Does this appeal to more than just Taosanios?

I live in Taos because I fell in love with my recently deceased first wife's best friend.

I love that sentence.

But I didn't come to Taos. I came to fill a Void - I came to my end, and my beginning.

My knowledge of Taos New Mexico pre-1990 can be summed up in word, McCloud.
My first visit was with my first wife.

Maria had lived here in the latter 80's and wanted to see her best friend F and her family while exposing this City Boy to the Enchanted Circle, to Pow Wow, the Rio, the Mystery, the Vibe.
To this day I will never forget the moment we came out of the Horseshoe after an hour long climb through The Canyon heading north to Taos.
The moment of the Reveal.

Taos is located in the shadow of Taos Mountain nestled in it's embrace.
Spreading from the Pueblo and into the sunlight of the Mesa, her outer western boundary is defined by a jagged rift in the earth aptly named The Gorge.
A fifty mile scar born of the cataclysmic gnashing of tectonic teeth, The Rio Grand Gorge leads you in a steady ascent north following The Rio through The Canyon funneling you into The Horseshoe. A treacherous, sharply curved down and up S turn, ( the only southerly access to Taos, often closed during the ice of winter) the final climb traces the rocky lip of the mesa/foothills before straightening for it's gentle descent into Taos.

Cresting that last sweep, eyes skyward gazing into piercing blue azure, you level off.
Depth perception returns, behold the geological tableau spread before you!

The Mountain; like a king and court sweeping from right to left, arms encircling Taos. The mid-morning sun streams down in Byzantine golden beams dancing across the cloud shadowed mesa. As your eyes adjust to the brilliant contrast of heightened lights and translucent darks - snaking through the  distance beneath is the coiled python that is The Gorge.


She let out a war whoop. It left an impression.

You have to leave to stay in Taos, it's one of the Tenants. and if this sight doesn't stir your soul the Mountain will surely spit you out.

Give me a Denver Hamlet, Please!

It takes many villages and scores of villagers to make a hamlet and egg jokes aside, the boys have inherited two distinct villages.

The Village of Chicago is our place of birth, Maria included, we all share a certainty: aged documents, some very aged; attesting to our births, Chicago, our Hometown!

That creates a bond.

But home is where the heart is right? 

Whatever the hell that means.

Moving to a new existence, it was threatening to consider Chicago my home. I was invested in making this New Life Work! Dammit!

At some point I was challenged when I claimed both Taos and Chicago home.

I had to look at that.

After some thought, minimal at best, I decided that home for most of us is usually where you've been born, where you had some semblance of a childhood, and also, and for me most importantly, where your parents still live.

After more than 30 years of people's Stories, I realize that for some, for many, many reasons -  the Holiday's suck and Home is an elusive concept. 

Growing up and not having my parents leave, Chicago at least, makes it a no-brainer. Home is Chicago. 

Where I create my roots, starts the foundation for my kids concept of family and I've watched, as the omelette has become scrambled, and my children's concept of family is vastly different from my own, and that saddens me on many levels. 

Life in Taos has been permeated with a crusty layer of blood, dust, and consequences. There are choices in life that cry to be regretted, and I have obliged mercilessly. 

Coming to realize it's okay, it's an emotion, be there, as long as you don't chew on it, and chew on it until you gag. 

I'm also realizing vomiting it all up is good, gagging is bad. 

Listen when a cavalcade of clients share a common response to Will's ramblings. (I like to verbally process) 

 "Wow, you sure beat yourself up!".

I prefer to think I possess the habits of a sloth and the mind of a writer; I like to look at things from every angle but unfortunately I usually end up impaling myself on one of the skinny obtuse ones.

The flipside to Billy the Pleaser? William the Flagellator!

When we arrived in the Land of the Enchanted, Quinn was five and Wyatt was 7 and one thing the therapists were dead on about; children are resilient, thankfully.

They're like Silly Putty actually, but in their teens I was less concerned about their elasticity and more obsessed with the fact that every time you peeled them up slowly from the Funnies, it was always my cartoon face, elongated into a pastel-ed pix-elated grimace of anger and fear, not too Funny. 

That's the part my clients respond so warmly to.

We got to Taos and I started a business, got me a wife, bought me some property, left me a wife - while adding two strapping blonde stepsons mind you, and for over ten years now, I look over at the Mountain, and sure, I totally take it for granted - but it moves me- and from the git go I've had no doubt, the Mountain embraced me.

Chicago will always be my hometown, but Taos is my home.

 At 15 Wyatt did the math and deduced that he had officially spent more time in Taos than in Chicago. Which is usually the decider, Time that is, and at the time, what that meant, was in transition.

Quinn spent almost three years living with my family in Chicago. three long years away from Taos.

Last year, after both sons had been reunited, I listened privately and a little surreptitiously as they weighed the pro's and con's of city versus town.

Most of their references pertained to people, places and opportunities. in reference to Chicago. For Taos, it was about the night, the sky,the stars, the People, the Way of Life.

They both agreed, the City will take them away from here, as it should, but in their hearts, Taos is their home.

Little Billy

I didn't really realize I was Japanese until way later.

Sure, on the asphalt Pitri dish of LeMoyne elementary I was educated to the subtleties of being different by my fellow organisms,
"ChinaMin! ChinaMin! Slanty Eyed ChinaMin!"
Exemplary!
Sputtering and wheezing, mittens clenched as fat, wet confetti starts falling from the gray, the melting flakes front the hot wet tears of frustration creating a mini-front which completely obscures the safety lenses of my black horn rimmed glasses.
"ChinaMin! ChinaMin!'
The soundtrack to Little Billy's Fellini-esque montage; ecstatic faces, joyful even, bob and weave, their word bubbles Exclaming! and swirling all balloon-y in the snow.

So angry I could piss, in my head I'm screaming,

"Fine! Ya got the Slanty thing right. But I'm JAPANESE you Cretins!"

Okay, it probably wasn't Cretins, and I wasn't necessarily declaring my Japaneseness, I was defending myself, but the understanding in my bones was startling, I AM different, we are all different, and boy, you guys are mean! 

I was raised to not lower myself to other people's anger, which of course messed me up to the whole Anger Thing. Turn the other cheek and don't be the nail that stands up, it gets pounded.

It was the Japanese/Christian thing. Make that the Christian/Japanese thing, less distracting for me. You see, until I was in the 4th grade or so I thought that just because my immediate world was filled with Japanese Christians, ALL Japanese were Christians. That was a rude awakening.
A Big like Chicago? You can stay insulated in the friendly confines of your chosen enclave. Millions have schlepped across heaven and hell as well as 2 oceans, to come to America, to grab that Golden Ring. Which is a wonderful welcoming thing, to see this great country as an opportunity to better your life, Priceless! 
Peoples come and achieve varying levels of assimilation, risk will always have it's reward, and it's price.
Grandma Kima received her Citizenship when she was 88 years old, like many she spent decades as an immigrant, enjoying the double life afforded to the first of any generation, in this case, the Issei's. 
Of course that honor was offset by the vilifying behavior gifted to every newcomer from the previous newcomer, Human Nature, how ironic, too funny!

But this assimilation creates a bifurcation for the ensuing generations that becomes problematic; two ways of understanding the spirit- for often religious and ethnic beliefs are firmly entwined. Two currents coming together, the growing influence of a new society with  values that often conflict with the old ways, the Traditions, all swirling in the bubbling mass of the Melting Pot, the Cauldron of Hope that now seems more the Crucible. 
We have come to the point where idealism meets reality, where the open doors and open arms have been battered by the constant battle between Help, and Help yourself, the Cosmic balance of Give and Take. 
I know it's not universal, but the balance has swung and we are exactly where we have chosen to be, where we need to be. 
Watching as the Circle closes, as the walls fall, as the temperature rises. Watching as the super-heated Ring starts to glow, spitting orange sparks into the Void. 
White hot, the pulsing halo shifts and vibrates, and like taffy pulls the molten squiggles into a a glowing, fire ringed Heart. 
That's my hope at least, that's also my New Years Resolution. 
For me, 2012 was the year of the Chicken, Chicken Cynical Little that is.

My Grandma Kima grunted the same halting English until the day she died. She spoke Japanese because she could, living a few blocks from J Town, at least until later. Kima lived to be 102, by than most of her Conversational Japanese colleagues were long gone.
I'm exaggerating, Grandma could speak English, and she could understand it even better. But her accent and vocabulary were so, foreign, I would seize up, unable to decipher the Kanjii from consonants.
In person was bad enough, over the "long-distance", fuggedaboutit.

The first time Maria met Kima, it was magic. 

We arrived in San Jose with young Wyatt, splitting the state into hers and mine. 6 1/2 days in San Jose, down 101, or 5 if hurried, (Most of the time we were both needing the  rejuvenating effects of the Pacific, so we hugged the water until James Dean's inland left to Hanford,) where we would spend, you guessed it,  6 1/2  days.  
Trying the house first with a soft knock, nothing, No Uncle Ni, no shuffling Grandma, we walked to the park at the end of the block. 
It was a gorgeous California morning, taking in the sights and sounds we sat on the swings. 
It was always the Swing; unless it was the Jungle Gym - ever higher- the Boys got that too, but with Maria, it was always the Swing.
Walking back with Wyatt strapped to my chest, I dawdle; watching the streetcar - now mass-transit mover - stopping and starting down First Street, the electric trains much quieter than the planes on final landing at Norman Y. Mineta International Airport, Silicon Valley's airport, a few miles away. Seems many folks have found the way to San Jose.

By now Maria has turned down Hawthorne to the off-white Conestoga/Mission, and please don't check, I made that up, but it's my cowboy movie influenced impression of the home that my Uncle Nisan- eldest brother- and Grandma; have rented for over 20 years. 

Yes, rented.

Pretty much totally against the only financial advice I had ever received from my parents besides, "Compound interest!" 
Probably because that's the only thing they ever knew, a Man's Kingdom is his Castle! 
But renting for over 20 years in THAT market?! 
Back when the streets were lined with gold and BMW was the official vehicle of the FUNLYMPICS? Live for today and die with the most toys! The Bottom Line as the Only Grail?

Tell me, where in the whole of creation is it mirrored that a force, or ledger, can only grow larger, guaranteeing profits ever higher; every quarter, every year? 
Common sense should dictate the answer is, NOT FREAKING POSSIBLE! 
But that is our expectation, as an economy, as a nation. 

Nature is an ebb and flow, a give and take, an orchestra of crescendo's, decrescendo's, fortissimo's 'pianissimos, and yes, the final al fine. Nature doesn't need to distinguish avarice, She takes what She needs. 
Mr. Smith was right, we are the virus, we are the one's who are a threat, for only we can create with such dizzying speed, both mind blowing possibilities for growth and creativity, while simultaneously constructing a log rhythmically expanding matrix of greed and consumption. 
In my opinion no other force of nature has the ability for such unconscionable destruction.
Only us, and oh yeah, cancer.


My sister told me of how pissed off she was at Ma Bell because of Mom's Harvest Gold kitchen telephone. You know the one, had about a 15 cord, which after 10 years was at least double that from all the shoulder talking; stretching into the furthest corner of the kitchen and beyond - yeah Mom, you loved that - to finally almost reach the start button on the television in the living room? Which at some point must have seemed extremely important, but not as important as the fact that she'd been RENTING this prehistoric device for over 20 years?! 
Yeah, I don't know the math and I don't want to, it would make my head explode. But one generation's Princess phone is anothers' soup can. 
We are all so human, aren't we? 

Anyway, I walked up the drive and saw Maria and Grandma Kima in the shade of the overhanging porch, the sunlight and shade bisecting the two, the difference in height accentuating the contrast of old and young, supple and vibrant, yellow and white.
The two chit chattered away, the stuttered words more expressions than language; Maria's big hazel eyes, mouth pursed into a chuckling "Oh", leaning into Kima's upturned gaze. 
Kima, her almost mummified upper lip pursed reflexively, eyebrows raised over silver rims, concentrating, and than laughing in that clucking, guttural, chuckle.

They were speaking with their mouths, and smiling, but it wasn't any spoken language, it wasn't English or Japanese. It was a meeting of the minds by way of the heart.I t was the shimmering connection of curiosity and kindness, the golden filament of love, of a shared empathy that transcends Slanty Eyes or differences in pigmentation. It's the vibrations of the Universe, all around us. Measured not in decibels but in gestures, some almost infinitesimal, some bombarding our sense with a brain 'sploding, heart bursting, surge of awareness. 
Oh, there you are! I see you, can you see me?


Through the years I have wrestled with this stuff ad nausea and as far as the Japanese thing, my Mom took the brunt of it, and being MOM, she was burdened with everything else too. 
My dad came off Scott Free, he was Hawaiian, which is a whole 'nother chapter, and besides, by than he was gone. 
No, she was the sacrificial lamb.
I was convinced at 25 my mom was the reason for my condition, my predicament. It had to be,she raised me and I WAS JUST LIKE HER!
It was only the advent of pregnancy and the pressed and pleated hair shirt uniform of the  Provider that activated my previously shrunken frontal lobe. 
Consequently, Ritz's wisdom and intelligence immediately grew by leaps and bounds. 
How amazing is that!

I was just like my mom. but until now, that wasn't a good thing.

Most of this has settled over me like the ever present Taos dust, I breath it in and it is a pain in the ass, but it is good. 

Here's what I've learned as life continues to unfold.

Mix thousands of years of strict social behavior, transfer immediately to the Great Melting Pot, add a more than generous  portion of Christianity and simmer over the War to end all Wars, Voila!
We serve the same dish over and over, the triumphs as well as the Sins of the Father serving as a base, with each generation adding a little to the concoction.
But the Stew is the same, an ever changing yet inescapably fundamental recipe of the human condition.
It is what it is, and it is delicious.

The lesson?
Smile.
Mind your P's and Q's.
Love Thy neighbor as Thyself.
Try your best.
Dammit, don't take things so personal, turn the other cheek.
And what ever you choose to do, embrace your passions and make yourself happy, but not at another's expense.
All in all, it's the Golden Rule.
It's not about being Japanese or German, African American or Hispanic, it's not about being popular or successful, or good or bad, right or wrong. It's about a simple notion.
If every religion could rally around a flag that is emblazoned with just One sentiment, One, credo, One Truth, this world would be transformed.

"Just be nice to each other!" Please.

The Outer Reaches We Don't Think About

A few weekends ago we all motivated and went over to storage, and by motivated I mean I plucked the cascading bill out of mid juggle, and paid it. I was finally committing to retrieving the Maria Boxes from storage.

Adri, Wyatt's lovely girlfriend was visiting for the weekend, I think highly of her; a cute couple, they are very attached and she was a subtle force in retrieving those cardboard enshrouded memories, as only an adoring girlfriend with both feet planted firmly in the future can be. We had tons of stuff integrated into our everyday when we arrived in Taos, mostly pictures and videos, blankets, and bedding, which in retrospect was a huge mistake, but the meat of the earliest and latest stuff, these treasures, were lingering in the dry, dark, mouse infested confines of the outer- reaches- we -don't -think- about; Storage.

Here's a little remembrance that may qualify as ironic. From 1990 to 1998, Maria had her stuff in a storage unit in Taos. Now  I had no bearing on the storage thing, Growing up in Chicago we had a basement, a garage, an attic/crawlspace or, D, all of the above. She had a $50 5x10 storage unit filled to the brim, waiting for her to finish dillying in Chicago and return home to liberate and re-populate. 

Never  happened. Three huge events negated that possibility and after we set up house to raise the first Event, her storage became my storage.

Month after month, year after year, writing checks to  Hinds & Hinds Storage, oh and Daihatsu Charade car payments for 5 years to Espanola Bank, where I now have my mortgage. References that started sight unseen in Chicago but are now part of my everyday awareness.

Maria made one last trip to deal with her left behind life in Taos, a life she had always intended to return to, but instead, she returned to Taos to clear out her storage unit ,finally surrendering, she said her good-byes and brought the whole kit and kiboodle back to Chicago.

For months she carefully revisited the weathered books and precious knick- knacks, the lacy blue miss-matched, almost complete set of china, unfinished journals and poetry, the letters and postcards and trinkets and gypsy-like collection of clothes carefully amassed during 20 years of Thrifting, all reviewed, revealed; and carefullysifted through like fossils ,informing her of her past lives and her present condition.

In the aftermath, I was gathering the house,reeling in the enormity of it all; her best girlfriends helping  to cull through all  her stuff, to decide what to keep, what to share and what to give away. Maria's life was boxed tagged and sent west on a North American Van Lines semi-trailer truck. to be unloaded and shuttled into storage, waiting to be unveiled in the future at a more appropriate time, "when things have settled." 

These Boxes are the remnants of a life. They have been safely accounted for and protected, gestating in a darkened cinder/metal mausoleum for more than 12 years, in a building less than 2 blocks from my Salon, walking distance, and almost every month,the same check is still being written, a hastily scrawled signature representing many lifetimes, to the business down the street, Hinds & Hinds Storage.

I am Japanese American.

I am Japanese -American.

I am a Japanese -American.

Funny how it doesn't have the same charge anymore. It's a fact, the farther away the fuzzier things become, Eyes and emotional responses dim with The Years.

My mother Ritz came of age wearing bobby socks and crisp white blouses, crimson giggles flashed at serious young men who smiled shyly beneath lowered gaze.

All the while held, under the indifferent gaze of corn-fed hakujin soldiers, looking down from perches spiked into the Arizona desert; turrets, spacing ghost walls of wood and twisted barb, 

These Sentinels of the human condition, replete in the sacraments of war: self-righteousness, fear, fatigues and live ammunition.

Comparatively, Niles East was cake.

Maria

She was beautiful, but severely damaged. 

Didn't realize of course until after I had impregnated her. At the time,

those parts were working just fine thank you very much!

My Boys

They were gifts, wrapped in irresponsibility and bright bits of idealism, lacy ribbons of pride and insecurity knotted firmly and bowed into a festive sprig of Fear.

With 2 such clueless donors, and the Flexible Flier from Hell  that life was soon to unleash, it's a wonder they turned out at all.

Shakespeare for Dummies wasn't the title of the workshop, but it could have been.
And it would have aptly applied. Okay, I'm not a dummy, obtuse at times, but not a dummy. As far as Shakespeare is concerned, my sterling excuse has always been, "I'm Asian, I don't do Shakespeare!"
Pithy, dismissive, lazy, and yes, a little dumb.

I have taken two scene study workshops with Ron Usherwood at the Playhouse Theater and have loved them. During "Salesman" we were talking about the Shakes workshop and that's when Quinn seemed excited about the possibility, he shared the story of Mr. Sinclair and Eminem at a Q & A after a show.

In the last two years I have taken UNM acting classes and have been in a few plays while Quinn was doing theater in Chicago. I wanted to have a means to connect with him.
Another very important motivation was that I was 2 years into my divorce and the guilt and self loathing were reaching epidemic proportions.
I needed something.

All through high school I had been a jock. Football was the favorite with basketball a close second.
In 8th grade I shot up to 5'8 and a 1/4 with better than fair hand eye. I wasn't the biggest, but it was before all my contemporaries Wonder Breaded.
I had a great showing between than and sophomore  year. But, I rested on my laurels.
I discovered girls, I worked, but I didn't work out.
By senior year I wasn't starting both ways, I wasn't even starting. I wasn't playing basketball, I wasn't wrestling, doing track or any of the other sports I had once pursued.
And now, most of my contemporaries had either grown past me or worked harder, leaving me in the proverbial dust.

The final straw was the first game of my senior year.
I had been relegated to special teams, specifically kick offs.
Now, on kick offs, the opposing teams fastest guy is usually on the ends, closest to the side lines.
For some ungodly reason, my responsibility was the guy second from the end.
As far as speed went, I wasn't the slowest, but... okay, I probably was the slowest and I proceeded to prove it.

The over riding imprint of that last game was the emotion that led to my quitting, the only time in my life I've ever quit a team. Not counting Judo, and, I don't, but that's another story.
The emotion that lead to my QUITTING, was utter and total HUMILIATION.

My really bad dream.
The opening kickoff was to us and as I ran to take an angle on him I failed to judge the speed ratio.
As in, The - "Oh crap! That little shit is SO much faster than ME!"- ratio.
By the time I adjusted he was by me and had made the tackle.

Come to think of it, we must have scored, because lo and behold, here he is again.
And again, he is not only faster but much quicker too!
With a little fake he is by me and making another tackle.
I think this happened again because I'm pretty sure, the "laugh" came after the fake.

For those of you keeping score at home, that would be:
1. Blown away.
2. Feinted-and than blown away.
3. I don't remember-LAUGHED AT-and than blown away.
=
QUIT.

I am a Cancer and have identified with the shell aspects of the Crab. Any other Cancer attribute has not resonated. A couple of years ago I traded with a client  (this is Taos) and had my Astrological chart done. Along with the basic Cancer stuff, Leo shows up big time in my rising...or moon, or whatever. Sorry, don't cotton to astrology much. But Leo explained bunches about how I've conducted myself for much of my life, especially the perms.

At this point, My Lion needing a little preening

During high school, I was a social butterfly flitting between many groups.
Most of my close friends were also theater jocks.
That fall, my girlfriend was the director of Reflections! the student run revue ( I may have added the exclamation mark, but it fits ) and after finally deciding to quit football, I tried out for the show!

I  had the best year of my life in theater. It fed the part of me that needed attention and the creative Juice was very much like the sports Juice, without the hitting.
Most of my friends after high school were not the testosterone jocks, I've never really resonated with that hormone beyond the sports, probably why I do what I do, but the theater was filled with people like me.

It was great to be able to act out in a safe and 1970's white middle class way, we were rascals, not delinquents  and I had a great time, THANK YOU BRUCE KAHN.

After a few acting classes in community college in 1978, real life took over. Until now.


Shakespeare made the rhythms make the words sing. And I started to hear the singing for the first time.
Scansion was presented by Ron with such excitement and enthusiasm; with the promise to provide the key to unlock the mystery and illuminate how Willie used his words and structure to inform the actor.
This was the teacher I had never had, the one that makes this all so fun!
Of course I realize that it's not Ron, it's me. After watching my 2 Mirrors, I see.
All of the lectures on attitude, watching as they navigate this unfamiliar and daunting territory,(The Rest of Your Life!) it is all influenced by attitude.
My attitude? Get me out of this cave!", I need a break from them and myself.
Finally, and most importantly " This is fun! I want to learn more!
Not necessarily in that order.

Jeez, maybe my frontal lobe is finally developing.


A natural, Natural Actor I am not, I am definitely not.
I may be a Hideaway Crab for most of the time, but eventually the confines become a little stifling for the King and he needs to stretch his paws and bellow a bit.
I used to fulfill that requirement by raising kids.
I could bellow with the best of them, I was a veritable Jekyll and Hyde.
Only now, after a years of introspection and self flagellation can I see how angry I actually was, how bent I could get at the drop of a hat, or a ball, or a look.
I wasn't psycho, but I was angry, so freaking angry.
It leaves a bit of a sorrow taste in the mouth.

I'm being a little hard on myself as far as the acting thing, I am only an amateur and I shouldn't expect to just "get it," that's pretty egotistical right?
I am flowing in the process of learning lines, of seeking insight into the nuances of the acting thing, getting up there and balancing the nervousness with the Juice, it's all so exciting and so scary.

I have used an incident or a reaction from a particularly emotional exchange with the Boys as motivation for a character. In that way, I hope to glean some insight into myself and how I am approaching a role, but it's also a way to reflect on the ways I have communicated and interacted
with my sons. It allows me to look back and make changes as to how I view, and how I choose to respond to them in the here and now. It's my intent and not a perfect science, and it's the only way I can possibly hope to be consistent. And.
It's cheaper than therapy.


I screwed up the courage to play with a New Yawk accent for "Salesman".

Growing up, watching war movies with my dad, there's was always the guy from the Bronx, chewing gum, or munching on a cigar, all the while cracking wise in this sneering jeer of an accent, he was in my consciousness.
I'm old. I never cruise YouTube, hardly, but geez, you can find absolutely anything!
I found an excellent set of tutorials and hunkered down.
I took a few notes, read along with a few lists of words, practiced in front of the mirror, and proceeded to record myself on my phone.
Overhearing my attempt, Quinn opines, "Uh, you know there's nothing worse than doing a bad  New York accent...dad."

Duh.

What I wasn't prepared for when I went to listen, who should be whining shrilly back at me?
The Bunkers.
Both of them, but mainly Edith.
All those hours invested in front of the BoobTube, finally paying off!

Embarrassingly enough, as far as Shakespeare goes, I think my main reference is cartoons.
I think we are the last generation that referenced the Classics in popular entertainment for children, at least in any kind of recognizable fashion.
Later, the classics were cloaked in light sabers and C3PO's, but when I watched cartoons, they were still wearing tights, and badly overacting.
I can't help it, it's in my cathode ray, flickering Indian Head, Ray Raynor and Friends, infused blood.


The last evening of the Shakes workshop, I was not really happy with my performances.
I tried really hard, probably too hard, and I am thankful and energized by the work put in and the understanding received, but dammit, I didn't feel like I improved that much.
I don't mind the critiques at all, in fact I relish it. I am not in the place of total fear. My Leo is starting to be comfortable and I am feeling more at ease on stage.
My Child of the 70's Instant Gratification Whore is struggling with the process.


Ron has pointed out my "Breathy last four syllables" in the past three workshops.

With Iambic Pentameter fueling the way that condition is pushed into emote overdrive and no matter how hard I try to stay in the moment, ( I know Ron, I know, stay present with your partner ) in the excitement, my subconscious spews forth and I revert to the ghosts from the past and voila!

 Here..comes...Captain...KIRK!

Shakespeare. Right.
Iambic pentameter, check. Scansion homework, check. Checking my ego at the door, check, check, and double-check.

I've never liked Shakespeare.
Not the man of course, just the foreignness of it all. It was a freaking different language. A bit surprising, I was partially weaned on King Jame. But this was something Pythonishingly different: recognizable, but undecipherable.

I loved to read.

"Mostly science fiction and comic books" my Mom would say, "Didn't quite take as well to the Good Book!'
Okay, she doesn't really talk like that. But I'm sure the thought has crossed her mind, more than a few, methinks.
In my old age, I've thanked her, for allowing me to read pretty much anything I wanted, and she did. Which I find very admirable considering the Evangelical Churching we were raised with. Though we were Biblical in thought, and raised to Believe, my parents were wonderfully perfectly human, and raised us to be good people.
I have made my own choices of course, but I am much more charitable with myself as of late, guilt and emotional flagellation are a wonderful byproduct of salvation, with an unbelievable shelf life. I am in the process of re-stocking.

Rockets, cowboys, and sports heroes...pretty much it.
My mom tried to instill an awareness. I do have a very fond memory of Leonard Bernstein, and mixed memories piano lessons.
We had a vinyl of Peter and The Wolf, and his children's classical music thing on PBS was great,  sans cigarettes.

But Shakespeare? Not.
In school, I was always one of the often obnoxiously proficient kids who enjoyed reading aloud.                
Whether it was from the attention or being able to do something easily that others couldn't, I was always one of the chosen, and I loved it.

If there's one thing I understood, it wasn't grammar.
At one point after the schooling had ground to a miserable halt, I did have the awareness;
in sixth grade when the rudiments of grammar are attempting to build a viable and sturdy foundation, I retained more of what my sixth grade teacher wore than what came out of her pastel lip glossed mouth.
Body hugging, dark olive green, just above the, just above the knee dress, vertically ribbed with horizontal blue stripes running across her Playtex molded breasts, blue L'eggs and low, fashionable yet sensible heels. Her brown tortoise shell glasses were circa '69 and dominated her face save for the sparkling rows of perfectly orthodontured  pearly whites accentuated by a dark mass of curly hair blow dried into a perfect shoulder length bob.)
No, I'm not going to say her name. ( even though I'm amazed I have retained it and want to put it into print just to have a personal gloat. )

It was more feel than rules.
I've always written, but have never really had a grasp on proper grammar, it's more the flow of the sentence, the use of punctuation to regulate the breathing, hearing the way that sentences ran together to form thoughts, it was more like letting the current take me.
And so it is today.
Please use a red pen when making corrections as it brings back such memories.

I read Shakespeare aloud in high school, was even in a production of "Two Gentlemen" senior year. But aside from the performance aspects, the words did nothing for me.
Opening Shakespeare was like opening a Calculus book, and about as satisfying, if you can rate satisfaction on a scale that includes a comatose state.

Until now.

Just finished a 2 week Shakespeare Workshop taught by Ron Usherwood at the Playhouse Theater here in Taos.
The workshop was enjoyable and enlightening for two main reasons.
Ron Usherwood is a self admitted Shakespeare geek, his enthusiasm and knowledge set was as edifying as it was entertaining, "wishing you were here" during high school dude.
The second was just as important if not more so.

When Quinn, my younger actor son returned home to Taos, I was trying to keep him going with theater so I was suggesting these different productions and workshops. He expressed an interest in Shakespeare generated by his drama teacher Mr. Sinclair, who when introducing scansion to his class, back-doored them with an Eminem song first. They loved it, slipping in Hamlet next was easy, he had bypassed the one thing that always stood in my way, relevance.

Well, summer's waning and Quinn is on to his pursuits, but I still offered to include him in the Willie Workshop but he politely declined.
And I am glad he did.

No matter how hard I am trying to let their choices be their own without the tsunami of Dad attitude, in certain circumstances, this becomes more difficult.
From the training ground of Death of a Salesman, which was really fun to share with him, I realized that any of his actions that I viewed as irresponsible, (like being late, or missing rehearsals) can bring immediate fatherly responses.
I am trying my best in private to rid myself of these unproductive responses (AAARRRGGGHHH!) but it is difficult.
Difficult like, say, when you're at a table of 8 or 9 cast members who all heard and wrote down the correct time and place of the rehearsal, have to stop their reading, mind you just after the teenager's part was read for him, as he sheepishly enters brimming with excuses.
I didn't say a word, deflecting his missives to the director.
In my mind I didn't even pull a face.
In public it's easier to put on the exhausted smile of a beleaguered dad, shrug your shoulders and ignore him until we get in the car, where as everyone knows, all the great battles begin.

We did not battle. Yes, I may have been unable to scrub all the annoyance from my voice but I didn't yell and scream. Just told him of his choice and his responsibility to his cast mates. Suggested he use his phone to remind him of commitments and we went and got something to eat.
I keep patting myself on the back for my improvements in parental patience and restraint, but I guess it really doesn't mean anything unless they see it too, but, they're still wearing the Ray Bans so it'll be a while before that happens.

In the class, there wasn't anyone under 25, with the majority being an average age of dear old dad.
I am confident in saying it would not be an assumption on my part to think that he would have reacted to these circumstances, at least initially, in a very negative manner. It would have been a shared lesson, which isn't a bad thing. But.

What all this made me realize is, these workshops are mine.
They feed me. They give me a place to be me, and to not be dad.
I relish the time to myself, for myself.
Enough said

Next: I am William.....Shatner