossing junk -- Peter Jones Gallery is all about 'the stuff' that accumulates in every nook and cranny).

Today and tomorrow, we are looking forward to intensive rehearsals. Now is when the process starts to get really good. The actors are nearly, 'off book,' Carla is pushing to make the piece very physical and intense. David and Carla have set up a environment of beauty and color. The play is about dreams, and we now have a surreal dreamscape in which to work. Once we are on the train, there is no turning back.

I had a series of dreams last night. I was visited by strange little beings from 'Ireland' --- they were black, penguin-like -- wise, odd-looking, supremely enlightened. They greeted me as an equal: one of them licked my arm (a normal greeting). I could feel an alien energy, almost like an electric current, coursing through me. It was a feeling of magic, of transcendance. 'The lick' was a gift from this being to me, somehow, I had become wise too.

Roller Girl, Roller Girl -- Rock My World

A slow start, a little foggy (only in my head) this morning. I was out late, shooting video at the Cork Lounge under the El tracks on Addison. The Windy City Rollers held an event looking for Roller Derby candidates. Ninety-seven women (girls, babes, sweeties -- they prefer to call themselves 'sisters') showed up to hear the Roller Derby pitch, eighty-six of them signed up for tryouts.

Obviously, this is a phenomenom with 'legs.' Girls just want to have fun, and be in the spotlight, and hang together, and maybe kick a little ass too. Roller Girl Names include: Sister Sledgehammner, Juanna Rumble, Violet Nature, Ida Ho, Brawny Parker, Anita Applebaum, Mouse and Predator.

Free food, cheap beer, and the lure of becoming a Roller Derby Star brought out an incredible array of girls -- tatoos, multi-colored hair, leather pants, short skirts, body piercings, hot and cold, short and tall -- sweet ones, tough ones, every type and profile imaginable.

I did the 'Christopher Isherwood - I am a Camera schitck.' This is not my 'thing,' (as opposed to the theater) I'm not conjuring a vision, but trying to capture a 'truth.' Cinema Verite! For awhile, I was the only man in the place. I was the 'officially sanctioned' videographer, (I was introduced as 'Jammer' which happens to be a Roller Derby position) so everyone was open and cooperative. I shot three hours of video (manual focus, low light), I think I captured some nice moments.

Not sure where this is going. I look at this as a long-term project -- a documentary, looking for a tone, a character, a story. Could be a comedy, a tragedy, a comedy with tragic overtones, a farce, etc. Stay tuned, I will follow the story with camera in hand.

Playwright, Actor, Hero

I had a busy morning yesterday, a couple of teleconferences, basically a lot of 'rolling and tumbling.' By late afternoon, I kind of went into shutdown mode. I had a nice dinner, put on Sigur Ros (beautiful, majestic music from Iceland) and took a hot bath.

I read my new book, 'The Life of Monsieur de Moliere,' by Mikhail Bulgakov. It is an obscure gem, a biography, that reads like a novel. It turns out Moliere was a son of a valet, who ended up roaming France with a group of actors, living a hard-scrabble existence, a 'band of gypsies.' We will learn, later in the book, that Moliere's little ragtag troupe will become a favorite of Louis XIV, the Sun King.

I had always thought of Moliere as a snooty Frenchman who lived in luxury and decadance. Not quite the complete story. Bulgakov wrote the book in 1933, but it wasn't published until well after his death in 1962. Bulgakov and Moliere are kindred souls -- they are both satirists who risked it all for their art. Moliere ended up in debtor's prison when his first theater group -- the Illustrious Theater failed; Bulgakov, was shunned and was constantly being censored, because his work did not adhere to the Soviet line.

There's a great early scene when (horror of horrors) Moliere tells his father that he is abandoning the path of Valet to Aristocrats, to become an ACTOR. At the time, acting was only for tramps, gypsies, heretics, charlatans.

Anyway, it's clear Bulgakov thinks Moliere is the ultimate hero (great comic actor, playwright). I won't be donning a powdered wig anytime soon, but once I finish this book, I expect I'll be seeking out some of Moliere's works.

"I see everything twice." -- from Catch 22

I live a schizophrenic existence. This is probably my natural state. Yesterday morning was all business: Paula and I did a presentation to an electric utility (the evil empire) in Kansas City, MO. via a Webex Teleconference. We did a professional presentation. Paula was at home in McHenry, I was at home in Evanston, a room-full of people on-line from KC. The technology is great, I sipped an iced-latte, with classical music playing in the background (Chopin). No-one realized I was in a t-shirt, khaki-shorts, topped by my 'Bush Evil Doer'/Late Night, cap. These utility folks have sold their souls to the devil. We pitched 'energy efficiency,' kind of like 'whistling in the wind.'

In the afternoon, I went to Peter Jones to confer with David, check on his progress with the Lighting Design on 'Goodbar.' It is amazing what he is able to do with minimal tools and budget. Using colored lights acquired from Home Depot, David created three zones (to be expanded to 4). It totally transforms the set. David is creating a three-dimensional sculpture. Beautiful, haunting, dream-like.

We have created a great friendship based on creative collaboration and the 'good work.' We have learned so much over the last three plays. Anyway, the schizoid nature of my existence seems to be working. Who am I today? Make that a double-shot latte!

Everybody's Talking at Me...

Alone this week with the birds (Carla is in New York), to bed early, up early; long sleep, finally caught up after hitting the 'wall of exhaustion' this last weekend.

Yesterday, it was all business, I am convinced the whole enterprise is madness. Endless teleconferences with no connection to any semblance of 'reality.' How many angels can dance on a head of a pin?

I have found a 'new grounding;' I realize all human relations are 'transactions,' exchanges of energy. There's positive and negative energy, and a 'give and take.' Its important to protect oneself from those who are 'on the take.'

Energy makes energy, the tools of the trade: meditation, running, coffee, reading, writing, art, performance, music. This is how to recharge the batteries. To be alone is energizing. The trick is to be alone in the crowd; without angst, without fear, instead, to be alone, knowing that there is no such thing as being alone.

Nearer the Clouds

To live free without limits? Ah, that's one man's version of Utopia, but in this go-round, we're here to find freedom within the limits. As per Lars Von Trier (see The Five Obstructions), we all have obstacles to overcome. How we do so, is our task, our choice. Do we do it gladly, artfully, or unwittingly, reluctantly?

Melville, (that's Herman) used life as a Merchant Marine to illustrate that one should be careful what one chooses to do, and who one chooses to spend time with; those in the rigging and the crow's nest are far-seeing, the dreamers, spending their time looking at the horizon, the sun, the sky, the stars. Those working in the dimly-lit hold of the ship use their hands, their muscles; they are grounded, solid, a camaraderie of men. Melville, of course, overcame his fear of heights, to spend his days nearer the clouds.

The trick is to stay grounded even as the crow's nest violently sways in the wind. Are we 'pre-disposed' for one mode or another? Are some of the choices made for us, or do we make all the choices ourselves, wittingly and unwittingly?

I believe that I can 'see more' thus, I make choices now, that I didn't know were there for me to choose. Can I navigate this roiling, ocean with eyes wide open?

Life is a Blur

After rehearsal yesterday, I wandered the city alone, took the Brown line to the Blue and tracked over to Wicker Park. I visited the Flat Iron building to see the Around the Coyote Fest, and especially, to visit my brother's studio.

It was quite the carnival scene: the mad, throbbing energy of 'needing, wanting, grasping,' humanity. I kind of floated around the building; every hallway, every nook and cranny overflowing with paintings and sculptures.

My brother introduced me to some of his fellow artists, creative people who are putting their work out into the world; a small clan of outsiders, marginal characters, kind of an extended family brought together by their creative sensibilities.

I thought my brother seemed 'at home,' his paintings, old friends, stood out, strange, fierce, beautiful. We've had our differences over the years, but we have much in common. There's only one person in the world I can truly call 'my brother.'

I took the train back north and met David (Black Forest's Set Designer) for dinner. We discussed 'Goodbar,' and reaffirmed our commitment to 'the good work.' We went to the Music Box and watched Lars Von Trier's 'The Five Obstructions,' an odd, inspiring, bewildering, puzzle of a film.

I took a taxi home, the windows down, the city scene rushing by in a blur. No sense in trying to 'interpret' the blur, I just speed along in my little bubble, looking forward to another day.

A Common Decency

What a difference a day makes...

Phoenix has re-emerged, it looks like 'Goodbar' is back on track, Saturday's rehearsal should include the complete cast, with David flying in from New Mexico to provide a 'critical eye,' and to create the lighting design.

I bounced yesterday, I was able to seperate myself from the troubles of the world. Everyone makes their own choices, I choose to see the beauty in the ashes.

Finished 'Homage to Catalonia;' Orwell returns to a green, sleepy England, and he wonders if the distant thunder of bombs will soon invade the shores of Albion. This is one of the reasons Orwell is so revered today: he appears to be 'clairvoyant,' (clear-seeing) about world events.

Orwell renders the horror, the chaos, the absurdity, the glory, the honor of a Civil War. He leaves Spain, with a belief in the simple, common decency of man. Simple, common decency of man? How often do we hear such words? Our culture seems to revel in the craven, corruptibility of man. Does a 'common decency' fit in America's corporate consumer culture? If you can't put a price on it, can't buy and sell it, does it really exist?

That's Show Biz, Folks

The winds have shifted, there's a little of that north-country, Mackinac Island, coolness in the air; the humidity has vanished. I'm sitting, in the sun-room, typing into my laptop, the sun is breaking over the horizon. I am refreshed, recharged, wondering what the day will bring. Today, I plunge back into the world of high tech and commerce.

Yesterday was expansive. Left to my own devices, I can find a million ways to occupy myself. 'Homage to Catalonia,' is totally absorbing, Orwell illustrates how one man's story can illuminate the world. He admits to 'taking sides,' how it's difficult, if not impossible to be 'objective,' he admits to his own 'bias,' but he adheres to a strict code: tell the truth as he sees it. There are some jarring moments, for instance when he admits to the 'pernicious' feeling that war is a 'glorious enterprise.' Are there things worth living and dying for? Orwell chooses to fight 'fascism,' he wants to kill for the cause, he puts himself in harm's way, and gets badly wounded.

Military efficiency is in conflict with liberty and honesty. Orwell deconstructs the reporting and editorial disinformation. Today in Iraq, it is clear that the same smokescreen has over-laid events. John Burns and Dexter Filkins of the New York Times have done some phenomenal reporting from the streets of Iraq, but even they have a 'bias;' they are both Brits writing for newspapers in the West. They paint a complex, somewhat bleak picture, that totally contradicts the official narrative coming out of Washington.

You realize, the reality must be even bleaker, more complex, than even they convey.

Anyway, on the 'Goodbar' front, Phoenix has gone AWOL. We must scrounge up a couple of actors. We have many options, nothing will deter us, the show must go on.

Summertime, When the Living is Easy

Easy to be 'sunny' today, it's Monday and we're still on vacation. I have really unplugged from the business world. I have found the 'calm center,' and everything seems to be flowing. I have found time for everything.

Today, a simple agenda: take a long run on the lakefront, get in a good meditation, read a little Orwell, have a good meal, practice my lines from 'Henry Goodbar,' and play my guitar. I have 'rediscovered' the guitar on this vacation.

On the road-trip, I programmed a solid block of great guitar music. My favorites include: Jimi Hendrix, Neil Young, Pete Townsend, Jimmy Page, Keith Richards, Mick Taylor, Duane Allman, George Harrison, John Lennon, Carlos Santana and Eric Clapton. I guess, these are the usual suspects (heavy on the British Invasion). It's amazing how each has such a distinctive sound and feel. I also enjoy, Roger Mcquinn of the Byrds, and Charlie Sexton (he can be found on Lucinda Williams records and is currently in Dylan's excellent touring band).

I've always loved playing guitar. I'm thinking of setting up a little recording studio (using my Mac) and create some guitar soundscapes. I have gotten so much pleasure and inspiration from the great rock and roll guitar masters.

Anyway, yesterday 'Henry Goodbar' took another little 'hit.' Phoenix who is playing two roles (Dr. Hoffman and Yvonne) went missing. We're hoping it was just a communication breakdown, but we have not heard from her. An ominious development. It's possible we have to 'go to the mattresses' and find at least one and maybe two actors to replace her. This production has shown flashes of brilliance, but we've also gotten very close to breaking into a million pieces (George was sometimes a real 'pain in the ass' but he was also a grounding force for Black Forest). Carla kind of went into a tailspin yesterday, but I'm hoping today she will be recharged and we can 'speed the plow.'

'Everyone Has Their Reasons.' -- Jean Renoir

Is there virtue in waking up before the sun? It feels good to be slightly ahead of the dawn, awake, before the hubbub and hurly burly of another day. It's rehearsal at Peter Jones with the complete cast this morning. There is much work to be done.

We went to see a movie last night, Zhang Yimou's 'Hero,' a beautiful, martial-arts movie. One of the most beautifully filmed movies I've ever seen. It is a great tale, told very well. Colors (blue, red, green, white) provide much of the pleasure of the piece.

'People give up their lives for many reasons: friendship, love and ideals. People murder for many reasons: friendship, love and ideals.' Also -- 'In a war, there are heroes on both sides.'

Ultimately, 'Hero,' is about an assasin who lays down his sword for a 'greater good.' There are no good guys, no bad guys. 'Everyone has their reasons.' -- Jean Renoir. The Tyrant believes he is a man of peace. The man intent on revenge, shows restraint, courage and heart. The master swordsman devotes his life to the art of calligraphy.

I have been thinking that the world needs a new defining myth. America's guiding myth seems to be the 'lone cowboy,' battling the evil-doers of the world. I believe China or India may provide a new myth to help drive the human race forward into a new consciousness. How about the Bodhissatva? This is an enlightened being who comes back to the human realm to help others find enlightment too. Now that's a myth worth living.

The Bohemian Credo: Liberty, Fraternity, Equality & Love

You sometimes need to break a routine to renew a routine. Pick a dot on a map, and like Brando in 'The Wild One,' just 'go,' (in my case, employing a four-door Hyundai, instead of a large, sputtering motorcycle). The familiar seems new again.

Back to the 'friendly confines' of our apartment in Evanston. Hot and humid this morning. I brewed up a thick pot of 'witches brew,' and caught up on the news. I picked up Thursday and Friday editions of the New York Times. Looking to cut through the smokescreen of opinion and spin. I read the text of both Cheney's and Bush's speeches. Language creates consciousness, so in that way, it is a branch of 'magic.'

My take is, Bush/Cheney want to conjure a simple world, Good versus Bad; they want to be seen as tough men, making tough decisions for a strong America. The key promise kept: TAX CUTS. I think this resonates with much of America. It all depends on who you are and where you live. We really still do live in a 'tribal society.' If you are a big city person, you tend to lean Democratic, (which I guess means moderation, restraint, diversity, nuance). If you are in Small Town America, tax cuts, a strong military, a 'don't tread on me and my kind' approach seems appealing.

How do you explain the Shrine to Gerald Ford? I talked to Dan Preston, the proprietor of the Lakeshore Bed and Breakfast. At the age of 22, he worked for Ford's failed bid in 1976. That seems unfathomable to me. A young kid dedicated to Gerald Ford's cause? We briefly talked, he explained it all, (he's worked for a Republican every election since) by saying, 'I hate paying taxes.' That simple. The problem for Democrats? How do we sum up our philosopy with one phrase? 'I'm for a progressive, socially just, equal-opportunity society.' Not very catchy.

The American Revolution was based on Taxes and Religious freedom. The Civil War was based on Taxes and Slavery. Even Ghandi became famous for resisting the British-imposed tax on salt. I believe the real wedge issue is Foreign Policy, but I fear that much of America does not care what goes on 'over there.'

Anyway, the divide in America exists from one community to another. Michigan is a good example. Grand Haven is white, Protestant, conservative. Traverse City, a little less white, more diverse, more liberal. 'Like people' tend to live with 'like people' (Evanston and Oak Park are good examples -- Carla and I have spent much of our time in diverse, progressive, communities). So we see and create the world we want to see and create. Can we look outside our senses five. 'Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.' -- William Blake. Can we create a world where everyone is free and able to pursue 'happiness?' I believe we need to try to create a world where all beings are treated equally --- with love, compassion, clarity. Thomas Merton asked people to pray for a better world. I believe if I can live with clarity and compassion, I can do my small part.

I Blog, Therefore, I Exist

Back home. We drove over 250 miles today. Started from the Nickerson Inn, in Pentwater, Michigan. It's a rustic place, about ten guest rooms, near the beach, on the east side of Lake Michigan. In the lobby, there's a piano, a checkerboard, an open Bible (In my book, the 'den of thieves' is American Corporate Capitalism). It's looks like it hasn't changed in 100 years. We slept in the Log Runner's Room. The mattress on the bed was as stiff as a log. I might have been better off sleeping on the floor. Still, Carla and I slept 9 hours. The air is so clean, the surroundings are so quiet, it's easy to drift off, and wake up refreshed.

We ate lunch in a little Cafe in St. Joseph's, Michigan. I had a nice tuna salad. The meals have all been good. The last 60 miles home were rough. Traffic jams, pollution, concrete jungle. There is nothing uglier than the Indiana/Illinois suburban sprawl. The expressway system is hard, inhuman. We blasted rock and roll the whole way (Led Zeppelin BBC Sessions - Jimmy Page is an avant garde, guitar god, The Stones -- no bettter rock and roll album than 'Exile on Main Street,' The Byrds Live - lyrical and experimental, Lucinda Williams - love the guitar player in her band, she's poetic and tough).

Finally made it home. I'm sitting in the sun-room, sipping a Perrier, listening to The Who (loud guitars and drums -- Keith Moon was a maniac, are somehow comforting, grounding for me). So, anyway, I guess, I'll call it a day.

Everything is Sweeter

Yes, well, the air is sweeter here. Mackinac Island is surrounded by pristine water, thick forest, no cars, no industry (except for Fudge shops). I ran the island this morning, Carla rented a mountain bike and we went around the island together. An absolutely glorious day. The food tastes better here, (I've been eating a lot of seafood), I'm convinced the clean air clears your palate, makes you hungrier, and every meal has been satisfying.

This is our last day, (we've already checked out), after the run, I showered, and then we visited the Butterfly House (they have thousands of Butterflies from all over the world). Most butterflies only live 14 days (the Monarch is the exception). Butterflies danced and swirled around us as the sound system played classical music. What a nice place.

Stopping for a latte and a quick Blog, then we'll find a place for lunch, get back on the ferry and start the drive south down U.S. 31. We plan on stopping about halfway, stay somewhere near the lake, then tomorrow, we should be arriving back in Chi-town late afternoon.

I've totally unplugged, no TV (radio is good, TV is bad), no New York Times (they don't have it here), in the pub they usually show either the Weather Channel or Sports, so I've missed the big Republican Disinformation Session in New York. It's good to unplug from the Media Monster.

I've totally been absorbed by Orwell's 'Homage to Catalonia.' A 'Brit' journalist who couldn't resist joining a Spanish Militia fighting Franco's Fascist troops. Another time, another place. Orwell's humanity is a shining beacon. He writes of Anarchists, Socialists, Facists, Communists, but it is the day to day life of a man that touches deep. Looking for a world of 'equality' and 'social justice.' Not a bad goal. 'Tell fucking the truth, tell it now, tell it always..' -- Lenny Bruce.

How Much Fudge Can One Man Stand?

It is raining this morning on Mackinac Island. It feels like Autumn is here. A good day to take a break from running. Carla and I slept almost 9 1/2 hours. This place is very mellow, quiet, there is something about living with less: no cars, no industry. The only transportation on the island, horses and bikes.

A little history of Mackinac: it was first inhabited by the Huron Indians, it then became a French Missionary Outpost (founded by Father Marquette), later, the British took over as a result of the 8 Years War, finally, the Americans claimed it in a treaty following the war of 1812.

It has evolved from Fish (the Huron Indians) , to Fur (the French Trappers), to Fish and Fur (the British), to finally, Fudge (Americans). This place has more fudge shops than humanity could possibly need or want.

The land and sky and water: beautiful, overwhelming, almost sacred. The Huron knew this was a special place. The fudge shops cannot diminish it.

Carla and I are living 'high on the hog;' eating well, taking walks, meditating, reading. I have plunged into George Orwell's 'Homage to Catalonia.' I am already hooked. I think it is a great book about the Spanish Civil War and much else. Orwell discusses all the 'big ideas' and ideologies, but ultimately it is a record of one man looking at the world from a place of clarity and truth. It is a rare and enlightening perspective, one that seems sorely lacking in today's madness and hurly burly.

Equisite Lonliness

We are on Mackinac Island. I'm blogging from an internet cafe next to the French Outpost. I ran the whole island this morning (saw an eagle sitting on a rock out in the water), 8 miles in about 70 minutes (the exquisite lonliness of the long-distance runner). Feeling good. It's sunny, cool, but incredibly beautiful. Lake Michigan is an impressive body of water, we tracked up the eastern coast on U.S. Highway 31 yesterday, 6 hours on the road, we covered over 500 miles of pavement. Here the lake looks pristine, deep, calm; a dark blue, almost violet/purple, plum-like color.

Michigan is an interesting territory (massive trees looming). Yesterday we started with the Gerald Ford shrine in Grand Haven (upper middle class, Protestant), but by the time we got to Traverse City we saw signs for Kerry/Edwards, plus my favorite: 'Support our Troops, Vote Bush Out.' Traverse City seems to be a little more diverse, a little more middle-class, 'back-packers and hikers.' A working-class, Union City.

The closer we got to Mackinac, there began to appear a little French flavor, towns like Charlevoix and Mackinac itself. This must have been where the French Trappers had an influence. You begin to realize that America is a large country with little pockets of influence, class, and ethnicity everywhere. From the 'Burghers' in South Holland to the French in the Upper Penisula.

So today, we can chill out, look for a good restuarant, explore the town. Our room is nice and comfortable, (we're staying at the Bayview Bed and Breakfast, run by a group of Jamaicans who make the trip every summer). Good to find a little ethnic 'color' in the mix. Otherwise the island is a little too 'whitebread.' Carla and I make an odd couple, don't quite fit the profile. We have a sort of Bohemian way about us. It definitely seems to set us apart here. Living in the shadow of Chicago gives us a completely different perspective and I think it shows. We wear our 'uniqueness' like a badge of honor.

'I'm a Ford Not a Lincoln' -- G. Ford, 1976

Well suprise, suprise. We are in Michigan, on the east side of Lake Michigan, staying at the Lakeshore Bed and Breakfast. It is quiet, beautiful, with big brooding trees looming over us. The real strange thing: this place is a Shrine to Gerald Ford. The room has pictures and statues of the man, the towels are red, white and blue, the Presidential seal is on the napkins, the pillows are embroidered with his signature. It seems the couple that owns this place worked on his failed campaign in 1976. Is this an episode of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm?'

Carla and I came in late last night, we blasted in from the road: rock and roll, sun roof open, windows down, the freedom of a roadtrip. It's like we landed here from another planet. I have my 'Bush Evil Doer' pin on my hat, Carla has her Kerry/Edwards button. We are definitely fish out of water. In my book, Gerald Ford is memorable for only two things: he pardoned Tricky Dick, and he inspired Chevy Chase to frequently trip and fall.

Anyway, very funny, in a strange kind of way.

Sipping coffee this morning, there's a chill in the air, we have a fire going, keeping us warm and toasty. First day of vacation. We plan on taking a walk on the beach, then the long trip up to Mackinaw Island. Is there a bed and breakfast somewhere in this state dedicated to Bill Clinton? I know there the coffee would be stronger, the views would be more spectacular, and the sex would be even better.

Performing for the Trees

Yesterday at Bucktown Arts Fair. What a werid, strange day. We performed outside in the center of the park. Just as we began, a rock band on one side of the park began their raucous set, and a drumming circle started at the other. We were totally drowned out. Manny, Carla and I plowed on anyway. Our audience couldn't hear us and they scattered like little pidgeons before a shotgun blast. The audience voted with their feet, they left us to perform for the trees.

In an odd turn, this was all very validating. We did a tight, well-rehearsed show for no-one. Afterwards we were paid $150 (we gave half to Manny) plus we each received a beverage and food coupon. Not bad for 20 minutes of work. Manny was ecstatic. Black Forest was on the bill alongside Trapdoor Theater and Red Moon Theater, not bad company, for our little marginal outfit.

We wandered over to Tracy's jewelry booth. I ended up in a very animated political discussion with David, Tracy's husband. You cannot find two people (David and I) that are more diametrically opposed on absolutely every issue. We see differents worlds, we rely on different facts. It is amazing how fundamentally we differ on everything. Again, it was very validating. I was able to get it all off my chest; how the world has gone so dangerously off the tracks under the 'Evil Bush Doer' and his right-wing Junta.

Today we meet with two actors who are competing to replace George in 'Henry Goodbar.' Then Carla and I are off to Michigan (Grand Haven, then Mackinaw Island) for a little vacation. Hope to find internet connections along the way. Blogging is a must.

A One Time Affair

My DSL line is still out, I checked with ComCast, and they said they are doing 'upgrades' in my area. So again, I am coming to the web via my laptop with a 'pirate' wireless connection. Everything is slower, it's like I'm running with weights attached to my ankles. What's really strange, my network card is blinking green, but the connection monitor tells me that I'm 'not linked' so I should not be be writing this entry. I am living on 'borrowed time,' against my own technology. As I said, very strange.

Today we have morning rehearsal, then a performance at the Bucktown Arts Fair. This will be a 'one off' performance. Bucktown is a 'family event' so we must modify some of the language, also, since we will be outside in the middle of the Fair, we have worked out a more visual representation of the piece. Manny and I do a 'Mariachi' guitar showdown, trading lines, strumming guitars. Another time, another place.

This will be a one-time experiment, and then we move on. And so, what else is a life?

The Salt March

This morning I was reading a web-log about Iraq. Al Sistani will be making a march to the Shrine in Najaf in a bid for peace, and there was a mention of Ghandi's 'salt march' in India; Ghandi was protesting a British-imposed tax on salt.

A little 'brown man' in a robe, helped bring down an empire. It seems to me that the 'greatest' among us, have been the 'humble outsiders,' men and women of peace and non-violence. Ghandi, Mandela, Martin Luther King, Desmond Tutu, Steven Biko, Henry David Thoreau, Dorothy Day, the Dali Lama.

Many of them were shunned, many of them suffered, many of them gained power by suffering. Humility and suffering: a source of power. Also, each had a 'faith' in some higher calling or power. Beyond materialism, beyond political, or military power. They all called upon the 'higher' self.

Sistani is a 'black-robed' Ayatollah, not exactly a popular figure in the West, but if he speaks for peace, in some fundamental way, he speaks for all of us.

Beyond Success

So what is worthwhile? How do you define success? These questions have been part of a long-running conversation I have had with my father over many, many, years. We briefly revisited the dialogue yesterday. I have struggled mightily to redefine these terms for myself. In Psychic Energy terms, 'success' is a 'perfect picture' which needs to be 'blown.' Perfect pictures are ideals or visions that are imposed on us, by society, by family, by our own hopes and dreams. We can live without perfect pictures, in fact, these pictures blind us to the ever-expanding now. To see clearly, to live in 'clarity,' one must constantly examine the pictures we carry, and destroy those that do not work for us.

As that great rock and roll poet, Jimi Hendrix once said, 'I'm the one who has to die, when it's my time to die.' There is tremendous freedom in being able to re-define the world, moment by moment, brick by brick. We create the world we choose to live in. The responsibility is ours. We do not have to accept the judgements of others. We do not have to accept the perfect pictures of others, or even those we call our own. We can accept that as 'human beings,' perfection is an illusion.

We live in a world of dichotomies: rich/poor, happy/sad, empty/fulfilled, success/failure. We can be crucified on the cross of each of these dichotomies, or we can dismantle the crosses, and create new uses for the wood. Tom Waits: "Come down off the cross, we can use the wood... come on up to the house."

The Sky is Crying

Rain is coming down hard. A light bulb has popped, so I sit in the dark, typing into my computer; words, sentences tumble out into the blog-sphere. I slept well last night, but I'm a little sore and creaky this morning.

I had a dream, where I was in a large room surrounded by people, and I was explaining myself to the group... 'I wanted to make a wad of cash, so I could devote myself to my theater group.' This may have been my original conception, (as per Easy Rider -- 'make the big score, and then you're free') but I have a foot in two camps. One, where I make money, one, where I dream.

I now believe its important to have a day-job that pays the bills. This way the theater group can be purely about the work. Why turn what I love to do, into a job? The job is another role, another realm. The challenge is to not be consumed, not to give it all away.

I have 'detached' myself from my job, so I can plunge myself into The Work. This balance might be the best of two worlds. I'll try that idea on for size today, to see how it works out. Be free NOW and ALWAYS.

As Time Goes By

Time slowed to a crawl this weekend. We accomplished so much in terms of our performance and our rehearsals. The Abbie Fest is probably the best theater event of the year. It was our fifth appearance at the fest, each year has been inspiring, rewarding.

We saw at least 8 or 9 different theater pieces, everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. The energy, creativity, and dedication on display was remarkable. The funniest thing we saw was an 'interview' with Abbie Hoffman, conducted by Sid Siddharta, on the show 'Favorites and Not So Favorites.' It was a one time gem of improvisation.

We topped it all off with dinner last night at 'Rick's,' a French Moroccan cafe on Sheridan. It is a shrine to Casablanca and Humphrey Bogart, run by a Couple from France. It's one my favorite restuarants, we are welcomed as old friends.

We must now find a replacement for George, plus we need to get ready to perform at the Bucktown Art Fest next weekend. Living in at least two alternate universes simultaneously. Let's see, who am I today?

'Magic is a one time affair'

The regal, silver-haired, street performer I saw in Montreal defined magic as a 'one time affair,' and in a way, we can look at all events in our lives as 'one time affairs,' events that never occur again. 'You can't enter the same river twice.' We are always changing, the river is too.

Our performance at 'Abbie Hoffman' last night was satisfying. It's a real challenge to do a 'roadshow' in a raw space. We had a good audience (40-50 people), one that really listened and responded. Performance is a tremendous act of will -- you put yourself in an extreme situation where you are 'exposed' to an audience that is free, to judge, to reject, to embrace.

The Abbie audience is made up primarily of our peers in the Chicago theater community. Probably the best audience we could possibly imagine. The fest is all about the work, and many of those in the audience know what the work is all about.

'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath,' another strange, little bastard child, is beginning to emerge. It is a real challenge, and a kick to approach this process as the most important thing we can possibly do. Everyone did justice to the work. Carla and Manny were especially good. Carla is an incredible dynamo, she's a force of nature when she focuses her energies on the task at hand. Manny is over-sized in all ways. A great performer. Liz Gomez was flawless with the lights and sound.

Rich Cotovsky's gem of wisdom: 'If you support someone, somewhere down the line you will find support, what goes around comes around. That's how it works.' Cotovsky is an oddball, a kook, a lone wolf, and one of my greatest sources of inspiration. Yes, I must say...Abbie lives!

Google Abbie Hoffman

3:00 p.m. Friday afternoon sitting at the foot of the Picasso at the Plaza. There are seven guys, seven oddballs, seven marginal characters, seven lonesters (were we all raised by wolves?). Rich Cotovsky, now Abbie Hoffman, leads the band, megaphone in hand. Two of us carry a banner reading, 'Abbie Hoffman Died for Your Sins,' one of us carries a sign that says, 'What the Hell,' the rest of us hand out flyers announcing three days of 'theatrical entertainment.'

We march down Dearborn, take a left at Wacker, troop down Michigan Av. (gaping shoppers, mall girls, tourists from Iowa, -- 'Mommy, who's Abbie Hoffman?') cut over to the lakefront, past the volleyballers, the girls in bikinis, the bikers, the roller-bladers, the street people. Rich (Abbie) on his megaphone, keeps up a running monologue. He sees a man loading a mattress into a truck, he quips, 'Abbie Hoffman loaded more mattresses, into more trucks, than any other man alive.'

Overhead, fighter jets are doing loop de loops, roaring across the sky, rattling windows, the finest military hardware money can buy, getting ready for the Air and Water show this weekend. I hear Groucho Marx whisper in my ear, 'I would never want to join a club that would have me as a member.' I am here and not here at the same time. I do my part, hand out flyers and put one foot in front of another. Nice day, nice walk.

A lady shouts out to this motley band, "Guys, the sixties are dead.!' Oh well. We get to the theater about 5:30 p.m. I go to Starbucks, get an 'iced venti skim latte,' and a bottle of water. I sit down in a comfy chair and wait for Carla and Manny to join me for the opening ceremonies. The show gets off to a good start, three of the first four pieces are excellent. Up early this morning, rehearsal at Peter Jones, then we unveil 'Henry Goodbar,' tonight. I am one of those 'lone wolves' who can't wait to get up in front of a house full of eyes. What would Abbie say?

Never Mind

Never Mind about that 'zero sum game' of energy in my last post. By end of afternoon yesterday, I crashed out on the futon in my 'office' and snoozed for about an hour and a half. I did a little self-rejuvenating, so to speak.

Last night, Carla and I went to Strawdog, it's kind of a freaky space. Dead center stage points directly at a concrete pillar. The floor is cement, so the acoustics are bad, very echoey, tinny, and the sound system speakers are 'downstage' so, the music hits the ears before the actor's voice.

But it is a new space, a new challenge. They have a nice light board and good sound equipment. Liz didn't make it, so we came up with two light settings, and two sound settings and I took good notes. Hopefully, before we go on, I'll be able to give Liz a quick tutorial.

It's the Abbie Hoffman march this afternoon. I think I'm going. 40 blocks. Might be a kick. Looking forward to the 'opening ceremonies.' Rich Cotovsky conjures up the spirit of Abbie Hoffman. Creative cooperation. Woodstock Nation lives: peace, love, and three days of theatrical madness.

In the dark this morning. No sun. The light must come from 'inside.'

Tech time this evening. Carla and I will visit Strawdog Theater to get familiar with the light and sound booth, in anticipation of our Abbie Fest perfomance Saturday. Hopefully Liz Gomez (who will actually work the board) will be meeting us. Tech time is set for 11:00 p.m. This is usually well past my bedtime.

Another long day. I swear, the days are getting longer. It seems I have time for everything. Ever since I came back from Montreal, I have been, 'in my space,' the trip seemed to 'ground' me. My meditations have gotten more vivid, more rejuvenating.

It seems the more I do, the more I can do, the more energy I expend, the more energy I am able draw upon. I guess energy is not a 'zero sum game.' Now that's a mystery right there.

Patchy fog this morning. Woke up with that old Police song rattling in my cranium, 'too much information, running round my head, too much information.'

Time has slowed down. My days are long and productive. Juggling business (we inked a 5 year Cook County contract) and Black Forest (completed the soundtrack, perfecting my lines).

As I run on the lakefront, I mutter my lines from 'Henry Goodbar.' Passerbys probably think I'm a madman, not so sure they are wrong. Last two days, I have been extending my run. I have been wearing my 'cheap' New Balance Trail Runners, which I bought for $35 at a sidewalk sale, and they have put my more expensive shoes to shame.

I've been thinking lately of 'game theory,' which posits that all human activity is basically a 'game' where each participant tries to maximize their advantage. This corresponds to concepts in my Psychic Energy work, which talks about how we are 'playing' at various roles. But no game totally encompasses our essence.

Came across this Issac Bashevis Singer quote, in response to his first visit to Coney Island: "one day all people will realize there is not a single idea that can really be called true -- that everything is a game: nationalism, internationalism, religion, atheism, spiritualism, materialism, even suicide."

Even suicide. Now there's a loser's game. Singer doesn't judge, he doesn't say this is good, or bad, it is what it is...nothing more, nothing less.

What kind of 'glasses' should I wear? The kind that only see 'the past'? The kind that only see 'the future'? The kind that only see 'the now'?

Each pair of glasses, is also a set of blinders. What do I see, or instead, what do I choose to see? Krishnamurti: no dogma, except, be here, now. The now is where I can 'act.' Step by step, in the moment; no time for regret, guilt, doubt, fear.

It's the easiest thing in the world: to let it all go, 'to every season, turn, turn, turn.' A certain peace has descended upon me. The days seem to be 'elongating.' It's amazing what a good rest will bring. The day rolls out ahead of me, I simply put one foot in front of another.

Yesterday seemed like a week; Rehearsal, Abbie Hoffman Barbecue, Radio Interview.

We made great progress in rehearsal, George still lagged, but he came around, and the first five scenes are rounding into shape.

The Barbecue was held on a rooftop deck at Mary Archie. Carla, Peter Jones and I, (Peter had a hamburger, Carla and I sipped water) stayed for an hour or so, and we chatted with some of the other theater groups. Rich Cotovsky played the master of ceremonies, he is funny, an inspiration. I really appreciate the way he approaches theater work: a simple, no bullshit, purity. We picked up our 'artist passes' for the fest next weekend, and scheduled tech time for Thursday.

The Radio Interview, was strange, oddly satisfying. Did we do justice to the language of the play over the radio waves? Carla and I recited monologues from 'Henry Goodbar' in a cramped studio with big fat microphones just inches from our lips. Our words were sent out into the ether. Did we connect with anyone? Who's listening to WZRD late on a Sunday night?

Got home late, up at the crack of dawn. Hoping to crash out early tonight.

To bed late (a dinner party at the neighbors), up early (the day was calling me), feeling a little brittle this morning.

The radio tells me, 'the goal of life is to play.'

George has turned out to be a great diappointment. He is obviously already on to 'other things' and he is stumbling through the text. He has not come to rehearsal prepared, and he is a drag on the whole group (everyone else is dedicated, professional). Hopefully, we can bring him along today, get through 'Abbie' next week, and then cut him loose.

Big day today: last major rehearsal before 'Abbie,' from 10-2, then on to Mary Archie for the annual Abbie Barbecue, then later this evening a radio interview on WZRD to promote our appearance at the Bucktown Art Fest.

I'll have to catch up on sleep later.

My new theatrical inspiration: the two street performers I saw in Old Montreal; a sword swallower, a magician. The essense of performance, people fully engaged, a few props, the energy needed to make people stop and notice. The willingness to 'risk it.' Neil Young tells me, 'Don't be Denied.'

The play's the thing. The last two rehearsals (today, tomorrow) before Abbie Hoffman Fest next weekend at Strawdog Theater.

I have been compiling the new soundtrack. It's quite an eclectic collection: Roger Miller, Neil Young, The Sex Pistols, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, The Mamas & Papas, The Stones, Vladimir Horowitz.

'Moonlight Sonata' vs. 'God Save the Queen.'

The selections are meant to reflect and illuminate the text.

Yesterday, George, unleashed a bombshell. He wants out of the production. George has decided that he wants to attend Massage School. He needs to study for an entry test, scheduled in September, and he will need to focus his energies.

'Abbie Hoffman' will be George's last performance, probably the last ever for Black Forest. You're either 'on the boat' or you are off. We need to scramble to find a replacement. On one level, I am relieved, George has been lagging, struggling physically, and I don't think he is willing to 'risk it' to take his performance to the next level.

Black Forest is definitely 'evolving' and I guess this means we will leave some behind. I believe George has taken great strides forward, and maybe his work with the group has helped him to 'change his life,' and pursue massage therapy. Maybe 'therapist' will end up being George's finest performance.

Anyway, can't stop the train now, I'm sure we'll find someone to fill George's shoes. Wonder what other suprises are on the horizon?

What's important? To find some 'authenticity' in life, to find passion, to be able to let it all go at a moments notice?

There's this endless 'cycle.' Up, down, up again, down again: this is the wheel. As Dylan reminds us, 'this wheel's on fire.'

I'm back to my familiar world. Dealing with contracts, lawyers. Last week, we signed a contract, now our lawyer wants to 'walk back the cat,' undo what we have done. I think it's a fool's game.

Black Forest: key rehearsals set for this weekend. Abbie Hoffman next week. I'm working on the soundtrack, Carla's finalizing costumes. I've memorized my lines, still working on physicality, vocal range.

Strange, it is the play: acting, imagining, creating this little mirage, that leads me to my authenticity, my passion. Imagine a world where everything has meaning, everything reflects back a diamond consciousness.

'And when I was a boy...everything was right.'

Back home feels good. Quite a trip, Montreal offers some of the best of city living: a vibrant, diverse, human culture.

The only negative: from the city to the airport, too many cars, too much pavement.

It seems we believe technology will save us; at the same time our advanced technology is choking us, seperating us from nature, drowning us in the culture of machines.

The cab ride from O'Hare to home: ugly streets, strip malls, endless suburban sprawl. Bland, parking-lot, ugliness, everywhere.

The City of Big Shoulders and Flabby Bellies. The Midwest grows them big, bland, slow-moving --- kind of like the bloated cows that become juicy burgers on over-loaded plates.

Of course, Chicago is too big, too diverse, to be one thing. The beauty of a 'city' is the incredible energy of millions of people: every shape, every size, every race, creed, color spilling into the streets like some frenetic 24 hour carnival (see especially New York City).

I bought a t-shirt in a little shop in Old Montreal. My new credo: 'Life is... to eat, to sleep, to skate.' Of course, for me to skate is a metaphor, as per Jethro Tull: 'skating away, on the thin ice, of a new day.'

Hello old friend. My blog has become my conscience.

I love Montreal. It may be a different story in the winter, but, August in Montreal, is exquisite.

I've had my fill of this damn conference. I made a good connection or two. Good riddance.

The joy has been Old Montreal. I had a great dinner at 'Ghandi' last night. Indian food with a touch of French Canadian class.

I have been captivated by the women of Montreal. Beautiful, petite, French Canadiens, who have this uncanny ability to see through or past me. They are expert at being seen, but not seeing. There have been times, I thought, I was finally invisible, one of my goals ever since I was young.

So what is this compulsion to act, to be onstage, to perform for an audience? Oh well, chalk it up to the contradiction of a life.

Flight out tonight at 6:00 p.m. In the meantime, I will 'drift with the stream.' One more time, I will wander the cobblestone streets, see how my fellow human beings are amusing themselves.

A new man today. The hard edginess, from lack of sleep, is gone. Slept a solid nine hours. Bright, alive, refreshed.

A tale of two worlds...

1. The conference is basically a 'mindfuck.' Robert Gates, former CIA Director, kicked it off with a speech laying out the future in America Terror Central. The assumption is that more devastating attacks are coming, they are inevitable, unavoidable. The 'terrorists' are dedicated, mad, evil. No discussion of underlying motives. The impression is that no policy changes are necessary, we must fight these crazies, and be prepared to deal with the inevitable destruction. No one is asking why 'they' hate us. No one is asking how we can change the world to dissipate the hate. The response is complete, hard-edged, fear. Fortress America: what do we give up to fight the terror?

2. Old Montreal is beautiful. Old world. Narrow, cobblestone, streets, beautiful, graceful, refined, dazzling, young French Canadien women everywhere. I walked the streets of Old Montreal for hours, soaking up the atmosphere. Street theater: a sword swallower, a magican ('the definition of magic: a one time affair'), the life of the paving stones. This is what a city should be: good food, good shops, people out in the cafes, the restaurants, the street itself entertainment.

The Stereotype: the Americans are fat, ugly, loud, bringing with them their obnoxious culture of money and fear. The French Canadiens: beautiful, refined, cultured, happy, carefree, unaware of the dark underbelly of capital.

Could it be the stereotype is 'correct?' If I must choose, I choose a life of joy, not fear; life, not death. Terror, war, fear, are not inevitable. Open your eyes. The world is a beautiful place to live.

Perfect , August, blue sky over Old Montreal, hundreds of little white birds dancing in the air.

Everything is different this morning. Different bed, different city.

The flight to Montreal was smooth. Listened to Sigur Ros and Donny Darko and meditated the whole way.

Wish I spoke French. It is amazing to find a little French enclave in North America. Hope to see more of the city later today. Here for a 'homeland security' conference. Boy, do I feel like a fish out of water.

Sitting in a little cafe, sipping a latte, using their internet computer. The conference starts later this morning. Did not sleep so good. Woke up just about every hour. So, a little toasty this morning. Hope to put in a full day, grab a good meal, and get a good long sleep.

When it comes down to it, the simple pleasures seem to be the most essential.

Rehearsal today, then a flight to Montreal tonight.

Yesterday's rehearsal was very productive. Carla has brought a new intensity to her direction, especially with the 'physicality' of the actors which will help with the 'difficult' text.

George brought Krista along him to rehearsal yesterday. She is to be our new lighting/sound tech/stage manager. This should help immensely. She seems smart, commited, young and eager. The circle continues to strengthen.

It is amazing what a focused group of people can accomplish. The reward of doing your small part in the context of a larger reality. This is the stuff of dreams and visions.

Yesterday: played hooky, Huck Finn in a Sonata. A perfect day.

Empty, relaxed. Blue sky, big golden sun. After a run on the lake front (water, perfect blue, glass-like) I took a long meandering road trip to the Old Homestead. Listened to Bruce Springsteen's masterpiece, 'The Rising,' at top volume; sun-roof open, windows rolled down, warm August day wrapped around me like a glove. Rock and roll!

Pulled up to the Big Red House. Maple trees, lush and green, like old friends. Said 'hello' to mother, father, sister, niece, the family dog, the little chirping birds, the fish in the pond, the little acrobatic squirrels.

Everyone seemed happy to be alive on an August day. We talked of world events, we talked of the ordinary day to day. Family bonds run deep. Blood of my blood.

I had a 'little plate' with the family: soup, salad, a bananna. Then said my 'goodbyes' -- back on the road.

Took North Avenue all the way to Wicker Park. A vibrant street scene. Visited my brother's new art studio in the Flat Iron Building in Wicker Park. He's got a great little place, in the heart of the Chicago Art Scene. Classic old building, wood floors, high ceilings, perfect. His paintings: beautiful, strange, brooding.

Chatted with two cool dudes: Walter Fydryck and Jeff Foley. Great artists, mentors, unique old hipsters.

Carla and I dined at the Silver Cloud Bar and Grill. Linguini marinara -- highly recommended. Wicker Park is the Soho of Chicago.

Cool ride home, dark shimmering Chicago streets, alive, dazzling. Arrived home -- no doubts, no regrets: a very good day indeed.

Not exactly 'dog days.' A cool front has moved in. Good sleeping weather. Not sure if I've fallen into a rut, or am on the verge of a 'breakthrough.'

Busy day ahead. Sitting down to 'close the deal' with the other party. This is when visions collide. Could be a significant step forward, a step back, or, no step at all.

Inspiration and enlightenment, seem so far away. I am left with myself. Unsettled, unsure. What is a life?

Alone. Even a life filled with others, alone.

On one shoulder -- Satre (paraphrased) : 'hell is the other.' On another shoulder -- Lennon: 'all you need is love.' I am the living contradiction.

'The Life you save may be your own.' And must I save it for a rainy day?

Stormy night, stormy day.

Yesterday was the perfect storm. I have become the 'contrarian' at the little entreprenurial company where I work. I almost always come down on the side of our 'Customers.' This puts me in conflict with the management team.

There is something tribal about the way people band together to disparage the other, the outsider. I usually try to see the validity of the 'other side.' This leads to friction, or outright hostility, from members of 'my team.'

All my 'successes' have come from being able to get two sides to the table: to talk, to listen, to compromise. I usually have to 'work' both sides of the equation.

I am criticized for being soft, for wanting to be liked, for wanting everyone to get along. I believe these are my strengths. I come to a 'deal' assuming that all parties are 'good intentioned.'

I try to come from a place of 'humility.' This is perceived as 'weak,' or 'not loyal.' I guess maybe I'm not loyal. Or I'm loyal to something else. So, I am not comfortable in the group, I'm always looking beyond the group to another reality. I am alone, but of course, I'm not the only one who is alone.

Little moments finally add up to something, but in the process, these moments seem unimportant, invisible, insubstantial.

So, another day goes by. I meditate, I write, I run on the lakefront. I choose to be positive, to move the conversation forward.

I must honor every small step forward (even if it feels like a step back), the slow but steady progress, the strange evolution, all the little victories, yes, even the tiny defeats.

So what's important? To see the world with open eyes, open heart and mind. To propel myself into the world, without looking back. To meditate, to find the calm center of clarity, to acknowledge a progression, yes, finally, to love.

To laugh, at myself, at the beauty and uncertainty of the world. To live, fully, completely; to understand that this moment, and this one too, is sacred, holy. 'Instant Karma' is simple, plain, mundane, so easy to misunderstand, so easy to pass by without a second look.

The 'FireSign Theater,' had an album entitled, 'We're all Bozos on this Bus,' and another, 'Everything You Know is Wrong.'

There is something wise, something absurd, something disquieting to be found in these 'insights.' They have been with me ever since I encountered them in the seventies.

Yesterday was one of those days where the 'absurdity' of my existence, rose up and slapped me in the face. Nothing seemed to 'flow,' everything came hard and halting.

In the 'Goodbar' rehearsal, we made solid progress, breaking down scenes, making up 'bits,' bringing physicality to the words. It all sounded so foreign and clunky. What was I thinking? When I wrote the piece, it all made 'sense' to me, I was bringing all these disparate thoughts and ideas together, with the certainty that if I saw a connection, there was a connection. Hearing it yesterday made me wonder if anything connects.

This has happened to me before, in fact, it happens with just about every production. I start out enthused, certain; then everything breaks down, then slowly, piece by piece, we re-build. It becomes something.

Can't take it too seriously. Must remember, I live the 'Life of a Clown.' I wear a rubber nose and floppy shoes at all times. Plus, what I thought I knew, may not be what I know. You know?

Up early, bright, alive.

Energy: where does it come from? Where does it go?

Must one 'feel bad,' to understand 'feeling good?'

Black Forest rules. Yesterday's rehearsal was very productive. A solid group dynamic is emerging. Play-acting is serious work. My two favorite activities: writing and acting.

'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath,' is beginning to emerge. It is a 'monster.' I have jam-packed it with many confusing images. It reflects my jumbled-up view of the world. I seem to be most comfortable in a 'post modern' frame of mind, where nothing is what it seems, everything has another meaning, another resonance.

If I am to be true to my 'vision,' I must be open to many tangents, many ideas, competing and exploding each other. Kind of an exhausting way of seeing the world. Must be why I am always looking for the 'calm center of clarity.'

The germ won. I went down for the count yesterday. Inventory: scratchy throat, sore muscles, throbbing headache, general misery.

Also, brittle and prickly on the job; patience wearing thin.

It's amazing how easily the balance can be upended.

I watched a little post-convention analysis: stupid, simple-minded; I believe TV is intended to make us all ignorant.

Must carry on. Rehearsal today. This morning feeling 'in the bubble,' watching myself 'going through the motions.' Here and not here simultaneously.

Political Theater. Watched the Democractic Convention last night. Kerry accepted the nomination.

War hero/war protester; unlike Clinton, the master, 'the Artful Dodger' (he finessed Vietnam and much else) Kerry volunteered to go, served honorably, came home, threw away his ribbons, and spoke out against the war. The man's position evolved over time. He was not afraid to 'change his mind.' To me that seems 'wise.'

Kerry talked about 'complexities' in the world and this seems just right.

'Jokerman' in Kubrick's 'Full Metal Jacket' wore a helmet with a peace symbol and the words 'born to kill.' The duality of man.

Opening song last night, 'No Surrender' from the Jersey 'Boss,' Bruce Springsteen; closing song, 'Beautiful Day' from the Irish band, U2. Kerry needs two songs to convey his message. Strong and optimistic.

Do we expect too much from these politicos? Are we too smart, too cynical for any kind of hero? There are no perfect people. What about the corrupt, corporate schmooze? Does that transcend all hopes and plans? 'Too much money makes the baby go blind.'

The hazards of traveling: a slight sore throat this morning. How many germs floating around in N.Y., at LaGuardia, on the plane? An invisible, insidious, enemy. The mind reels.

I'm not down for the count, instead, I feel bright and shiny this morning. A good, dreamless, sleep. It's so good to be back home. Yesterday, I conducted my business from home base. It's the best; my own comfortable hermitage.

One must 'break a routine' to re-fire the brain, and then return to the daily routine renewed. Like in that famous country song, 'How can I miss you, if you won't go away?'

Before my head hit the pillow last night, I came across Merton's concept of 'the book of life.' This is the book that we are all writing. We decide what kind of book it will be. We interpret events: meaningless, random, disconnected; or seamless, continuous, full of meaning and mystery?

Back home. The trip to N.Y. was satisfying, exhausting.

The positive: had a good training session with Block Institute, wandered the streets of Brooklyn Heights (lunched on Montague St., made famous by Bob Dylan), had a long rambling conversation, touching on everything, with Paula and Philip as we drove from Coney Island back to Brooklyn. The three of us are from such different backgrounds and experiences, but we can really relate on a very human level.

The negative: the logisitcs of travel. The trip home was trying. Heavy rain brought La Guardia to a halt, canceled flights, a backup on the tarmac. We got on the plane and waited. A line up of planes in front of us. I read every scrap of the N.Y. Times, I ran through my meditation routine, Paula and I discussed work, politics, books, families, the afterlife. Finally, we took off.

Got home late, let the birds out (they went insane when I came in) snacked on bread and nuts, watched the last of the Democratic Convention and crashed out. This morning, groggy, empty...happy to be home.

On the road. First thing, order a pot of coffee, activate the Internet TV and Blog.

At the Marriot in Brooklyn, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge (the first suspension bridge in the US). It is an amazing, soaring, structure.

Paula (beautiful, brilliant, graceful, blond) and I are doing a training session today for Philip Clark's customer Block Institute.

Philip is a great host. Whenever I come here, he takes time to show me around. We come from such different backgrounds (he was born in Bed-Stey) but we really connect. It is not 'work' to be around him.

This is a whirlwind trip. Back home tonight.

Long days ahead. Meetings in the morning, flight to New York in the afternoon, dinner with a Client tonight, training day tomorrow, and then back to the airport for a flight home tomorrow evening.

I must approach days like these, one step at a time. A cup of coffee, a good meditation, a New York Times, Merton's Journals, a CD player, a handful of stately, meditative musical selections (Sigur Ros, the Donnie Darko Soundtrack).

These are tools to claim 'my space.'

The time is not my own. I must make the time my own.

I always enjoy New York, the city provides a real adrenaline kick. I hope to maintain a 'detached amusement.'

'Every body's talking at me, don't hear a word they're saying, only the echoes of my mind ...'

A sense of play, of amusement. Pretending to 'be' someone else. Memorizing the text, learning the steps, repeating the moves. Putting on a 'second skin,' letting this become 'unconscious,' 'instinctive.'

Repetition until the 'routine' becomes natural, automatic, 'in the moment.'

This is the process of rehearsal.

Today will be the first full cast rehearsal for 'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath.' Yesterday, Carla, George and I (we've worked together many times now) started the process of 'assuming' our characters. It's a great kick. It's also annoying, frustrating, trying to find your way in; so that words and actions become one.

It is a process of 'breaking down' into mechanics, so that they can be put back together into a new configuration. An actor's tools: voice, body, mind. The trick is to become 'self aware' so that you can forget yourself and in the process, find something new, something unexpected.

Read a short article this morning about 'lucid dreams.' These are dreams in which you are active, able to make choices during the dream.

Waking life feels very much like a lucid dream. Isn't our day to day existence basically a tremendous act of imagination? We imagine both the mundane, boring details, as well as the extraordinary occurances of a life.

'Something happens,' but then in the experience of it, we create an image, bring it in, interpret or discard it. Everything passes through us. Sometimes we feel like the passive observer: the dreamer, sometimes we feel like an active participant: the lucid dreamer.

Whether the dream is filled with meaning, or is just random nonsense is a choice. We imagine a life of no meaning, or a life filled with meaning. It is up to us. We may imagine a god or devil to spread around the responsibility, but it's our dream, these are our imaginings.

We can dream to be the butterfly and the buddha and everything else under the sun and stars.

Yesterday, my second floor apartment was hot, the sweat poured out of me. A good reason to go to a movie.

Met Carla at the Avanti Cafe, and then we went to the Music Box Theater to see 'Bukowski: Born into This.' A great documentary of a great man and writer. Can poetry, can art, transform a man's life? Yes it can. Bukowski is a supreme example.

As a child, he lived in a kind of hell, his father beat him every day from the age of 6 until 12. Bukowski said his father was his first 'literary teacher.' Lesson learned: there is a world of unreasonable, unearned, pain. In response, no pretense, words must not be wasted.

Later, Bukowski wandered, from flophouse to flophouse, from job to job. He was a man with no money, no connections. His one steady job: he worked for the Post Office for 15 years. No matter what or where he was, he wrote, every day, like a man possessed. Poetry, short stories. Hundreds, thousands.

Many years passed, and finally in L.A. he began to be publised. He established himself in a street paper called, Open City and later the L.A. Free Press; his weekly column, 'Notes of a Dirty Old Man.'

Bukowski had all the vices: writing, women, the horse track, drinking. All of these vices had their attractions. Writing was the one that allowed Bukowski to show his humanity, his humour, his hard-boiledness. He won over a generation of readers with novels, short stories and poems. He gained the world, by pouring himself onto little sheets of white paper.

He was a scarred, wounded soul, but ultimately, he wore his wounds, his scars, like emblems of his art. Write a poem, save a life.

My latest favorite author is Thomas Merton, a Trappist Monk, who died in 1968. I just ordered from Amazon, 'The Intimate Merton,' selections from his Journals. Merton is an extraordinary writer. I base this on 'The Seven Storey Mountain,' and 'Asian Journals.'

I trace a long crooked path (in no particular order) bringing me to Merton: Robert Louis Stevenson, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Dickens, Joseph Heller, Charles Bukowski, Hunter Thompson, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, John Irving, Herman Melville, Nelson Algren, Thomas McGuane, William Blake, Paul Bowles, Norman Mailer, Robert Pirsig, Ken Kesey, Nick Tosches, Peter Mathiessen, Jean Genet, W.G. Sebald, Vladimir Nabokov, Sam Shepard, Samuel Beckett, Arthur Miller, Robert Coover, Yukio Mishima, William Vollman, Michael Herr.

I would say these authors have been my 'mentors,' I'm sure there are others I've forgotten. I have spent much of my life searching for: experience, knowledge, wisdom.

Some of these authors have lived a life of madness and excess, some have tried in their way to be 'free,' to be 'holy.' They are all unique individuals, but to me, they illustrate the basic 'unity' underlying all human experience.

Merton says a 'man of faith' is one who is unafraid to wrestle with doubt. Sometimes the wisdom is in the 'wrestling.'

The days are galloping by.

Back to earth. I think I have 're-integrated' the golden body into flesh and bone. I have put on my 'fast runners' hoping to catch a glimmer of the sun this morning.

Yesterday gathered the cast to read 'Henry Goodbar.' First, tentative steps. It all still seems unreal, but it was good to hear new voices. We are creating something out of nothing. Lines on paper need to be embodied. It's a magical, alchemical process.

Each step is plain, simple. Learn the lines. Listen to each other. Make strong choices in voice and movement. Slowly build brick by brick, until all the pieces work as one. Strong, quirky individuals become a seamless, evanesant, unity.

Turns out yesterday was very odd. I definitely 'blew the picture' during my float in the 'sensory deprivation tank,' and I'm still feeling the effects. On one level, it's all very simple: I had this vision of an idealized, golden image of myself, floating in a black, star-filled, immensity. A new picture.

The result: next morning, (yesterday), I was alive, refreshed, but at the same time I felt fragile, weak, sensitive to light, not ready for the world. I ended up laying down mid-afternoon, and I fell asleep unitl dinner time. I had dinner, layed down on the couch, fell asleep until bedtime, went to bed and woke up this morning at 5:30 a.m. with after-images of dreams, of the dead and the living, still in my head.

All so very strange. The new picture in my mind, seems to have had an effect on my body. Something has changed inside. I think this has to do with the 'knowledge' that a part of me, (maybe the most important part) is 'spirit' beyond the mind/body duality. This 'spirit image', the golden body, is free: of fear, hope, desire, wants, needs, plans, dreams.

The 'knowledge' of all this is being formulated in me now. But the power, the magic, resides in the 'picture', the image. This is a 'transformation,' but I am unsure where this transformation leads.
'A man gains his soul, but loses the world.'

In one of my favorite books, 'Impro' a handbook on comedy and improvisation, there is the concept of 'breaking a routine.' In psychic lingo there's 'blowing the picture.' In both instances, one is releasing energy, which brings laughter or clarity.

Yesterday afternoon, Carla and I went for a massage and a 'float' at the Space/Time Tanks, a perfect way to 'break a routine.' The massage was good; Nadine worked over my body, every joint, bone, muscle. It was both relaxing and refreshing.

The float was extraordinary. This was my third time. Each has been a little different. No sound, no light, your body floats in a tank of warm salt water (so much salt you are buoyant) for over an hour. Time and space dissolve.

This must be what it's like in zero gravity. This must be what it's like in the womb. This must be like...nothing else I can imagine. I went into a deep meditation, fully conscious. I submerged into a state beyond the world, leaving everything behind. I could see myself, in my mind's eye, naked, golden, rising up and out into a star-filled expanse.

Afterwards, a hot shower, got dressed, and headed out into the streets of Chicago. For awhile, both of us were totally silent, like visitors from another planet. There was a faint glow around every shape.

We went to Thai Soukdee, had a great Thai meal, went home, went to sleep early.

This morning up early. Alive, refreshed. The 'picture has been blown.' Wonder what today will bring.

I'm learning my lines for, 'Free Henry Goodbar, Telepath.' Strange and freaky. I'm sometimes amazed by the things that I choose to write. It's best when the subject and form seems to choose me.

Memorizing lines is all about breaking down the text into 'beats' and learning the 'music' of the words. This is slow, step by step, brick by brick, work. It can really clear your head.

In the play, I have set up an opposition between those I admire: Lennon, Harrison, Sean Flynn, 'the creative kids,' against Nixon, Kissinger, Hoover, men of power and arrogance. 'The Dreamer,' Henry Goodbar is a combination of qualities from the two camps. A man with his head in the clouds, but with an illusion of power and money. Kind of based on Howard Hughes, he's so rich and powerful, he never needs to leave his bedroom. He doesn't live in the world like the rest of us.

Then there's Rashid, a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay. He is another Dreamer, also in isolation, a man with no power, no wealth, who, in effect, lives only in his head.

I've been thinking lately of my influences, my 'precursors.' If I go back to my 'formative years,' I'd have to say that the most profound influences I can trace would be Robert Louis Stevenson's 'Treasure Island,' and Kurt Vonnegut's 'Slaughter-house Five.'

Vonnegut was the one who really fired up my imagination, freed me to experiment. I guess I should credit, or blame, Vonnegut for my inability to tell a story straight.

Clouds in my head this morning. The Great Cloud of Unknowing. Waking like rising from the depths of a murky ocean.

Sleep is one of those unexplainable mysteries.

It seems, I was in another realm, but I can't recall the details. Shadows, glancing, skittering, light, nothing of substance to hold onto.

I have the sense that I went somewhere important, discovered something that might be useful, unable to bring it to the surface.

A monk. A cult of one, ready to entertain the universal.

I meditate every morning. I run through my standard visualizations, freeing up energy by creating and destroying 'roses,' clearing out my 'chakras,' running 'gold energy' through the layers of 'my aura,' reviewing 'mockups' of what I want to actualize. A simple, clean, practice. No doctrine, no dogma. Be the buddha, kill the buddha.

A vegetarian diet. Live on: bread, fruit, pasta, vegetables, frozen yogurt, mineral water, coffee.

Coffee is a kick of adrenaline.

The main guideposts : Be here now. Stay open to a detached clarity.

My purpose: a spiritual journey; be awake, be alive to a higher vibration, a higher energy.

A simple practice of becoming.

Sometimes it feels like one long day, with a million little variations. Variations on a theme: The Life of Sunny Jimmy.

Hot and sticky this morning. Already, as I sip coffee, I'm sweating.

So much to do: day-job calls and e-mails, memorize lines for 'Henry Goodbar,' create video images to be projected during the performance. Need to find pictures of Elvis, George Harrison, John Lennon, Johnny Rotten, Henry Kissinger, Richard Nixon. Archetypal Figures.

My life, my work: a mad, over-blown, opus? Who knows? Only the Shadow knows.

Some days everything just 'clicks.' Yesterday was perfect. I was 'Zen Surfer,' riding waves of positive energy all day.

'Abbie Fest,' is always an inspiration. The motto: creative cooperation. No bullshit, it is all about the work. Mary Archie Theater's Rich Cotovsky is a rumpled, grizzled, Buddha. A Laughing Buddha. He embodies Chicago's no nonsense work ethic. Chicago Theater is not about the money, instead, it's an example of 'work is prayer.' Looking forward to the event in August. The 'Woodstock Spirit' lives.

The call-backs at Peter Jones (this is our second home) were excellent: so much talent, so many good choices. The text began to come alive. Kind of like watching your little baby take it's first tentative steps. It's up to Carla now. I trust her instincts in building the group dynamic.

Finished the day at a back yard barbecue on the North side of Chicago. The Art Director crowd. Spent my time talking to a couple of musicians. We discussed all the great bands we've seen over the years. My list included: The Ramones, Elvis Costello, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, The Kinks, New York Dolls, Mott the Hoople. Music has been such a big part of my life.

Listened to Neil Young's 'Greendale' in the car. Quirky, funny, the best. The now deceased singer/songwriter Townes Van Zant supposedly had the ability to read auras; he said of Neil Young, 'Neil's aura was Pure Gold.' Gold equals 'Havingness.' You can't ask for more.

No day of rest. Off to Mary Archie Theater for an "Abbie Hoffman Died for Your Sins Fest' meeting, then to 'call-backs' for "Henry Goodbar." Hoping to solidify the cast. Need a dynamic, committed team.

Carla and I reviewed the script yesterday. The challenge is to make the text come alive. So many choices, so many directions.

Finished Merton's 'Asian Journals.' Merton faced with huge Buddhas in Ceylon: silent, smiling, all knowing, non-judging. Merton comes to a key insight: must empty oneself (meditation, contemplation) to be filled with compassion for all sentient beings.

Merton died in Bangkok in 1968; a freak accident, electrocuted by a faulty fan. So strange. In the Journals he is so inspiring, so alive, so full of plans. We know, but he doesn't, that he will not leave Bangkok alive.

Any of us can step out at any moment. Merton's last public words: 'So I will disappear.'

Revived this morning. Head swimming with ideas. Don't want to settle on one, let them all flash by.

Brando on acting: "In the Land of the Blind, the one-eyed man is King." Remember, Brando was the 'One Eyed Jack.'

Long, fitful sleep. Weather today: cloudy. Might use clouds as an 'excuse' not to run today. My body: depleted, stiff, slow moving.

My 'prison' haircut, ala Steve McQueen in 'The Getaway,' reminds me that I am imprisoned in a body. This is good.

More from Asian Journals --- Merton: spirit and material are not opposed, but intertwined. Merton on Hinduism: 'everything is the divine dance and play of Shiva.'

Up early, heading to Chicago this morning. Chasing down the 'big deal.' Moving forward, but trying to stay detached from the 'needing, wanting, grasping...'

Yesterday got a 'bad haircut,' from Nina, I sat down in the barber chair and said, "give me a 'Nina,' Nina!".

Every haircut is bad, that's why I love my David Letterman 'Late Show' hat. "The difference between a good haircut and bad one? About 5 days."

This morning, in the mirror, it appears my ears are getting bigger, my face is getting longer, I'm becoming a seriously funny character. This bodes well for my acting career.

A little 'off the beam' this morning. Not sure if I'm Dumps or Sunny. Kind of in an in-between state.

My one grand, silly extravagence: running shoes.

Dark blue Adidas for those days when I need support, stability. They are sturdy 'plodders,' like running in mud. Dumps.

Pure white Asics for those days when I need to fly. These shoes are sleek, fast; when I run, I'm chasing after my shoes. Sunny.

Guess I'll go with Blue Dumps today, try to plod my way to the sun. Yes, today's motto: to the plodder goes the spoils.

Holiday is over. Must fortify myself with coffee and dreams. Ready to seize, or maybe just gently carress, the day.

Finished Godard's 'In Praise of Love,' last night. A beautiful, difficult, intelligent, haunting movie. So out of step, so out of time. Godard is an old man now. He has not lost his brittle edge, his quirkiness; he is oh so French, so sublimely maddening.

Memory, youth, old age...Godard's movie is sad, transcendant. Love is held in opposition to the State, to the strum and drang of History.

If life has become a movie, (now a TV show) Godard suggests that it's better that it be a tragedy (simple, clean, death inevitable, acceptable) as opposed to a melodrama (overwrought, too many reversals, death an accident).

First thought this morning: no longer 'refreshed' after a good sleep, I'm only weary, or less weary. After a cup of coffee or two, I start to come around and think, 'not so weary.'

Reading Merton's "Asian Journals," yesteray I came across a discussion of Buddhist dialectic. Man says the world is 'this,' or 'that,' which entraps us in the web of mind. Buddha says, world is beyond differention. Instead of taking sides in an argument, one must 'explode the argument' with paradox, with silly, baffling, koans.

The unity of all things is beyond mind; meditation, contemplation brings one back into the body, which frees us.

Watched the first hour of Jean Luc Godard's 'In Praise of Love,' last night, (we paused the DVD, and walked to the beach to see fireworks exploding over the dark, calm water). Two lines from the movie still with me: 'the question is not whether humans will survive, but whether they deserve to survive.' Also, 'what if the truth turns out to be sad?'

The calm after the storm. A flurry of activity: set building all week and a casting call yesterday. A new play: starting from ground zero.

The process is daunting; the play is a difficult child; we need to find talented, committed actors willing to 'let it rip.' Casting is a leap into the unknown.

The process is so all-consuming; there's nothing like the kick of a tight group dedicated to the same vision.

The group dynamic is everything. We need to create a space of 'trust and play.' Can we take it to another level? A full, complete, commitment to create a sublime, shimmering mirage.

Buddhism filtered through the Trappist Monk, Thomas Merton... 'the goal of a life is to go from innocence to experience, and back to innocence once again.'

Experience means: sin, diappointment, failure. Innocence means: no bitterness, no regret, no guilt.

Marlon Brando has died. Strangely, no emotion when I heard the news. He was 80 years old, he made 'old bones,' one can't ask for more.

I did not know the man, only the work --- one role, one movie changed my perception of the world --- Paul in 'Last Tango in Paris.' Paul was an ex-boxer, ex-bongo player, the role seemed the closest to the man: intelligent, funny, full of life, smouldering, in pain, fully human, all the flaws close to the surface.

The movie: stylish, beautiful, primal -- exploring sex, lonliness, death. Strangely exhilarating, liberating, tragic. I think it was the last time (1973) Brando totally exposed himself for his art.

In his later years, Brando became a reclusive, fat, Buddha Baby. Graceful, silly. He seemed to give up his sexuality and in the process he became an impossibly large, dainty old woman; strangely beautiful and sad.

When death came knocking at his door, did Brando send an Indian in his place to collect his statuette?

Lennon's line in my head this morning: 'living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.'

And what do you see with eyes wide open?

Today: American spacecraft 'probes' the Rings of Saturn.

Yesterday: Riding a wave of exhaustion, coming home on the Purple Line (Purple is creative energy). City throbbing with heat and activity; Cub fans with their little blue caps (Blue is Certainty), commuters in their business garb, young men and women, in their uniforms of summer (I wish they were all California Girls).

So tired (long hard run in the morning, painting walls all day, juggling phone calls in between), so empty, waves of energy wash over me. Physical exhaustion is better than the mental kind; a clean, peaceful, detachment.

Get home, let the birds out from their cage, give them some bread and lettuce, I take a long, hot soak in the bathtub, wash away the dirt, the sweat, the paint-drops on my arms and hands. Sit on the back porch and watch the big, red sun slowly sink into darkness.