The Week We Changed Everything

Hundreds of people I know and love share a dream. In the next seven days, it starts coming true.

 

Since I came from New York to work at Actors' Guild of Lexington in 1995, many of us have dreamed about that elusive next level: a real professional theatre for adult audiences. Over the ensuing years, artists and producers have tried and failed to make that dream a lasting reality. A stream of talent flowed to other cities for opportunities that our town could not offer. Many who remained came to doubt that Lexington would ever support a local professional company. Seven days from now, we won't need those doubts any longer. 

The Lexington Theatre Company has assembled a company of national and regional professional artists, and blended them with local singers, dancers, designers, and actors to produce 42nd STREET: a classic American musical about hope, hard work, and the way a big enough dream can change everything. I didn't think they could do it. I didn't think I could be a part of it. 

I have never been prouder of being wrong. 

When a friend told me about auditions, I dismissed the idea. "They are seeing people all over the country. They won't cast anyone from here." I said I didn't want to be a bit player to a bunch of put of town ringers. But the truth was, after all these years as a big fish in a small pond, I didn't believe I had the chops to hang with real pros. I was wrong about them, and about myself.

I was invited to audition for a supporting role, after the nationwide search didn't produce anyone the director liked for the part. She gave me a fair hearing; I showed my best stuff, and I got the call later that day. Pre-production was as well organized as any I was associated with in New York. When the cast list came out, I realized I would be on stage with people I had only read about. I arrived at the first rehearsal in a kind of fearful awe. But as I looked around the room I saw other familiar, less famous faces. Performers I had watched grow up at SCAPA. Designers whose sets I had built and whose lights I had played under. A stage manager I first met in the heat of the June sun at the Arboretum. And a director who had grown up in Lexington, paid her dues in regional theaters, and climbed all the way to the Broadway stage before bringing her talented husband and their dream back to her home town. 

Our home town. 

These weren't carpetbaggers. These were Kentucky producers who believed that our city, our artists, and our audiences were ready to work with the pros. And guess what? They were right. 

I have spent the past week sitting on the house slack-jawed as nationally known performers crafted their roles. And right beside them, Kentucky's own were dancing, singing, earning laughs, and perfecting stage fights. These young people are learning lessons about the profession that they will never forget.  I know they are, because I am. 

Our theatre community has the opportunity of a lifetime here. We have so many smart, talented, hard-working people. There is no question about our passion or our willingness to sacrifice. What we lack is a true flagship organization: a locally grown leader that can put us on the map, and help point the way toward making our city a professional home for all kinds of artists. 

Look, I'm not a glamorous actor. I have always preferred grit to glitter and substance to spectacle. I know I'm not going to make my living as a song-and-dance man in Broadway musicals. I'm an Off-Broadway kind of guy. But I also know that you can't have Off-Broadway without Broadway. 

The people who make theatre in Lexington are my family. And I believe my family needs this company to succeed. I hope you will support the LEX however you can. I hope you see the show. I hope you talk it up. I hope you share this post. And I hope that 20 years from now, I will remember this week with pride and say, "That was the moment that this city decided to go for the brass ring. And together, we changed everything."

Click here to learn more about the show, the company, and ways you can buy tickets to be there when we take our first step together.

#364: Weekend to Remember, My Precious

This weekend was good, bad, and ugly, but it had a happy ending. I love when that happens.

Friday's Resistance Workout: New Rules Break-in (B)

Exercise	Sets	Reps	Weight
Deadlift	2	15	135
Lat Pull-down	2	15	170
Shoulder Press (machine)	2	15	30
Step ups (Db)	2	15	20
Reverse Crunches	2	15	30

HTML Tables
Friday night, I went to the Y to do some resistance work. I have decided to take another shot at the New Rules of Lifting program, and had a workout scheduled for that day. Now that I can finally do a modified push-up and a lunge, I can take the program on.  I did forget my lifting gloves for the deadlifts, but I just slipped my wedding ring off and stuck it deep in the pocket of my shorts.My increased strength is just one more reason I have to thank the folks at LIVESTRONG  at the YMCA. I finished off with a short swim. That's becoming my favorite cool-down. I think it's helping to strengthen my upper body as well, though I'm still very slow.

Rainbow by Lisa Broome-Price

Saturday morning started early with a pre-dawn drive to the lovely little railroad town of Midway KY where I joined John's Striders for a 14 mile jaunt through the Bluegrass. I've been shy about running with a group because I'm so slow, but  on this trip I fell in with a couple of runners whose pace I could match for most of the way. We ran and chatted along through the sunrise and the morning mist. There was even a rainbow to greet us after the first turnaround. I know I've said it before, but I do love my Kentucky home.

After our run, I managed to drive home and crash on the couch for a couple of hours. I find that running gives me more energy, but it often takes a couple of hours to kick in. I also found a nasty blister on the end of one of my toes. I'll spare you the photos.  I got some good advice on Facebook about how to prevent these particular little buggers, and I'll keep you updated as I work my way up the ladder of solutions from cheapest to most expensive.

After my nap, Mrs P and I spent some play time with the dogs, then we dressed and went to the theatre to see The Blithe Spirt at the Woodford County Theatre. We want to see lots of theatre these days, and the budget is tight, so we've been volunteering to usher. It's a great way to get in for free, it isn't much work, and it also helps the company out by helping to welcome patrons and cleaning up after the show. The play was charming with several fine performances, but during the first intermission, Mrs P leaned over and asked, "Where's your wedding ring?" I remembered taking it off, but didn't remember putting it back on. No worries. I was sure it would be in the washing machine where I threw my clothes as soon as I got home from my workout. After the play, we stopped at the Waffle House. This has become one of our rituals when we drive out to Woodford, and the guys always take good care of us.

When we got home, we started going through pockets. No ring. I rattled the washing machine. Nope. Checked the car. Dumped out the gym bag. Searched the rack on the porch where I leave my shoes to dry. Damn. It must have fallen out during my workout. I resolved to be at the gym at noon to retrace my steps.

The search and a couple of insomniac dogs kept us up pretty late, and we slept through the alarms for church. I got up and went to the store for milk and bagels while Mrs P made coffee. After our breakfast, we had another nice chat, (the weekend really is our catching up time,) then I called the Y. The lady at the front desk found a ring in the lost and found right away, but it wasn't mine. Some other poor schmuck lost his wedding ring at the gym. You might think knowing I wasn't the only idiot in the weight room would give me some comfort, but no. Marilyn promised to give the place another once-over, and we got in the car and drove over to join the search. I re-traced my whole workout, even searched the locker I had used. Nothing. Somebody must have picked it up. It was gone. I felt like a total heel. Mrs P was very understanding about it, but that didn't make me feel any better, either.

Weisenberger Mills. This picture
doesn't begin to do it justice.

Since it was such a pretty afternoon, we took a drive out to Midway. I wanted to show her the beautiful route we had run, and  maybe calm down a little about this really bad situation. We drove past the beautiful Weisenberger Mills where grains are still milled with water-driven stones. it's like a scene out of a Merchant-Ivory film. Just breathtaking. After a few more twists an turns through the Kentucky sunshine, we headed home for a snack and some chores. I had a few more snacks than I should have. Guilt eating: one of my favorite forms of self-destruction.Then it was time for the Steelers.

Mrs P always makes plans to occupy herself when the Steelers are on. She knows I won't be of any use at all, and football just doesn't do it for her. The game was terrible. My boys stunk up the joint and at half-time, they looked determined to lose. I sat despondent, sipping an O'Douls, (Mrs P says they taste like beer flavored pop,) when my sweetheart walked into the den with a smile on her face. "With this ring, I thee wed," she beamed and slipped the gold band back on my finger. She found it in the first place I had looked: the washing machine. I had warned her to use one of the mesh, lingerie bags when she washed her dainties. She couldn't find it, so she ignored my good advice. The ring got caught up on one of the hooks of her unmentionables. A happy ending. Suddenly it didn't matter so much that the Black and Gold were looking black and blue, and my craving for sweets went away immediately. They even managed to pull the game out with a last-minute field goal.

And to top it all off, One for the Five went over $2000 this weekend. I am so proud of my brother and sister cancer fighters for the support they are giving to this effort. $2000 will make a real difference to some cancer patient. And this is just the beginning. There's less than a month left to contribute. If you haven't joined us yet, use this link to learn the story and pitch in.

My Precious

There's a short recovery run on the schedule for today. I'll probably knock it out before class at the Y. But first, I'll be taping my ring to my finger. It's not coming off again for a long, long time.

Peace,
Pennsy

#352: First Comes the Word...

It's a quiet end to a quiet day. The first of either in a while. Time to reflect on my first love.

Some things, you just don't talk about

There are rules in the theatre. You don't whistle back stage or sing in the dressing room. You don't quote the Scottish Play unless you're producing it. You don't criticize your leading lady in public. You don't make your dresser mad. And you don't gossip about what goes on in rehearsals.

It isn't easy to write about preparing a play. At least not publicly. There is a special kind of trust that you have to have in a rehearsal hall. You need to know that you can try something that fails miserably, and not have a bunch of strangers read about it on the internet the next morning. I've often thought about blogging about the process, but this unwritten code always stops me. For the next couple weeks, I'm going to try to open up this part of my life with the gentle respect I feel it deserves. No griping about the director. No gossip about my fellow actors. But I've shared so much of my life here. I don't want to leave my art out of the mix.

I spent most of the day doing character analysis for my next role. I'm playing Arthur, a husband and dad whose heart and mind have been broken by the events of 9/11. As I fall apart, my family falls apart around me until one day when an unlikely teen-aged deliverer walks through the door dressed as Elvis. It's a beautiful, insane, very funny, and I hope very moving story. Nice to spend a few hours doing the kind of work I love, busting a script down into little pieces, scattering them on the floor, and looking for the patterns. I love this part of building a character. It's all about the words.

If a script is a body, the verbs are the muscles. A few nights ago, while sitting backstage at the Arboretum waiting for Richard III to go up, I was pouring over my script when I felt one of the younger actors peeking over my shoulder. "You've underlined some words. Why?" The first thing I do when I start a new script is to get a pencil and a highliter. I highlight my lines so I can find them through my ever dimming eyes during early rehearsals when we're still "on book," walking around carrying our scripts. Then I take my pencil and I underline all the verbs. All of them. They are the action in the language of the play. The verbs keep the story driving forward and the characters moving toward their individual climaxes. Ideally, I have this done before the first table read-through. I never want to read the script without the lens of action before me.

I once worked for a director who was obsessed with "The Three Lists." He had played with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He taught me so much about acting that when I direct, I often find myself repeating his catch-phrases and affecting his accent. He was a maniac about the three lists. After the first read-through, we were expected to have them written and be ready to read them, line by line, out loud.

1.) Everything I say about myself;
2.) Everything others say about me.
3.) Everything I say about others.

I'll bet I haven't played five roles as a professional without doing this work. It is a tedious, hand cramping chore, and it reveals more about a character than any other technique I know. Today, I dug into Arthur's words about himself and learned quite a few things. He says he's sorry a lot. He talks only about himself for quite a while. He makes promises. He makes excuses. He is tired all the time, especially when asked to do something. He says "I don't know" over and over. He hasn't eaten or slept or changed out of his pajamas for a long time. He wonders about what things mean. You start to see patterns when you look at a character this way. Why does he always ask, "What time is it," when he wakes up? What makes him say that he's hungry for the first time? What changed that enabled him to say, "She hates me," or "Take me back," or "I love you so much. Both of you." These are the questions that you use to start filling in the heart and soul of a character, and they all come out of the words that the playwright chose.

Acting is a lot more than just literary analysis. Playing a role is more than just learning the words. But the words come first. Knowing what they mean. Knowing how they're put together. Knowing what the playwright tried to tell you about this person by choosing the vocabulary, phrasing, and thought patterns that are on the page in front of you. A good actor needs a good mind, but you can't just think about a role. You have to have a voice. You have to have a flexible, well conditioned body. You have to have emotional tools and a sense of timing, talent, and taste. You can't really be an actor without all of that.

But first, comes the word...

Peace,
Pennsy

#299: The Loves of My Life

Some days, the gym is like church: you don't feel like going, but you're always glad you did when it's all over. I'm just not feeling it today. There's a part of me that's purring, "Just take the day off," and I'm thinking I may succumb.

It isn't that I feel like quitting or anything. I love the work and I'm seeing results inside and out. I'm not even particularly depressed or sad or even tired. So OK, I did make myself a rubbery omelet this morning and it isn't sitting very lightly in my belly, but I think that should settle down by 1:00 or so. I'm not sore. Not discourage. None of my usual excuses apply. I just feel like hanging out at home today. I think I'm cool with that. Besides, Mrs P has a "honey-do" list for me on Saturday, and I'm thinking I might should rest up a little before that.

My Bride and I have a date tonight. Well, sort of. We're going to the theatre with a bunch of friends from the play I'm rehearsing right now. They are a super bunch of actors and men and I know we'll enjoy our evening together. I've been loving the rehearsals. We're playing Glengarry Glen Ross and it is one of the most remarkable casts I've ever been a part of. It isn't just that everyone is good, (which they are,) it's that they're so confident. They are a shockingly secure and mentally stable group of actors. I mean, usually, when you get three actors together, at least one of us is stone crazy. I'm sure there are nuts in this cast, but if they are, they don't bring it to work with them.

The whole time I was sick, I kept thinking, "If I live through this, I'm going to act again." That hope helped get me through the drugs and the radiation and the surgeries and the puking. It's the reason that the first thing I asked when my CT scan was clear was, "When can I get my teeth?" Working on the reading in January was great, and just what I needed to prove to myself that they hadn't cooked away my acting chops with all that medical poison, but now it's time to stretch my wings a little more. God has given me the chance to be an actor again. I'm not going to miss it.

When I told my therapist, Mike that I was struggling in the early rehearsals, he asked me to tell him about my character. I started to describe him, and Mike's eyes got a little wider. "You aren't doing Glengarry Glen Ross,  are you?" See, my character, Shelly Levene, is a faltering salesman in late middle age with a severe bout of depression and a desperate need to be saved. Sound like any Pennsyltuckians you know? After taking a minute to digest the ironic terror of the thing, Mike said he thought that the journey might be good for me. It's funny, but I look at it just the other way. People who don't act always seem to assume that we do this for therapy. I guess there's some truth to that, but from my perspective, my personal demons are there to serve the play. I'm always looking for ways my madness can help the character, not the other way around. Maybe this is why I find it so noteworthy that everyone seems so sane. 'Cause these characters are indisputably nuts. All that loonyness is coming from somewhere, but it's being channeled productively and I like being around it.

Mty Wife and my Art. The two great loves of my life. The reasons I decided to try and live through cancer. I feel immersed in them right now, and I have to tell you... it's great to be alive.

And just a little bit crazy.

Peace,

Pennsy

#296: Back to the Weight Room

James Harrison also likes throwing dumbbells around.
Especially when they're from Green Bay...

One of the things I like about working out with dumbbells is the versatility they offer. you can slip easily from one exercise to another, even combining them into a single move. This allows you to make your sets last longer, and increases the cardio benefit as well. It's a very efficient way of strength training.

I resumed weight work today with a routine of my own design. I'm just not ready for the stuff in the books yet. I need to work my way up to even the beginner level. Till then, I'm doing what I can. I did 3 sets of 10 reps of each exercise with 30 second breaks between sets. I started standing up with two 15 lb dumbbells. Holding one in each hand, the combination was a squat into a curl into an overhead press. Then reverse the three movements back down to the bottom of the squat. That's one rep. These went smoothly

The next combination was on the bench in a prone position, again with a 15 lb dumbbell in each hand. I started with both weights at my chest, pressed them up, lowered them to the sides for a fly, then raised them back up. Finally, I lowered them together up over my head and then back up for a dumbbell pullover. Returning them to my chest counts as one rep.

Then the machines. I'm not a fan of the leg press, but my hips really needed the work after yesterday's run and I felt a little unsteady about doing heavier squats or deadlifts. I put 140 lbs on the machine, and pressed the foot rest all the way out. At maximum leg extension, I pointed my toes, pushing the weight just a little farther, and giving my calves some extra work. I did this combination leg-press, toe lift in three sets of ten reps, again with short 30 second rests between.

I decided to forgo woodchoppers today, I don't remember why. Instead, I did three sets of lat pull-downs on the cable machine. Tried to start at 100 lbs, but I could tell after the second rep that I wasn't going to make it. The last set at 75 was tough, but I grunted a little harder and pulled them all.

I woke up with that same old hip pain that I experienced back in December. I was determined not to let it stop me today. I warmed up with an easy walk on the treadmill, then did my workout followed by a gentle walk around the track a couple of times. When I was finished, I was a little wobbly, but not nearly as sore as when I started. When I got home, Mrs P helped me to stretch my legs a little and that helped too. I've never been one of those "No Pain, No Gain" guys, but this time it turned out that working through it was just what I needed to do. I may know more in the morning.

We had a good rehearsal today. I'm working on a production of Glengarry Glen Ross with Actors' Guild of Lexington. We ran through Act 2 today and it went more smoothly than I expected. I know about 35% of my lines which is way behind where I want to be, but not a crisis yet. As we spend less time looking at the page, we start paying more attention to one another and there are moments where you can see the play start to emerge. This is one of the great joys of making theatre and I was so grateful to be able to be there.

The day wound up at church, performing in a murder-mystery sketch for a dinner to raise money for a couple of very important local ministries. Mrs P and I both had roles. Much scenery was chewed by all.

By now, I'm pretty whipped. It's been a good day, filled with a bunch of the things and people I love. Now I'm going to try to sleep if I can, while visions of a seventh super bowl trophy dance in my head. Who knows? A little more time in the weight room and Coach Tomlin might even have a helmet for me.

Ah, what's life for if you can't dream a little?

Peace,

Pennsy

#231: My Body at War With Itself

Last night I was sick again. This thing is not giving up without a fight. I was actually angry as I hung over the bowl. "Get out, you bastard," I mumbled between heaves. "You're not going to beat me. Get out." Mrs P thought I was sending her away at first, then she realized I was talking to the cancer. Sure it's crazy, but so is sitting on the edge of the tub with somebody who is puking his guts out. We all have our little madnesses. That's as good a definition of love as any, I guess.

I definitely feel as if this is the hard part. My body is revolting against the treatment pretty violently. The nausea is worse than it's ever been, and it comes faster than the drugs can keep up. My skin is really charred looking. I use the lotion that they gave me, but still look more like a burned french fry around my neck and upper chest. The fatigue amazes me. I think I'm probably awake for about five hours a day. The radiation is taking its toll.

My consolation is that if I feel this bad, the cancer must feel a whole lot worse.

Back when we made my original treatment plan, my last chemo was scheduled for tomorrow. Mercifully, I've been spared that third date. The cisplatin on top of the radiation was too much for my bone marrow to handle. Thank God. From what I've read and from what Mrs P's brother is going through, I think chemo is much harder on the body than this radiation I'm getting. Those people are the real cancer warriors. I feel like I'm way behind the front lines compared to some of my friends who are getting weekly infusions. Weekly, for god's sake! I don't see how they can live through it.

Been quiet this morning. Mrs P has gone to church. No stomach churning for me today. So far. I know better than to try to  predict the future. Two big events to hope for this week. I want to get to the park to see RENT. I also want to see my last radiation treatment on Thursday. The weather forecast is threatening all week, but that's typical late July weather in the Bluegrass. I'm just hoping for those late night storms that always make sleeping so pleasant. That will keep things cool and let the cast play their hearts out without worrying about the rain. Weather won't affect my treatments so much, though I'm always soaked with sweat when it's a rainy morning. I don't know if it's the humidity or if the damp just starts a kind of wicking effect in my skin. I know it's kind of ookey when I lift my bald head up from the plastic pillow block and it pops off with that wet sucking sound.

I have spoken with Jake about hacking into my blogger account. I've told him it's OK for him to write, but that he just needs to ask me first. I have a feeling his mamma may have helped him, but he is too loyal to narc her out. I can respect that.

Peace,
pennsy

#228: What Keeps Your Heart Beating?

I finished Lance Armstrong's book today. It's given me a lot to think about. What is the purpose of cancer? How will it change me? What will I do with the rest of my life, once this part of the battle is over? Maybe more important than any of those, how do I hold on to what really matters, now that I've been given a second chance at life?

This is all a little premature, I guess. I do have four more radiation treatments left, then a year before I can be declared "cancer free," but it does feel as if something is coming to a close in the next few days.

He used the phrase "cancer fighter" to describe first a little child he met, then himself. I like that. I will fight the cancer in me, and I have an obligation to the people who come after me to fight for them, too. Maybe that will mean raising money. Maybe giving motivational speeches or rides to the grocery store. But somehow, I need to repay the kindness that has been shown me - the kindness that has saved my life.

There are two things in my life that I love more than anything - my wife and the theatre. I have devoted far too much of myself to other things in the past few years. Things I guess I thought I should. Being good at jobs. Being a good provider. Being a good Christian. Now I look back, I'm not sure what any of those things means. I know I want to love my wife, and I want to make theatre. That's who I really am, and it's probably the best way to do all those other things, too.

The thing is, Lance Armstrong's journey back to life is still going on, even after all those Tour victories, all these years. My own journey back is just beginning. I know now that it will never be over. No matter what the CT scans say. No matter if I spend the next twenty years cancer free or the next twenty weeks waiting to die, my journey goes on. So does yours. I know what it took to make me change course. I wish there were some way to convince folks that they don't have to wait for cancer to decide to start living. It took a death sentence to get my attention. The man gave me even odds that I would not live to be 55. I decided to take the bet. I decided to start living that day.

Will I succeed? Depends what you mean. If success means outliving that number, well yeah, I'm gonna do that. But that isn't really success, not to me. The question is will I be really alive for the rest of my days? No matter how many there are. That will be the test of my success. Every day that I'm as alive as I can be will be a success. That's how I'll know I've beaten cancer. Not just if my heart keeps beating, but why.

I did something that surprised me today. I dug out the resistance bands. It's pretty hot for walking, and my throat is pretty gummy for breathing hard, so I tried another way to move. I did some upper body exercises, curls and presses and things. Nothing strenuous. Just enough to get my heart pumping a little. Mrs P has pointed out that my weight is just about where it was when I was performing at my best back before I lost my job. I don't pretend that my fitness is back there yet. I can't squat my weight or run a 5K just yet, but I am a lot closer to the size I need to be than I was before I got sick. Who knows. Maybe it won't be long before Fat Man Running is an exercise blog again. That will be great.

But it won't be a blog about losing weight. It will be a blog about gaining life.

Just like it should have been all along.

Peace,

pennsy

#226: Keeping in Touch

Larry Neuzel is a legend in Lexington
theatre. His faithful lens has documented
nearly every performance in town for
decades and he captured this shot of
Ave and me before Merchant of Venice
rehearsal began.

The most wonderful thing has started happening. People are calling me with their good news. I took my usual after radiation nap this morning, and awoke to Jake breathing softly in my ear. Soon after, the phone rang. It was a dear friend calling to catch up and share some great news about a project she's working on. Not long after, another friend called to tell me about a job interview. Then I got an email from someone who got a job she's been looking for. Yet another call came in about some money that showed up so a pal could get the car fixed. Finally and old buddy called to update me on a high school theatre reunion that had lifted his spirits and helped to heal his soul.

It's great to get calls like these! I've always wanted to be the kind of person friends want to share good news with. Now people call me with good stories to help lift my spirits. What I'm realizing is that hearing good news is healing because of the joy I feel for my friends. They may think they're lifting my spirits, and they're right, but it is their joy that heals me.

I have always thought of myself as aloof, a strange man with a few close friends. Turns out I'm actually a strange man with a lot of friends. Some have taken my by surprise - people I would have never expected have become faithful in their contact and prayers for me. So grateful.

For other friends, it is harder. There are a lot of reasons why someone might have a hard time calling a friend with cancer. The disease has touched so many of our lives in so many ways. Parents lost. Lovers lost. Children. There are people who don't call whom I know love me, and it's OK. I understand. I wish I could call and say, "I know you're thinking of me and I remember when you lost your wife or your mom. I love you too. Just knowing how we feel is enough." I want to tell them that. But it's a little weird. Just want to let them know that we're OK and I want to get back in touch when all this is over. Maybe doing that will be the best way to say it.

Pride and Prejudice opens tonight in the park. I'm sorry that I won't get to see the second act, but I don't feel up to another late night just yet and my toothless cackling and hacking are not really crowd friendly. The show is going to be wonderful. Charming and graceful with magnificent costumes and career best performances from some actors I've known for a long time. I loved watching them work, so light and easy. It is a tribute to their director that even amid the discomfort of a rain delayed tech rehearsal, they were able to play with such joy. It was like watching a dance. If you are in Lexington this week, see it.

Peace,
pennsy

#225: Friends, Indeed

I've always thought of that old expression the other way. You know, "A friend in need is a friend indeed." I always understood it to mean that when someone needs something from you, they act like a true friend. I have a new way of looking at it. I'm realizing how many true friends I have now that I'm the one who needs something. My friend L came over to hang out today. We laughed. We played Scrabble. I slept. She made an origami box to entertain me. I'm sure she could have found a more pleasant way to spend her afternoon than listening to me wretch and watching me squirt milk shakes into my belly, but she spent it with me.

What led to L's visit was a change in a change in plans. A few days ago I posted on facebook that I needed a pennsy-sitter. Mrs P was planning on going out of town.Several wonderful friends volunteered and we were ready to coordinate the project. Over the weekend I had a couple of rough spells and Mrs P decided that she would stay home. Yesterday was a great day, and we agreed that I could handle her being away if we could get someone to stay with me for the day. I had already told everyone that I wouldn't be needing them, but one phone call to L and I had adult supervision for the whole day.

She showed up at 10:00, loaded down with laptop, Scrabble, even arts and crafts. She reminded me of the occupational therapy director at the nut house. We watched The Daily Show and Colbert Report, then played some games. By that time, I was pretty worn out, so I napped and she fussed around the house, dusting and washing up dishes and things. When I awoke, my meds were ready for me and my lunch was ready to squirt. In the afternoon, I slept some more while she read, then she offered to show me how to make a little paper box. It was silly and fun. Now, we're waiting for Mrs P to return home. L is typing emails and I'm chatting with you. It's been a nice day. A gift from a friend to a friend in need.

Yesterday, I called my friend D with some news. We are both following the progress of a theater that's being renovated here in town. I drive past on my way home from treatment. Yesterday I was excited to see a sign company crane hanging the new marquee, so I called D to tell her the news. She told me that she had been invited to see a dress rehearsal of the next play at SummerFest, Pride and Prejudice. She offered to go with me if I felt up to it. As I said, yesterday was a good one so we made plans. We had a wonderful time together, the play is charming and engaging, and Mrs P got a few more hours off from care giving.

Speaking of which... I just read the chapter in Lance Armstrong's book about how his relationship with his girlfriend ended once his chemo was over. I think I understand a little better now. Care giving is such a total task. The person with cancer is fighting something tangible, something inside them. The caregiver is fighting something more abstract. Something "out there." They are very different perspectives, but both demand great effort and focus. It is very easy for us to wear one another out. This is not uncommon among people who survive treatment together. It is not a path I want to imitate!

So giving my bride a respite from time to time is really important. I want her to be able to get away from this thing now and then. Maybe that means spending time with another friend or figuring out how to juggle all the mechanics of feeding myself. Maybe it means finding a friend indeed who's willing to spend a few hours watching me sleep. Whatever it means, I am so grateful to D and L for giving Mrs P the chance  to rest. And for all the laughter we've shared over the past two days.

I did learn something, though. Yes, I can feed myself quite sufficiently, thanks. I don't need Mrs P resting her hip against mine, watching as the plunger gently pushes nutrition into my stomach. I don't need her to wipe up the spilled drops or to pat my cheek when it's all finished. I don't need that. But I really miss it when it isn't there. All this time, I thought she was giving me dinner. Turns out that was the least of her gifts. I'm glad she got this rest, but I'm glad she's coming home, too.

Peace,
pennsy

#216: The Merchant of Venice

A difficult play done well is a joy to see. They don't come much tougher than Shakespeare's tale of revenge, race hatred, and love doubted, The Merchant of Venice. This post will be neither a review - which would be premature, since the play opens tonight - nor an explication of the texts, which I have no intention of working hard enough to write. Instead, I want to share some observations on the difficulties of bringing this complex and in many ways deeply unsatisfying script to the stage.

First, and most obvious is the problem of Shylock, the Jew. To our 21st century minds, the money lender's treatment is beyond horrific. While Shakespeare almost certainly intended the role to carry much of the villain's burden, the epithets and antisemitism of Venice make it very difficult to root against him. We don't want to see him win his bond, but at the same time, we hate to see him lose when the odds are so stacked against him from the start. It is hard to say how I would approach this matter as a Director. The Actor's job is a little easier. Still, making this powerful character believable in a world that renders him so very powerless is a daunting task.

Then there is the matter of Portia, another character of great energy and force whose circumstances compel her to play the weak woman. Portia's story comes in three chapters. First the contest of the caskets and her subsequent marriage. Then comes her courtroom scene, one of Shakespeare's most masterful "trousers roles." Finally, there is a reconciliation of sorts when the couples are reunited in Venice and the mystery of the rings is revealed. Like Shylock, Portia is trapped by the role in which life has cast her. Her father's chattel. Her gender's prisoner. But finally, her husband's master. The manipulation she uses to persuade Basanio to break his vow to keep her ring is hard, but not irresistible. That he is persuaded by his friends to do so reflects poorly on him, but doesn't really make Portia particularly lovable, either. Again, the Director has a mountain of a choice to make. Do we look for the comedy in the role reversals at the heart of Portia's story, or do we play her as a powerful woman struggling to keep some element of control of her world? The choice that is made may not be as important as the fact that a choice be made, and the audience not left to wonder.

Lastly there is the Merchant himself. Antonio is a melancholic fellow driven near distraction by his financial ruin and the weight of the bond he so recklessly makes with Shylock. Again, the antisemitism of the play becomes a major obstacle. We want to root for Antonio, but his treatment of the Jew is so repugnant, cursing him to his face, pulling his beard, spitting on his clothes. It is impossible to want to see this arrogant man be victorious. But Antonio is ultimately redeemed by his love for Bassanio. In his willingness to sacrifice his life for his friend, he wins just enough of our hearts to make us want to see him keep that pound of flesh that he has promised to give away.

In the end, no one really gets what they want out of The Merchant of Venice. Shylock loses his fortune and his daughter. Portia gains a husband, but loses her faith in him. And Antonio, who should come out smelling like a rose, is left with a strangely unsatisfying victory. He has saved his life and regained his treasure, but lost something that is harder to pin down. His honor? His manhood? His faith? Again, choices that are left to the Actor and Director. Shakespeare chooses to leave the audience hanging, just as his characters seem to be. Not even we are allowed the easy resolution we might hope for in a less challenging play.

I watched the final dress rehearsal of Merchant last night with Mrs P and our friend Tami. It was lovely to be in the park and just wonderful to be among "my people." There really are no people like show people. It was a joyful reunion for me. One I hope to repeat again and again as I get back up on my feet. In the meantime, if you're on your feet in Lexington this week, I encourage you to move them to the Arboretum to have a crack at a fine production of a play you are not likely to see played this well anytime soon.

Peace,
pennsy

#215: Navigating the Tropics of Cancer

Looking ahead is always a little tricky. The seas change pretty quickly when you're sailing through cancer treatment. Of course, that's really true no matter where you're sailing.

We have big plans for this evening. We're dragging out to the park to see some Shakespeare. I would prefer to be there opening night, but I think it would be prudent to avoid the really big crowds. We'll both be up much later than we're used to, but it will be worth it. Besides, the doc warned me today that the second chemo treatment I had on Saturday is likely to hit much harder than the first one did. I don't want to miss the show by putting it off.

Did have a kink in a longer range hope today, though. My teeth are not gonna be back anytime soon. Well, they're not actually coming back at all, but my store-bought choppers are going to have to wait for at least a couple of months after radiation. I was hoping for ribs at Labor Day. This news bumps things back to tacos for Thanksgiving. It also delays any hopes I may have for returning to the stage this year. My diction is, shall we say, not as crisp as I might prefer it to be. Still, there is hope out there, and I could always pick up a directing gig if one comes along.

Got some great news today. St Joseph's Hospital where I had my surgery has offered me a very generous financial aid package to help with my medical costs. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but the care I received there was just superior. No one ever made me feel like a charity patient. I couldn't have been treated better if I were the bishop. Now I'm just an AFLAC check away from paying off a really big chunk of my expenses. Next stop, the medicaid office to see what they can do with my chemo/radiation treatments at the Markey Center.

So, it's supposed to be the hottest day in the world, today. I'm hoping we're past the worst by the time we pack up to go to the park. Only 83 degrees right now at 11:00 AM, but tomorrow may be a record-breaker for us. I won't be complaining to Mrs P about the air conditioner today. But I do want to get a little walking in before the weather gets much more brutal.

Tomorrow, I'm hoping to have a preview/review of The Merchant of Venice for you. Till then, stay cool and be at

Peace,
pennsy

#181 The Silence of the Night

It's not so much the silence, as it is the imaginings that you use to fill it in. All the what ifs and wherefores that echo against the bedroom ceiling. I've always treasured these silent moments with God, but these days, I'm finding God's answers to be so unsatisfying. Why us?

I know, I'm supposed to ask, "Why NOT us?" I'm supposed to have more faith than to ask why God does things or permits things or accepts things that are so painful to the people I love. I know, I know God loves Mrs P even more than I do. God feels her pain when she suffers for her brother or husband or aunt or friends. I know all that. It's just that there are some wounds that bumper sticker theology can't bandage over.

I used to spend these evening hours fantasizing about work or running. I would imagine myself succeeding at some goal, making my family proud. I would visualize the curtain calls and the award banquets.

Nowadays, I have a checklist.

Does Mrs P know all the passwords? Does she understand our few remaining investments? Can she find all the life insurance policies? What if she had to do the taxes without me this year?

What if they overreacted to my teeth? Maybe they didn't need to take them all out. Will I ever be able to speak beautifully again? Will I ever be able to play another great Shakespearean role? Will I have to take my teeth out when I exercise at the gym?

Is Mum really comfortable on that guest bed? She has such energy. I'm sure we bore her with our long naps and afternoons with books and iced tea. Is it fair to take so much from her, no matter how lovingly she gives it?

The questions don't come in any special order because they aren't particularly rational. They just come, almost organically.

Was that a burp, or am I going to be sick?

Stomach gurgling or have I soiled the bed?

Fan blowing or ears ringing from chemo?

Jake, the golden puppy, now closer to adult than child, sighs deeply at my feet, wondering why I can't just learn to shine it on like he does. Jake takes the space he takes and lives in it contentedly. He is unhaunted by night time imagination. Jake is just Jake.

I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. Mix up the nasty witch's brew of warm water, salt and baking soda that is supposed to sooth the thrush that's gnawing on my tongue. Swish, spit, scrape. Swish, spit, scrape. Like gargling with Plaster of Paris. Try the hair again, still holding fast. No little pinch fulls coming out yet, not even the beard. To the toilet. What the heck? What's all over my shorts? Did I just? Yes, yes I did. Are diapers next? Wash. Change. Check the sheets. No harm done. Not yet.

It isn't torture, not really. Torture is systematic. It has a goal, a reason. This is just so random. Just a sequence of disconnection. What ties it all together? God? Cancer? Love? Money? Poor old Job didn't get his answers, why should I?

The preacher wants to know if we're angry at God. She isn't. I am. She doesn't deserve this, though maybe I do. I don't know. None of us gets what we deserve in this life, thank God. But some us us seem to get a very raw deal. Mrs P shouldn't have to bear this. Not for me. Not for anyone. I watch her pour out her life for other people and it just seems like God is piling on sometimes. Most of the time. Of course I'm mad. How could I not blame someone who hurts my wife so much?

There is a theatre festival in the part here in the Bluegrass. I was a big shot there once. Now I dream of toting my plastic Adirondack chair down to the side of the hill and watching actors soar on music and language. Some of my favorite artists in town are playing. I long to hear them under the stars. I want to join them. I want to float away on voices and color and beautiful words. There's no telling what kind of shape I'll be in by July when they open,but I am starving to see them.

I want their life in me.