What the #RunCM2014 Marathon Taught Me -

Hey.

So, some of you know that I'm an actor in New York City. One of my friends from college, Winnie Lok, started a theatre company with polymath Ryan McCurdy called  FACING PAGE PRODUCTIONS.  It's a way to create new theatrical experiences from classical works. I took part in their inaugural production of 2012's NO FEAR SHAKESPEARE'S RICHARD III.

The Company's Marathon was passed down to Ryan and Winnie from Gordy Hoffman, who had began it in 1996. The first NY iteration took place in 2013, and I was honored to be a part of it, and read a few roles.

But this year, I wanted to give more. Along with donating to the Marathon's Kickstarter, I chose to volunteer for two overnight shifts for the marathon, as well as schedule in more chances to read. And, with that, I tapped into far greater insights about the experience that I'd ever gleamed from a theatrical confluence.

So, what's the Company's Marathon?  Shortly put, it's a complete reading of all of Shakespeare's plays, one right after the other for a period of no more than 86 hours. The play order is chosen year to year; this year it was bestowed upon Kate Mulgrew, and I admired her choices. Romeo and Juliet for the start. Winter's Tale for the end. The Henry's in the dead of night, for the hard-core enthusiasts.  

Here's what I learned: about me, about Shakespeare, about my friends. Here's what the #RunCM2014 taught me:

 -Those first moments back feel like summer camp.  That hour before the first play is read, sipping drinks and making small talk with folks you remember reading with the year before. Meeting new people and discovering how they're connected with Winnie/Ryan/Rachel or just heard about the marathon.  People who just love Shakespeare. Feeling old crushes flame up again like carpet fibers striking up against your flinty little heart.  But you promised yourself the time for crushes in your life was over. So you chat up the boyfriend architect. Ask him about cycling uphill. Listen. Smile. Press your teeth into the meat of your cheek and breathe. You talk to the other crush, as she pushes up her glasses tightly against her forehead and smiles, just politely.

 -Sure, reading one play or two plays in a row is commendable, but you don't show your stuff, your deep empathic, passionate, somewhat insane choices until you're on the third play in a row and you're reading Two Gentlemen of Verona with three people who apparently have already done the show before, and it's thrilling, trying to match their rhythms and meet that same level of humor and attention.

- A play marathon is a beast you can never climb entirely.  I'd check tweets and get giddy at the thought of others tackling late night/early morning works and thinking: man, I'd love to work with them in the next few days, and then getting to do so.

 -Sometimes, you're a sentimental fool, Jones. You say you swear off crushes, but you ask for a phone number, are politely and correctly shut down, and you sleep until it stops hurting.  You're a thirty five year old man.  This is not your role. You should know this.

- A marathon does not oblige stalled or delayed trains. If it's just you and it's time to Julius Caesar, you read Julius Caesar by yourself.  So I did, for about thirty-five minutes.  Then, my Brutus and some others arrived and we had ourselves some fun.

- I am not special. I am one of a million voices in this city who makes things and speaks things. Some of these people get paid. Some get lauded. 

-By that same token, despite my deep issues with how I look, my own mental-esteem, this place, this world is exactly where I belong. 

-In the future, one should not simply bring a 16 oz bottle of coke, some water, and a can of pringles when one plans to read overnight for over 16 hours.

- Verse madness is a real thing. Ryan McCurdy and I felt it with Coriolanus. Especially while reading it as a two person play.  We started rapping at one point,. then playing Simon with dialect choices until Hannah Gold graciously stepped in to bring it to a three person affair.

- Making up Act songs for Gower for Pericles is the stuff of barking madness.  And I write songs.  

- The more I listen to and watch the Tempest, the more I hate it. It's just a broken, evil play. It almost makes more sense if it's the syphilitic hallucinations of King Lear just after Cordelia is hung but before everyone rushes in. 

- When I told you how my name is pronounced and you told me that you didn't know the architect's actual name until three months into your thing, you know I repeated the mnemonic. I want to be remembered.

- Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was the moment, maybe it was just how awesome the actor (Joe Raik) playing Edgar was( since we were doing this on our feet), but by the time he takes me( The Earl of Gloucester) to the cliffs to jump, I started to weep. Easily weep. Same with meeting up with Lear.  Just an unexpected series of moments.

-Laura Hill shook me awake with her beautiful approach to Cleopatra. I was honored to get to read with her.

- As Kris Pearce and his group took the stage to read Shrew, and as Winnie took an hour to sleep, I took my daily injection, swallowed a pill, sipped some water, and got to see the beginner's marathon mind all over again. It was infectious. The way people make the horn sounds when Alarums are indicated or stamp their feet as footsteps are noted. Or how people act whole pages opposite themselves.  It was glorious.

- I didn't know if I had it in me to pull off Winter's Tale, but somehow, I did King Leontes, the bear, The Shepherd, Autocyclus, and got to do with Rachel, Winnie, and at the end, Ryan. A perfect, fitting end.

TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT POEM - Ideation, Intercourse

Hey.

I'm gonna start making this a weekly project. It just fascinates the hell out of me. Turning these sordid texts into beautiful, sad, compelling narratives.

Doing this one early. Pulling an all-nighter for Facing Page Productions' last night of their Company Marathon 2014 - an 86 hour reading of all of Shakespeare's plays.

Here you go:

(603):

What guy invites over a booty call, gets all naked and then when the real fun begins and a condom is needed, claims to not have one? And wears socks THE entire time?

It was 4am. You called.

Ricochet grunts and pheromones.

I was up. Thinking about the notes I’d write,

Who’d receive the hand made chess set.

The cost of cremation, if I had enough on my credit card.

A hotel night’s stay.  Somewhere cheap.

Not here.

That wouldn’t be polite.

The room, it was already bare.

A bed. A weathered single-use desk.

Multi-vitamins, pills.

I snapped to focus,

Held myself, and for a second,

Thought having you close might  -

-         you just might smell the smoke.

But instead, we were angry, unsatisfied

Wires. Twisting and shredding each other,

Like lovesick falcons in flight. You were coming down

And could not discern my sad, striped socks,

My foolish fumblings for a condom I knew I didn’t have.

Patience had ended. Standing up,

 You slapped me with a hand full of rings. Hard. Next came

 Hand-crafted invective.  Rushing

To clothe yourself again, you reminded me

I could never guide you to tremors through touch,

Or taste. I was an ugly, worthless lover. Your only hope

Was to jump on, shut your eyes, and speed along.

All through this, I said nothing. You were clear,

You knew my human frailties. You saw me.

You dressed, left through the bedroom window,

And I began to write.

Texts from Last Night Poems - Affair, Aging

Hey.

Here's a fun creative project I've just started.

Go to www.textsfromlastnight.com .  Pick a random text.
Then, write a one page poem max which captures the events leading up to the text in question.

Here's my sample:

(323)

He said we were over, wrote my name on the condom he left in my car last night and said he’d always keep it in case I came back. It was kind of romantic.

It was dark.

That pungent sort of night

Where the Santa Monica Pier

And the hammer of fog mix together.

He tended bar in a velvet jacket, disinterestedly. Sniffing the air

Way a cow predicts rain.

Locked eyes onto my faded yellow dress,

And handed me a glass of scotch, neat.

Same as the past thirty-seven days.

A grey hair, his. First one, than another,

As if agreed upon in a death pact,

Fluttered onto the glass.

But he was twenty-three, he was defiant

That he was twenty three.

Even when I held him naked and unaware

And spied that sunken cradle of bone between

His ribs.

This, this was all ritual and reinforced,

Maintained without desire.

Kissing my sleeping husband,

A book in hand for a club which didn’t exist.

The black Jetta, steering me west,

The bar.

And him.

He wrenched his sad stare into

Something which passed for lust,

Removed the towel from his shoulder,

Pointed to my car.

Muscle memory, rehearsed, repeated.

And, as he opened up my dress,

Pecked my skin with cold, brittle lips,

I cupped his face,

Asked him: How old are you?

And at that very question,

The spell, the weave of brief fulfillment,

It was gone. We knew it.