The Bloody Doors Off

My thought a moment ago, as I heard the machine rumbling half-a-condo away.

I suppose I’m easily distracted today.

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I got picked at random b;y Playwright’s Realm for their Script Share programme. They match you up with a dramaturg to discuss a play you’ve written, to gain a better perspective.

I applied with A Song For Rachel.

They contacted me today. My Script Share reader is a literary manager and dramaturg, with decades of experience.

So I’m quite excited for the opportunity.

I guess I’m saying.

Despite the setback with St. John’s Shorts.

Writing-wise, things are looking up.

Now let’s apply the same thing to my work life, please.

The signs point to it happening; I’ve got two clients and just added a third that I basically invoice monthly.And responsibilities for one of them have increased. There are projects on my desk.

I turned down work on Friday.

It still bothers me.. I know that, within a week or two, a couple of projects are gonna ramp up and require the bulk of my time. The contract offered me steady work over a sustained period, and I realized I don’t have enough hours in the day to accommodate. I’ll still take on short-term projects. I just didn’t want to over-commit.

That hasn’t stopped Harold from bugging me about it.

Shit. Now he’s insisting he’s Howard again.

Make up your mind, already.

Fine. Howard it is.

From Facebook, June 20, 2013:

I’ve named my despair Howard. Not because I wish to be cute or because it’s funny, I’ve named it Howard because someone once told me names have power. And if you can name a thing, then you can tame it.

But it’s not really true, is it? They named the things that grow inside us, the tumors that eat away at our life, *cancer*. And there’s cancer *research*, and cancer *treatment*; but you can’t yell out “hey cancer, I know you, and I don’t like you, so fuck off!”I don’t have cancer. If I did, I would name it Gemma.

No, I ride alongside Howard. He’s there most days, in some form or other. Sometimes a scratch at the base of my skull, or a knot in my stomach. Most of the time he resides in my head. He’s made himself at home, it seems.

I have moments when I forget Howard is even there. I will be packing up my shit, or reading a few pages of a book, and the absence is wonderful. And in those moments I briefly flirt with the idea that Howard’s gone off, maybe on holiday, down to the bar for last orders, where he’ll get stupendously drunk and step in front of a cab speeding through the Entertainment District.

But he always finds his way home. Damn the HAILO app. Damn me for opening the door to him again.

I’ve never liked Howard as a roommate. He’s messy, clingy, and kills my energy. His nothingness sometimes rushes into my head, squeeze my temples ache and flush my skin. He can’t pay the bills, he can’t clean the *mess*, and he sure as hell can’t protect me from the rain, for he *is* the oncoming storm.

Howard is my despair, and that despair is entropy. You can’t escape entropy. It always wins. It’s the laws of physics.But it won’t win tonight.

Yup. Pretty apt description. Except he’s insisted his name is Harold.

St. John’s Shorts is no longer viable.

Newfoundland is under lockdown; there’s no saying exactly when it will be lifted, and if/when it does, there’s every possibility they will require a two-week quarantine for anyone crossing their border.

It’s literally a reverse Come From Away.

So five weeks for a couple of shows is just not feasible.

I’m heartbroken. Not just for me, but my cast.

Sofia and Lucy are fucking fantastic. Snow Angels wouldn’t BE without them. And they were looking forward to the road trip and performing live.

Currently awaiting word if it’s possible to either:

• Show it virtually, or
• Reschedule for 2022.

My hope is for the latter.

But for now, I need to inform our GoFundMe backers and arrange refunds.

Such is the life of a producer/playwright.

Broadway’s reopening soon. But Canada’s got a ways to go.

Living inside my head tonight.

Not a pleasant place to be.

So many thoughts swirling.

Counter-clockwise.

Like my brain is in Australia.

And the rest of me is here.

Half a world away.

If only it were that simple.

To send my brain on vacation.

A tropical beach somewhere.

Sitting under a palm tree.

Enjoying a cerveza.

In case you haven’t figured.

I still haven’t been able to shut it off.

Thankfully I took half a sleeping pill.

That should knock me out.

Of course I’ll wake up at 6am.

If I’m lucky.

I’ll sleep until 7.

Gonna cut this short.

Not feeling it tonight.

G’night moon.

Some people say he has a death wish
Trouble is he tends to agree
Let’s not ask too many questions
It’s nothing to do with you or me
He remembers a time when even going home was sweet
Now he can’t feel the ground under his feet

And she said “The trouble with André
Is he thinks he hides everything”
But I know the trouble with André
Is he’s a liar

Inside the dresser by the table
Something he keeps beside the bed
Living with Andre can’t be easy
Some things are better left unsaid
He remembers a time before the waters got so deep
When he found it easier to sleep

And she said “The trouble with André
Is he thinks he hides everything”
But I know the trouble with André
Is his disguise

sHAKESPEARS sISTER, tHE tROUBLE wITH aNDRé

I’m jinxing a lot of shit this week.

You’d think I’d fucking learn.

That’s all I’ve got.

I can’t give any more tonight.

It’s just. Too much.

Tomorrow is another day.

This too shall pass.

(And other bullshit platitudes.)

The things is, this shit is completely out of my control.

I can’t control the pandemic.

Nor can I dictate what provinces do during said pandemic.

I don’t have the power to heal.

I can only pray for swift recovery.

(Ha! I haven’t prayed in years. Oh I did once. After my breakdown. I looked for answers. Went to a United Church on the Danforth and sat in a pew. Asked whoever listened to lighten my burden. Flipped open a song book and found a passage that spoke to me — though I can’t remember it now — but it was profound at the time. Something about “when you called, I was already there”. I digress.)

I believe in something. I’m not sure exactly what.

Religion and I have a complicated history.

The Catholic Church excommunicated my father because of his adultery. Yet priests can abuse children and get moved to another parish. I can’t accept a religion that treats LGBTQ2S+ like second class citizens. (Today’s ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court that allows the Church to deny adoption to gay and lesbian couples is appalling.) A woman has the right to choose. The list is long.

So I believe in making my own luck.

And as such, I can jinx it pretty fucking hard.

Let’s hope I can turn it around.

We’re filming today, for the Rogue Theatre Festival.

Wish us luck.

Seems I’ve got to have a change of scene
Every night I have the strangest dreams
Imprisoned by the way it could have been
Left here on my own or so it seems
I’ve got to leave before I start to scream
Won’t someone lock the door and turn the key

Feelin’ Alright, Joe Cocker

I can’t turn off my brain.

I’ve tried.

Various ways.

It. Just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

And it’s nothing serious.

It’s trivial shit.

I caught myself searching report covers for work, while I listen to the Jays in the background.

That’s the problem, working for yourself.

You’re your own worst boss.

I need a distraction.

Baseball isn’t cutting it.

My head hurts.

I haven’t had many headaches lately.

Fortunate.

I had cluster migraines as a kid/teen, and in my 20s.

Had to be shut away in a dark room, no lights, no sound.

A cold cloth over my eyes.

Sometimes I would find relief if I vomited.

Not that I wanted to vomit.

That choice wasn’t mine.

There goes the brain again.

Random memories surfacing.

Twenty-odd years ago. I had a pot cookie.

(I never said I was a role model.)

It was at a friends’ party. I obviously took too much.

I remember getting home. Somehow.

From Leslieville to University and Dundas.

(Like I said, twenty-odd years ago).

I was so damned high.

I was physically ill.

There’s a flash of memory, hugging the porcelain god and making promises.

Then waking up at St. Michael’s hospital the next morning.

With no shoes.

No idea how I got there.

This was after Suzi, and I was between roommates.

And the cats refuse to learn to dial 911.

Luckily I had my wallet, and cash.

Took a cab home.

My shoes were inside the door.

Willow and Roo were indifferent.

(These were my cats before Hannah and Izzy.)

Now I’m thinking about my first cat, Tigger. (This is why I got Roo later. Gotta have Tigger and Roo, amiright?)

Got him while I lived in a house on Annette Street with two roommates.

He was a stray that hung out at my brother Wayne’s house in Whitby. They couldn’t take him in, and I jumped at the chance to adopt him.

I was just starting to see Suzi then.

He was a mischievous boy. The typical tabby: loved people, loved knocking things off the dresser.

At 3am.

Because he could.

And it always woke me up.

Poor guy developed crystals. He had surgery and was fine for a while.

But they came back.

Nothing the doctors could do.

He was the goodest boy.

I had a blog post brewing earlier.

But I had a conflict.

Hosting Sing For Your Supper.

That had a set start time, and so I made it priority.

Figured I’d remember the post for later.

I think it would’ve been a good one.

Yeah.

Think. Would’ve.

Because of course it’s no longer in ;my head.

I could’ve started the post and saved a draft.

That would’ve been the smart thing.

So it’s gone.

Into the ether.

And all I can think is.

I’m a bloody idiot.

But, as Marlo says, we’re not allowed to talk about ourselves that way.

(Even if it’s true.)

But I must be an idiot, because I didn’t do the smart thing.

Yep, I can run logic in circles.

But no.

No beating myself up.

It was a missed opportunity.

Nothing more.

Maybe it’ll come back.

Maybe I’ll come up with something better.

Like that time I was writing my first fringe show back in 1997, up all night writing and a power outage wiped out everything I’d typed. Had to start over.

It was better.

I remember that show.

I’d gotten into Toronto Fringe in the winter of ’96.

All I had was a title.

Two weeks before the show went up, I was still looking for an ending.

Yet it all came together.

The third show? Best audience, great performances.

I had live music: a pianist and a saxophone player.

They improvised jazz before the curtain went up.

The audience applauded enthusiastically when they wrapped up.

In that moment, I knew.

I had them.

A long-time Fringe patron came up to me after the show.

Said he’d loved it.

The guy was well known among the community.

He saw everything.

And never minced words.

Okay, that was a tangent.

Dunno how I got there.

Not sure how to wrap it up.

So I’ll just say.

Goodnight, moon.

p.s. Clearly this blog post isn’t one of my best.

But at least I’m writing.

I’m impulsive.

I don’t always read the fine print.

And it gets me into trouble.

I noticed today, regarding the St. John’s mandate, is to feature local talent.

So, with my stomach in my throat, I emailed the organizers.

We’re still welcome.

Thank the gods.

Because I really want to make this happen.

Time to push the fundraising into high gear.

_____

Aaaaaaaand I spoke too soon.

Because of COVID, they may not be able to take in companies from another province.

They’re debating it now.

There’s that pit in my stomach again.

I can’t have nice things.

_____

I’ve got the sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

They’re gonna call me tomorrow morning to discuss.

Great. I get to sweat this all night.

I’ve been sitting on an email for days.

Forwarded from my wife. From a person who’s been involved in theatre for close to, if not more than, 50 years.

They’d read A Song for Rachel, as they’re acting in it for Alumnae Theatre’s CyberReads programme.

“Just finished ‘A Song for Rachel’ … WOW!  I teared right up.   I read a lot of scripts so I’m pretty fortified against shmaltz.  This story could easily have been sentimental to the point of manipulation,  but it’s just great. The humour is genuinely funny, which is not often the case in many scripts I read.”

I’ve been sitting on it.

And given who it’s from.

I’m freaking out about it.

It’s a huge deal.

It’s also a long way from the Fringe show I’d put up in the late 90s/early aughts where the reviewer tore me to shreds and seemed to take delight in pointing out that I was from Scarborough.

I have trouble accepting praise.

I downplay it.

Because I’m worried someone will then say “Psych!”

So when you’re paying me a compliment.

If I don’t gush over it.

I’m struggling to accept it as true.

It’s a process.