I feel like I remember this from somewhere. Some artist or painting or sculpture. I find it disturbing. Maybe it's a comment on people wearing masks. People putting up a front or facade. But at the same time their inner self, their real self is always below. Struggling in one or another to be free. To be seen. To be heard. To take over. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Do we put up barriers so we can interact with people, to be safe, or do we put them up to conform, to play by the rules, to be 'normal'. Or is it simply that most of us don't really know ourselves all that well. We hide something we don't really understand.
"The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask." -Jim Morrison
"At the innermost core of all loneliness is a deep and powerful yearning for union with one's lost self." -Brendan Francis
Jim is leaving with Kate for LA tomorrow. His roast was this past Tuesday which was really fun. It was nice, after a couple of actual roast/burn jokes each person said something really sweet about Jim. He will be missed.
I've watched Jim and Craig perform in Middle Age Comeback since I started taking classes at iO, pretty much for their entire run. I learned a lot from just watching Jim. A lot of their best shows were narrative driven which seemed to be something Jim really liked. Two shows stick out in my mind. One was a show where Jim played Dale McFaddin a founding father that time forgot. Craig and Jim jumped from the past to the present and created this really fun story about this forgotten historical character. The other show the suggestion was 'Late For Work'. Jim and Craig were two friends late for work and the entire show was them trying to race there. They cut periodically to Jim as their boss with Craig as his assistant. Both were great shows with clear narratives something I didn't really know how to do but came to from watching them.
In a way Jim also taught me performance integrity. I was at a couple shows where he threw people out. Drunk people, people being disruptive or rude. He had now tolerance for it. He would stop the piece in mid-scene chastise the person and wait for them to be completely out of the building before continuing, without missing a beat. It was something that really inspired me in an odd way. If at iO I'm not being paid, I'm doing it for the love of improv so I really don't have to put up with anything I don't want to. I have the power, that was a great realization.
Jim was also a great director for HouseCo. He gave me the confidence to trust my sketch ideas and develop them, he clarified my ambiguous ideas and showed me how that could be done. He was always articulate and clear and honest with his feedback. Putting up 'Call Of The Riled' taught me a lot because it was directed by Jim. Even though we didn't talk a whole lot I'll miss him. He was always a good guy to be around because he was free and passionate about his ideas. I'll take an angry guy over an apathetic guy any day of the week.
This is a video Ted made for Jim's roast. It's scenes from various Middle Age Comeback shows.
Craig turned me onto this series a while back by F. Paul Wilson called Repairman Jack. I just finished up the series which I loved and will go into more detail on in a later post. We talked about it a couple days ago.
Me: He wrote himself into the books. Stephen King did that too in the Dark Tower books.
Craig: Yeah, it's weird.
Me: I always wonder, I know it's not real, it's fiction. But I always wonder maybe on some secret level some part is true. Or these authors that are writing these type of books, they're aware of this bigger struggle going on. Subconsciously or something. Good and evil. They write themselves in, because maybe they doubt that they just made it up. You know?
Craig: I want to know where the stories come from. That's what always gets me. (pause) Where do stories come from?
Do stories exist somewhere in the ether and authors or people just get a hold of them? Find them, temper them out, put them down on paper? Some stories I think that's true. Some stories have been repeated in different ways for hundreds of years. Is it something we as humans all have in common? Something we're all tapped into, have a desire to hear, have some sixth sense about?
Sometimes when I improvise or write I feel like I'm doing archetypal scenes or maybe creating something that's already happened. I'm writing a scene that someone has lived that I don't know on some other country or in some other time. Some people say there are no new stories only different ways to tell the same story. Where does inspiration come from? What is it? Do we genuinely create or do we tap into some instinctual limitless group conscious? Sometimes when I'm reading, watching a play or movie, or looking at art I get the strangest sense of familiarity. Of déjà vu.
I found this clip and I think it has the beginning of an answer.
I love the idea of the world being a river full of darting idea-fish.
Some days are easy. The sun is shining. I have plans with friends and there are good movies to see. On good days I'll have shows and meetings I like to go to. I'll sleep well, be energized and eat right. I'll have a clear head and easily be kind to others. Letting very little bother me. I'll give back, do right by others as well as myself. I'll be patient.
Other days are hard. It's gloomy. I've stayed up late and slept most of the day light away. I'll be drowsy, irritable, or frazzled. I'll stay at home most of the day trapped in my own head. I'll drink too much coffee and chain smoke cigarettes. I'll get stuck in a depressing book and be unable to pull myself out of it. I'll watch a whole season of a show on my computer. I'll ignore calls or get calls from friends who are back out there. I'll react in an unpleasant manner to my family or friends. I'll lack compassion. I'll stay hungry and let the hunger turn to discontent. I'll leave my bike locked up and take a cab if I need to go somewhere. I'll eat out. I'll eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting. I'll be uninspired and let my thoughts churn themselves into a doubting lethargy.
Most days are good. I'm under no illusions all days will be like that. When I have bad days, days where I struggle, I realize those are the days I need to rely on other people, on being healthy, on staying active. We all have bad days, we all have tragedies in our lives big and small. It's inevitable, no one has a perfect life, a life safe from strife. But all things can be handled, can be mourned, and gotten through. All it takes is a clear head, a full heart, and the willingness to move forward.
I feel like I'm really living for the first time in a long time. And it feels good. The ups and downs, the pain and the joy.
Every time I cry, I have this thought... It's not really real, but in my brain I say that I wonder if this is the last time I cry. I then tell myself "probably not" and I wonder when the next time I cry is going to be. If it's going to be because I hurt myself, or because someone I love has died. I wonder if it'll be because my heart got broken. Or maybe it's just because of a movie. I wonder if I'll lose a family heirloom or if I'll hear a song from a time when things felt better.
And then I get this hope that I'll never cry again. That this is the last time I will ever be sad. And the hope is so strong and it almost becomes a real thing.
And then the dread sets in. The dread of knowing that of course this isn't the last time I'm going to cry. That a lot of the things that make me happy right now, at some point, will go away. And when they do I'll mourn them and I'll cry. And I have known only a fraction of the pain I will know. Of the humiliations I will suffer. Of the betrayals and the let downs and missed opportunities. I have so much more crying to do. And I don't want to do it.
To calm itself, my brain just makes it a math problem. I wager at how many times the average human cries in a year. How many years I'm likely to live... How age and other demographicy things might affect the amount of crying.... yadda yadda.
If it's numbers it's removed and numbers don't make me cry... Well, not anymore.
I assume I have a lot of cries to go before I die.
'Dredd' is a movie based on the British comic book character Judge Dredd. The movie takes place in a future plagued by radiation from nuclear fall out. The entire Eastern seaboard is one large enclosed city. The peace is kept by 'Judges' who combine the police and the judicial system. The movie opens on Dredd(Karl Urban) apprehending some criminals. He goes back to head quarters and gets a trainee Judge(Olivia Thirlby) to asses on his next call. Their next call comes from a slum-high-rise building ruled over by a scarred drug lord(Lena Headey).
'Dredd' is a great simple action movie. Not a lot of frills but good solid action, a simple engaging plot, and great casting. The wonder drug being produced by Headey's character is 'Slow-Mo' which tricks the brain into thinking time is passing at a fraction of its normal speed. The shots of this effect are super cool especially in 3D. Headey's character Ma-Ma is stunningly grotesque, ruthless, and watchable. Thirlby as a psychic trainee is eager, competent, and never falls into a trap of being a victim(which is needless to say refreshing).
Urban's Dredd at first gave me a little pause because his scowl is a little over the top. But as the movie progressed I was totally won over. Unlike Stallones portrayal we never see Urban's face. He has no love interest(also refreshing), he has no exposition, there is no real implication that he is a particularly special Judge. We find out he is through the course of the film. Urban plays it controlled, righteous, and calculating. He never loses his temper and is ready to do what is necessary at any given moment. You get the sense under all the bluster that the character is genuinely only concerned about one thing: the Law.
I sit and appreciate the sun
soaking in it's momentary warmth.
I look up and see a streak of white
cutting the perfect blue in two.
A trail of speed
a path of intent
propelling me into the day.
With hope
eagerness
and momentum.
