My fingers, with their bitten nails, their scars from cat claws, and their few tiny hairs just above a couple of joints, drag across the old, wire fence, making a ratatat-ratatat ring as I run along the gravel-dust path passed the tennis courts, the football and the baseball fields, the children's park with its playground, slides, swings, seesaws, all as one would expect, around the golf course at the center of it all, sloping hills, sandpits, ponds, and fountains, as I run passed others, some traveling the same clockwise trail as me, some counterclockwise, some running, some walking, with dogs or children or lovers or friends, perhaps in solitude, some smiling and laughing and nodding hellos and others keeping their eyes from mine, avoiding greeting, and then everything slows down to a walking pace, the ratatat long gone replaced only by heavy breathing.
I know a lot of people who don't like to go running outside. They don't like the heat. They don't like the uneven ground. They don't like the lack of privacy. There are plenty of reasons to dislike outdoor running. I understand that. There's nothing wrong with that. A lot of people don't like running in general, and that's fine too. Flat feet, short legs, simply having a stockier build, can all be dissuading to people considering running. Whatever a person's reason, there's nothing wrong with disliking running. I, however, kind of love it.
My description above is relating the basic experience of running around the 3.8 mile loop from my hotel here in Tulsa around LaFortune Park, a trail with which I have become quite familiar in the last two weeks. I generally try to get out and run the loop at least every other day, and I'm happy to report that every time I have gone out, I have beaten my personal record for average minutes/mile--generally around 10 or so, though that number is a little misleading, as that's including the first 5 minutes which I usually walk to wake up my legs rather than starting the actual run cold turkey.
Running isn't a new thing to me, really. I went a decent amount over the summer in Cherokee, and I've had a handful of other times when I've been consistent about it the last few years. I benefit from naturally having a runner's build, being tall, thin, and having the deepest foot arches I've ever seen--a trait which is great for running, though not so great for maintaining the shape of shoes. With that in mind, it makes sense that I would like running, purely on a physical level.
I also like running on a mental level. I like the individuality of it--sure one can go running with friends, but a person's pace and duration in a run is all his or her own. I enjoy running outside, because I like being out in the sun and the fresh air. I like seeing people, be they other runners or families or people walking their dogs or playing Frisbee, whatever they're up to, I enjoy seeing others enjoying the outdoors. I think a fair amount when I go running. It was actually during a run that I began considering writing this very post--the post began with my fingers dragging across the fence, because I actually did just that mid-run a day or two ago. I like being able to let my mind consider and process the various sensory impulses I come across during a run: the heavy breathing, the soreness of exercised muscles, the slick sweat, the brightness of the sun, the wonderful cooling wind. Running is such a sensory goldmine. It's a raw, individualistic exercise and yeah, I kind of love it.
I also hear tale it's good for you, which is a nice plus.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Confessions of an addict
I go to a lot of bookstores. I'm currently sitting in a Barnes and Noble in Tulsa, Oklahoma. There are two of Barnes and Noble in Tulsa, and I have already been to the other one twice, so I thought I would check out this one today. I've also been to Fine Books, which is in one of the malls, Gardeners, which is apparently the largest used bookstore in the state, the Frugal Bookshop, and there was also a small shop in one of the towns in which we had a performance--I didn't catch the name of it, alas, though it had a very friendly black cat which made up for the small selection.
Bookshops come in all sorts of varieties. You have your massive, unorganized piles and piles of cheap books stores. You have your tiny, independent store that mostly sells things the people running it like. You have your corporation bookstores, though these are becoming fewer and fewer as the days go by--a tragedy. You have your rare books stores, those where you mostly just look and don't touch, books not intended to be read so much as peered at. I love bookshops of all varieties (though I do prefer the ones where I'm allowed to touch).
During my first tour for the National Theatre for Children, I went to upwards of twenty or thirty bookstores. I bought thirty-one books over the course of that 10 week adventure. I was close enough to home that I could stop in and drop books off every once in a while. This tour, however, I find I have to restrain myself far more often. I am nearly a thousand miles from home. No quick pit stops to drop off books this time. Whatever I buy, I have to carry with me at all times. I have an unending list of books that I want to find and read. I have had a fair amount of success finding several of them in the last couple of weeks. Yet despite the cheap prices, despite the successful finds, I have more often than not forced myself to walk away from stores empty handed. This has been a challenge.
You see, I have an addiction. A book buying addiction. There. I said it. Don't misunderstand: it's not that I have an addiction to reading--I do read a fair amount, perhaps more than many of my peers, but I have far more books sitting on shelves unread, waiting for me to crack their spines, turn their pages, and invest in their worlds than I can keep up with. My addiction is to the thrill of the buy. The thrill of finding works by great authors that are not always easy to find. See, there's a certain kind of book that is my favorite thrill: I fondly call these books "OOPs. books." Out of print is this terrible disease that sadly befalls works that, for whatever reason, do not have consistent mainstream success. Several of my favorite authors have such books running about the used bookstore circuit. I get excited whenever I find something by Gene Wolfe, Jack Vance, Roger Zelazny, or M. John Harrison (to name a few) that I have never seen in print before. I love coming across a book I've never heard of before written by an author I love. This is a thrill in itself, perhaps not quite as potent as the thrill of finding something for which I have been searching. But still. I revel in the find.
So, why am I sharing all this with you? Well, my name is Daniel. I've been a bookoholic for roughly 14 or 15 years. I hear admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery....
Oh, one last thought: go support bookstores. I buy a lot of books, but I can't keep them in business by myself, try as I might. I urge you to support even the big chains and especially the small, independent stores.
PS. Read a book. It's good for you.
Bookshops come in all sorts of varieties. You have your massive, unorganized piles and piles of cheap books stores. You have your tiny, independent store that mostly sells things the people running it like. You have your corporation bookstores, though these are becoming fewer and fewer as the days go by--a tragedy. You have your rare books stores, those where you mostly just look and don't touch, books not intended to be read so much as peered at. I love bookshops of all varieties (though I do prefer the ones where I'm allowed to touch).
During my first tour for the National Theatre for Children, I went to upwards of twenty or thirty bookstores. I bought thirty-one books over the course of that 10 week adventure. I was close enough to home that I could stop in and drop books off every once in a while. This tour, however, I find I have to restrain myself far more often. I am nearly a thousand miles from home. No quick pit stops to drop off books this time. Whatever I buy, I have to carry with me at all times. I have an unending list of books that I want to find and read. I have had a fair amount of success finding several of them in the last couple of weeks. Yet despite the cheap prices, despite the successful finds, I have more often than not forced myself to walk away from stores empty handed. This has been a challenge.
You see, I have an addiction. A book buying addiction. There. I said it. Don't misunderstand: it's not that I have an addiction to reading--I do read a fair amount, perhaps more than many of my peers, but I have far more books sitting on shelves unread, waiting for me to crack their spines, turn their pages, and invest in their worlds than I can keep up with. My addiction is to the thrill of the buy. The thrill of finding works by great authors that are not always easy to find. See, there's a certain kind of book that is my favorite thrill: I fondly call these books "OOPs. books." Out of print is this terrible disease that sadly befalls works that, for whatever reason, do not have consistent mainstream success. Several of my favorite authors have such books running about the used bookstore circuit. I get excited whenever I find something by Gene Wolfe, Jack Vance, Roger Zelazny, or M. John Harrison (to name a few) that I have never seen in print before. I love coming across a book I've never heard of before written by an author I love. This is a thrill in itself, perhaps not quite as potent as the thrill of finding something for which I have been searching. But still. I revel in the find.
So, why am I sharing all this with you? Well, my name is Daniel. I've been a bookoholic for roughly 14 or 15 years. I hear admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery....
Oh, one last thought: go support bookstores. I buy a lot of books, but I can't keep them in business by myself, try as I might. I urge you to support even the big chains and especially the small, independent stores.
PS. Read a book. It's good for you.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
UTH ---> NTC
So...... It's been a while. Oops. I've been busy.
We finished out the 2014 season of Unto These Hills strong. The summer was full of new friends, theatre, and far too much fast food. I directed a show, performed in three others, and even won an award for "saving" shows--ended up playing a handful of roles I wasn't originally cast in. I got into a relationship this summer with the lovely Erin Gathercoal. I made a number of connections and hope to work with several of my coworkers again in the future. It was a great summer.
Yet all things must end (hoping the aforementioned relationship is immune to this absolute). I said goodbye to Cherokee, NC a few weeks ago. But frankly, I haven't had any time to stop and really think about it, because five days later, I got on a plane and flew to Minneapolis, where I began rehearsals for a tour with the National Theatre for Children. This is tour #2 for me--Dan O and I did a tour with them last January-March, you can read about some of our adventures during that period over at http://dansquaredblog.blogspot.com/
This time around, I'm working with an NTC veteran named T.J. Besler. This marks his 8th tour for NTC. Last time around, I was in North and South Carolina. This time, however, I've moved further west to Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. We just finished up our first week of performances, and it is certainly shaping up to be a fun tour.
So far, I have already gone to six bookstores (Magers and Quinn, The Friendly Bookstore, Dickson St. Books, Nightbird Books, and 2 Barnes and Noble). Tour is off to a good start.
Anywho. I'm going to try and be a bit more consistent about keeping up with the blog. We'll see if that actually happens.
We finished out the 2014 season of Unto These Hills strong. The summer was full of new friends, theatre, and far too much fast food. I directed a show, performed in three others, and even won an award for "saving" shows--ended up playing a handful of roles I wasn't originally cast in. I got into a relationship this summer with the lovely Erin Gathercoal. I made a number of connections and hope to work with several of my coworkers again in the future. It was a great summer.
Yet all things must end (hoping the aforementioned relationship is immune to this absolute). I said goodbye to Cherokee, NC a few weeks ago. But frankly, I haven't had any time to stop and really think about it, because five days later, I got on a plane and flew to Minneapolis, where I began rehearsals for a tour with the National Theatre for Children. This is tour #2 for me--Dan O and I did a tour with them last January-March, you can read about some of our adventures during that period over at http://dansquaredblog.blogspot.com/
This time around, I'm working with an NTC veteran named T.J. Besler. This marks his 8th tour for NTC. Last time around, I was in North and South Carolina. This time, however, I've moved further west to Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. We just finished up our first week of performances, and it is certainly shaping up to be a fun tour.
So far, I have already gone to six bookstores (Magers and Quinn, The Friendly Bookstore, Dickson St. Books, Nightbird Books, and 2 Barnes and Noble). Tour is off to a good start.
Anywho. I'm going to try and be a bit more consistent about keeping up with the blog. We'll see if that actually happens.
Monday, July 21, 2014
A Review of "An Iliad"
Algernon D'Ammassa, from my estimation, is a storyteller, pure and simple. He tells stories the way stories should always be told. He never brags. He never preaches. He lets the story and the characters do the work. I have had the pleasure of knowing him for just a couple months now. In that time, I have worked with him in varying capacities. He plays a substantial role in the main stage production of Unto These Hills, in which I play a small, ensemble role. He performed the part of a Scottish woman in Engaged, a farce that I directed. We worked as partners during a handful of exercises while taking stage combat courses. I've had a number of conversations with Algernon, sometimes sitting around a campfire, sometimes simply in passing as we go about our days, sometimes running into each other at the local Cherokee Coffee Shop, a place we both regular. From these various conversations, I have gathered that Algernon has lived a varied life of adventures and misadventures. He is a traveler. He is a father. He is an actor. He is a storyteller. And when he walks into the room to tell one of the oldest recorded stories, he does it right.
I have had the pleasure of viewing Algernon D'Ammassa's performance of An Iliad twice. These performances took place a month apart from one another in two totally different venues--once in the canteen of Unto These Hills in Cherokee, NC and once at a small tavern, White Horse in Black Mountain, NC. Both times, I found myself transported across the millennia back to ancient Greece to witness personal narratives of a few of the heroes of the Trojan War. Algernon D'Ammassa's performance is a powerhouse performance. He gracefully moves from character to character as the story dictates, playing each figure in his turn. As Achilles, we see Algernon rage and despair at the loss of his friend--his "friend"--Patroclus. As Hector, we see Algernon nobly fight for his city, for his people, for his wife and his son. As Paris and Helen, we see him a weak and cowardly figure. As Agamemnon, we see him reek of greed and pride. As Hermes, we see him playful and Puck-like. As Priam, we see a father mourning for his son. Algernon brings every character to life. He plays each character with slightly differing physicalities--no easy task given the number of characters. His commitment to each action throughout the play sells the story and pushes the dramatic action forward. Algernon plants kernels of truth in every role. These people, even though they are heroes, gods, and legends, are presented as people. I cannot imagine someone less traveled, less experienced, less adventurous than Algernon D'Ammassa bringing the nuances of the humanity of these characters to the stage successfully.
And what a story, what a performance, it is. If the opportunity to see it a third time ever comes, I will be there in a heartbeat.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
The Smith Traders
In Unto These Hills, I portray a couple of nameless soldiers, both of whom are killed during the show. Not one to sit by and just let my characters be nobodies, I decided to write a back story. My characters are Nigel Smith, Senior and Nigel Smith, Junior. This is their tragic story. Oh and for the record, supposedly, Ahuli is a Cherokee name meaning drum; my source for this is the Internet, which means it might be true. For the sake of the story, let's just assume it is.
~The Smith Traders~
My father, Nigel Smith, Senior, was not a bad man and neither was I, but in the affairs of country, personal ethics don't matter too much. Reasons for the outbreak of war are innumerable, seems everyone has their theory, and I'm no historian to deal in discussions and debates about the whys. It happened. Let that be sufficient. My father was a trader and he joined the militia out of duty to his neighbors more than a duty to his country, though certainly the township took fair pride in the new country of the United States of America. When the pot boiled and the dark days of 1812 began, the town hesitated only for a moment; by the end of the year, she sent the bulk of her militia to join the fight. Mama asked Papa not to go, as wife's are oft to do. Whether or not it was a cold, winter evening, I don't know for sure, but that's the dramatic picture in my memory: cold, snowy, my brother Jeb and I huddled for warmth in our bed and three candles casting shadow dancers around the two room cabin.
Mama and Papa were outside, I think. If my memory is true, their voices crept in through the walls, and, though I tried not to listen, I heard the fight. I heard Mama begging him to stay with us, telling him he was going to get himself killed and his family, we, would be left struggling to survive. We would be left dying. Father balked. He argued duty to his neighbors, his brothers and friends. And what of his duty to us? I never heard an answer. The militia trumpets sounded and, an apologetic goodbye later, father was on the road to join General Jackson's forces. One thing I remember without a doubt: Mama cried and then Jeb cried and I--well, despite my best effort, I just whimpered, and my face stayed dry. I wished there was something I could say to be comforting to my family, but I was young and scared, and I did nothing.
Over the next months we got occasional, hastily written letters. Having been a trader before the war, Papa spoke some of the Cherokee language. This helped him move forward in the ranks. Indeed, Papa wrote that he met General Jackson himself. He spoke of Jackson as a shrewd man--smart but with a cruel, cold streak. My father didn't care much for Jackson the man, but he spoke highly of Jackson the general's presence and his blue-eyed charm. Father was far more positive about the Cherokee than he was about the man who would be one day be president. Even before the war, Papa had believed in always doing fair business with the native people. Be friendly to all men--a good businessman makes friends, not enemies, he'd say. These sentiments echoed in his letters, as he spoke of the people he fought beside. He told us of one man in particular, an Indian named Ahuli.
Papa met Ahuli two months after the militia joined the fight. Even as he fought in the army, father was always a trader deep down. So it was that, one night, sitting beside a small fire, he made an exchange with Ahuli. They shared a bowl of soup and a cup of water and traded stories of home and of their families. Papa found Ahuli a kindred spirit, and native man became a regular figure in father's letters after their meeting. If history were only letters, my father's story and, indeed, my own story, would have no tragedy, but war is war. Eventually, the letters stopped, and my mother, Jeb, and I heard nothing more from my father, Nigel Smith, Senior.
When father left, Jeb and I had done our best taking over the trading post, but without our father's guiding hand, and with many of our regular customers gone to fight in the war, business was slow. Still, we kept at it as best we could. Jeb and I were at odds time to time. He thought we should focus on trading for gold and coin. I believed in trading for tools and goods. I guess if I'm honest that's what hurt the business most of all. We were siblings and we fought as such, for we were assured in our youth and didn't understand our mortality. Mama, bless her, did little in those days. She prayed and waited for letters and, though she tried to hide it, I heard her crying every night. I wish I had comforted her better. I wish I had held her and been strong for her. Instead, I did nothing.
One hot day near the end of June, while we were cleaning the trading post, I told Jeb I was worried about Mama. I told him her crying was scaring me. He told me to pay it no mind, that being scared was being weak, that I was being a coward and that father would be ashamed of me. In those days, Jeb spoke down to me often. I don't hold it against him now. I think he was just as scared as Mama was, just as scared as I was. We all missed Papa and we all worried. However, none of that crossed my mind. Instead, I struck my brother square in the nose, the fears and worries all firing up in me and releasing from me as rage. Jeb lashed right back against me and, before we knew it, we were on the ground rolling in the dirt, hitting and kicking and screaming. Mama came quickly, yelling at us to stop, and I'm sure a passerby or two stopped to give a pitying nod. We paid nobody no mind, just kept on beating our emotions out of one another. I guess this would've kept on keeping on for a good while until one of us was knocked out, except that a voice louder than a drum barreled through the trading post: "If you are the sons of Nigel Smith, stop this foolishness at once. I bring sad news of your father." So it was that we met Ahuli.
The native man had traveled on foot hundreds of miles to deliver the story of my father's death to his family. The Battle of Horseshoe Bend put an end to the Creek War and was a strong victory for the United States in the War of 1812. It was a battle in which my country's men killed several hundred Creek warriors and suffered minimal casualties of our own troops. I do not take pride in the knowledge of the overwhelming suffering we caused the families of those we killed or the destructive treatment of the Indians after the battle was finished. I know that the Creek suffering as a whole was greater than the American suffering, but my Papa who was one of the few Americans killed on the battlefield and my family suffered that loss with great sorrow. Ahuli's tale was an honest one. Papa had escorted a Creek prisoner off the battlefield. After handing him over to authorities, my father ran back to the field to rejoin the fight. He killed only one warrior before being struck with a knife. He fell without fanfare, without being noticed by his own countrymen. Ahuli dragged him from the battlefield and promised him he would find us. My father died in the arms of a Cherokee man who loved him as a brother.
Ahuli finished his story. The trading post was quiet in the summer heat. With hardly a sound, Mama thanked Ahuli for finding us and turned away, staring at nothing, silent. Jeb didn't move; he, too, was silent, a dark rage beginning to grow deep inside him, a rage which would never stop simmering. My own silence lasted only a moment. Then, suddenly, unlike the night my father went away, the floods came. I wept and my mother looked away and my brother fumed. As I began to collapse, I felt strong, warm arms around me. Ahuli, my father's friend, a Cherokee Indian, held me.
Jeb lashed out. He pushed Ahuli away from me calling him a filthy redskin. He slandered our father's friend. Liar, he said. Vile Indian. He screamed and raged and forced Ahuli out of the trading post. My mother and I, shocked, did nothing. I don't know what became of Ahuli after that. By the time I was back to myself, the native man was gone. I wish I could say Jeb didn't mean his words. I wish I could say it was all shock and rage and emotion, and perhaps at the beginning it was, but he never let go of that rage. My brother Jeb, by choice or not, unfairly blamed all Indians, even Ahuli, for our father's death for the rest of his life. I never agreed with him about this, but I never spoke up. I didn't feel it was my place. I let it be. I did nothing.
Mama passed a few years later during a harsh winter. After her death, my brother Jeb and I left town together. We followed in our father's footsteps, joining the United States Army. I joined to honor our father's memory. My brother joined to seek revenge on natives. When Andrew Jackson, as president, signed the Indian Removal Act, Jeb and I were both involved in the removal. I took no pride in it. Indeed, I struggled with it.
Marching the Indians across the country, I can't count the number of times I hesitated to carry out my orders. Again and again, I thought of Ahuli. I thought of the unfairness of what we were doing. But still, I carried out my orders on that terrible trail. Once I was called upon by my superiors to put chains on the Cherokee hero Junaluska. I did so fearfully and ashamedly, and in my fear, I struck out, pushing the defeated man in a petty display of power--false power; I trembled as I struck him. My brother walked by my side for much of the march. Then, one day, a group was ordered to chase after Tsali and his sons, a group of Cherokee who were resisting the removal. I was among that group. Jeb was not.
We found Tsali and had him in our custody, but soon, a skirmish broke loose. Tsali's granddaughter cried out, begging to go home. My commanding officer smacked her, telling her to be quiet. I trembled at his brutality, aghast at his anger towards a little girl. I was shaken by his cruelty. I was shaken, and, for a moment, I didn't see the lieutenant at all--I saw my brother. Before I knew what was happening, Tsali's sons had wrestled my gun from me and, like my father before me, I, Nigel Smith, Junior, was falling to the ground, the warmth of my own blood pouring from a knife wound.
As I laid there, alone, dying, I sobbed, wishing for someone like Ahuli to hold me. But Ahuli was long gone, driven away by my brother's anger and by my hesitation to act.
Some time later, Jeb learned of my death. Since then, his anger towards Indians has only continued to grow. I wish I could speak to him. I wish I could tell him it wasn't their fault. I wish I could tell him that rage helps no one, that acting out against the native people honors neither my father or me. But my brother, like so many other American citizens, lives and hates, and my father and I are long dead. And I can do nothing.
~The Smith Traders~
My father, Nigel Smith, Senior, was not a bad man and neither was I, but in the affairs of country, personal ethics don't matter too much. Reasons for the outbreak of war are innumerable, seems everyone has their theory, and I'm no historian to deal in discussions and debates about the whys. It happened. Let that be sufficient. My father was a trader and he joined the militia out of duty to his neighbors more than a duty to his country, though certainly the township took fair pride in the new country of the United States of America. When the pot boiled and the dark days of 1812 began, the town hesitated only for a moment; by the end of the year, she sent the bulk of her militia to join the fight. Mama asked Papa not to go, as wife's are oft to do. Whether or not it was a cold, winter evening, I don't know for sure, but that's the dramatic picture in my memory: cold, snowy, my brother Jeb and I huddled for warmth in our bed and three candles casting shadow dancers around the two room cabin.
Mama and Papa were outside, I think. If my memory is true, their voices crept in through the walls, and, though I tried not to listen, I heard the fight. I heard Mama begging him to stay with us, telling him he was going to get himself killed and his family, we, would be left struggling to survive. We would be left dying. Father balked. He argued duty to his neighbors, his brothers and friends. And what of his duty to us? I never heard an answer. The militia trumpets sounded and, an apologetic goodbye later, father was on the road to join General Jackson's forces. One thing I remember without a doubt: Mama cried and then Jeb cried and I--well, despite my best effort, I just whimpered, and my face stayed dry. I wished there was something I could say to be comforting to my family, but I was young and scared, and I did nothing.
Over the next months we got occasional, hastily written letters. Having been a trader before the war, Papa spoke some of the Cherokee language. This helped him move forward in the ranks. Indeed, Papa wrote that he met General Jackson himself. He spoke of Jackson as a shrewd man--smart but with a cruel, cold streak. My father didn't care much for Jackson the man, but he spoke highly of Jackson the general's presence and his blue-eyed charm. Father was far more positive about the Cherokee than he was about the man who would be one day be president. Even before the war, Papa had believed in always doing fair business with the native people. Be friendly to all men--a good businessman makes friends, not enemies, he'd say. These sentiments echoed in his letters, as he spoke of the people he fought beside. He told us of one man in particular, an Indian named Ahuli.
Papa met Ahuli two months after the militia joined the fight. Even as he fought in the army, father was always a trader deep down. So it was that, one night, sitting beside a small fire, he made an exchange with Ahuli. They shared a bowl of soup and a cup of water and traded stories of home and of their families. Papa found Ahuli a kindred spirit, and native man became a regular figure in father's letters after their meeting. If history were only letters, my father's story and, indeed, my own story, would have no tragedy, but war is war. Eventually, the letters stopped, and my mother, Jeb, and I heard nothing more from my father, Nigel Smith, Senior.
When father left, Jeb and I had done our best taking over the trading post, but without our father's guiding hand, and with many of our regular customers gone to fight in the war, business was slow. Still, we kept at it as best we could. Jeb and I were at odds time to time. He thought we should focus on trading for gold and coin. I believed in trading for tools and goods. I guess if I'm honest that's what hurt the business most of all. We were siblings and we fought as such, for we were assured in our youth and didn't understand our mortality. Mama, bless her, did little in those days. She prayed and waited for letters and, though she tried to hide it, I heard her crying every night. I wish I had comforted her better. I wish I had held her and been strong for her. Instead, I did nothing.
One hot day near the end of June, while we were cleaning the trading post, I told Jeb I was worried about Mama. I told him her crying was scaring me. He told me to pay it no mind, that being scared was being weak, that I was being a coward and that father would be ashamed of me. In those days, Jeb spoke down to me often. I don't hold it against him now. I think he was just as scared as Mama was, just as scared as I was. We all missed Papa and we all worried. However, none of that crossed my mind. Instead, I struck my brother square in the nose, the fears and worries all firing up in me and releasing from me as rage. Jeb lashed right back against me and, before we knew it, we were on the ground rolling in the dirt, hitting and kicking and screaming. Mama came quickly, yelling at us to stop, and I'm sure a passerby or two stopped to give a pitying nod. We paid nobody no mind, just kept on beating our emotions out of one another. I guess this would've kept on keeping on for a good while until one of us was knocked out, except that a voice louder than a drum barreled through the trading post: "If you are the sons of Nigel Smith, stop this foolishness at once. I bring sad news of your father." So it was that we met Ahuli.
The native man had traveled on foot hundreds of miles to deliver the story of my father's death to his family. The Battle of Horseshoe Bend put an end to the Creek War and was a strong victory for the United States in the War of 1812. It was a battle in which my country's men killed several hundred Creek warriors and suffered minimal casualties of our own troops. I do not take pride in the knowledge of the overwhelming suffering we caused the families of those we killed or the destructive treatment of the Indians after the battle was finished. I know that the Creek suffering as a whole was greater than the American suffering, but my Papa who was one of the few Americans killed on the battlefield and my family suffered that loss with great sorrow. Ahuli's tale was an honest one. Papa had escorted a Creek prisoner off the battlefield. After handing him over to authorities, my father ran back to the field to rejoin the fight. He killed only one warrior before being struck with a knife. He fell without fanfare, without being noticed by his own countrymen. Ahuli dragged him from the battlefield and promised him he would find us. My father died in the arms of a Cherokee man who loved him as a brother.
Ahuli finished his story. The trading post was quiet in the summer heat. With hardly a sound, Mama thanked Ahuli for finding us and turned away, staring at nothing, silent. Jeb didn't move; he, too, was silent, a dark rage beginning to grow deep inside him, a rage which would never stop simmering. My own silence lasted only a moment. Then, suddenly, unlike the night my father went away, the floods came. I wept and my mother looked away and my brother fumed. As I began to collapse, I felt strong, warm arms around me. Ahuli, my father's friend, a Cherokee Indian, held me.
Jeb lashed out. He pushed Ahuli away from me calling him a filthy redskin. He slandered our father's friend. Liar, he said. Vile Indian. He screamed and raged and forced Ahuli out of the trading post. My mother and I, shocked, did nothing. I don't know what became of Ahuli after that. By the time I was back to myself, the native man was gone. I wish I could say Jeb didn't mean his words. I wish I could say it was all shock and rage and emotion, and perhaps at the beginning it was, but he never let go of that rage. My brother Jeb, by choice or not, unfairly blamed all Indians, even Ahuli, for our father's death for the rest of his life. I never agreed with him about this, but I never spoke up. I didn't feel it was my place. I let it be. I did nothing.
Mama passed a few years later during a harsh winter. After her death, my brother Jeb and I left town together. We followed in our father's footsteps, joining the United States Army. I joined to honor our father's memory. My brother joined to seek revenge on natives. When Andrew Jackson, as president, signed the Indian Removal Act, Jeb and I were both involved in the removal. I took no pride in it. Indeed, I struggled with it.
Marching the Indians across the country, I can't count the number of times I hesitated to carry out my orders. Again and again, I thought of Ahuli. I thought of the unfairness of what we were doing. But still, I carried out my orders on that terrible trail. Once I was called upon by my superiors to put chains on the Cherokee hero Junaluska. I did so fearfully and ashamedly, and in my fear, I struck out, pushing the defeated man in a petty display of power--false power; I trembled as I struck him. My brother walked by my side for much of the march. Then, one day, a group was ordered to chase after Tsali and his sons, a group of Cherokee who were resisting the removal. I was among that group. Jeb was not.
We found Tsali and had him in our custody, but soon, a skirmish broke loose. Tsali's granddaughter cried out, begging to go home. My commanding officer smacked her, telling her to be quiet. I trembled at his brutality, aghast at his anger towards a little girl. I was shaken by his cruelty. I was shaken, and, for a moment, I didn't see the lieutenant at all--I saw my brother. Before I knew what was happening, Tsali's sons had wrestled my gun from me and, like my father before me, I, Nigel Smith, Junior, was falling to the ground, the warmth of my own blood pouring from a knife wound.
As I laid there, alone, dying, I sobbed, wishing for someone like Ahuli to hold me. But Ahuli was long gone, driven away by my brother's anger and by my hesitation to act.
Some time later, Jeb learned of my death. Since then, his anger towards Indians has only continued to grow. I wish I could speak to him. I wish I could tell him it wasn't their fault. I wish I could tell him that rage helps no one, that acting out against the native people honors neither my father or me. But my brother, like so many other American citizens, lives and hates, and my father and I are long dead. And I can do nothing.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
A Retrospective of Fight Class from the Society of American Fight Directors
The alarm clock rings at 9:45 in the morning. I force myself to roll out of bed, grabbing my contacts on the way. I stretch just a little, put on some clothes, pause in the restroom to brush my teeth, grab a piece of fruit, a granola bar, and my water bottle, and I head out of the door across the old brittle sidewalk, across the asphalt road, into the one air-conditioned building on the hill. It's 10AM by now and other actors are trickling in. Everyone is dressed in gym clothes, and the atmosphere is one of tired energy. Dan Granke, a fight director from the Society of American Fight Directors (SAFD), comes in carrying his red backpack, which is full of training knives. Class begins.
We grab partners for the majority of our work. We grapple with one another, pushing one another back and forth across the room. We play with knives, testing what it feels like to make contact to one another with them. We discuss concepts developed by Michael Chekhov. We imagine that we stand in the center of invisible bubbles, essentially our personal bubbles. We test what it feels like to move around other people in our bubbles, conscious of not only our own but also everyone else's. We test how it feels to contract and expand our bubbles. We continue to practice grappling and using knives. We discuss martial skills and what attacks and disarms and defenses would actually do if one were to apply them with complete force. Knowing our target objectives is important. A sense of reality is important.
We choose partners for scene work, scenes which we will serve as our fight tests. One partner for unarmed fighting and one partner for knife fighting. My unarmed partner is my friend Elena and we choose a scene from Barefoot in the Park by Neil Simon. My knife partner is Kemper McDowell, an older actor who I don't know very well and we choose a scene from Tristan and Yseult.
Every Monday through Saturday, over the course of three weeks, we meet to work on our training. With Elena, I practice punches, elbows, kicks, knees, falls, chokes, grappling on the floor. With Kemper, I practice stabs, slashes, punches, knees, disarms, grappling with knives in our hands. The scene with Elena is a lovers' quarrel; in it, there is no intent to kill or seriously injure. My character while angry, does not want to actually harm his wife. The scene with Kemper is a fight against an invading king; in it, we fight to the death. I am disarmed, stabbed in the gut, and as I gasp for air, I disarm Kemper, taking his own blade which I use to fatally stab him through the eye.
The choreography is tight. We watch our classmates work. Everyone does the same choreography but the scenes are vastly different. We see bits of Shakespeare, we see contemporary works, we see a particularly terrifying fight between two women doing a scene from The Crucible. Every pair refines their fights so as to work with their own physicality. This shows us just how different working with different people can be. All of the scenes are strong. All of the fights are strong. And all of them are unique to their pairs.
As the days go by we continue to discuss the technical theory behind the work we're doing. We practice acting exercises to help us fine tune our work. We get out short pool noodles and have a competition we refer to as the UTH World Cup Knife Fights. We fight in pairs. The first person to get three clean hits wins. Day one of the competition, we split into three groups of four. Each person is required to fight everyone in their group. The two people with the most wins in each group will continue on into elimination rounds for the final. My first fight is the first one of the competition. I'm fighting Travis, the UTH fight captain. In a dumb luck moment, I upset the roster by a fluke disarm. Then, fighting Elena, I find a spot she has trouble defending, and I win again. Kemper, however, beats me. I move on to the quarter-final.
Between the first round and the semi-final, we do a different exercise with the noodles. The premise is essentially the same: two fighters face off. This time, however, Dan side coaches us as we fight. The only rule: we cannot leave the scene until he tells us. We are fighting to the death, and this work is brutal, emotional work. We're asked to imagine actually fighting as if our lives depend on it, as if we are really killing someone. Our movements change drastically. The exercise somehow doesn't feel like a game anymore. It's disturbing and emotionally draining. After each fight ends, we take time to stretch, to breathe, to calm down and recenter ourselves. We discuss the emotions and effects of such awful things as killing another person (or of dying in such a terrible way). The exercise reminds us of the danger of weapons, the danger of fighting. It is disturbing, but it is an extremely valuable exercise. It informs our work not only in fighting but in acting in general. It pushes us into a different place, one we don't necessarily want to go, but it gives us a new tool we can use.
The quarter-final round of the Knife Fights is single elimination. My first fight is against Anthony, one of the two most athletic guys on the hill. He's fast, strong, and intimidating in a fight--though outside of a competition, he's one of the most chill and friendly guys you'll ever meet. The fight begins and I take a solid stance, holding my position. I hold still, waiting for him to strike. He tries to bait me into moving, but I'm not falling for it. He lands a hit on me. I stagger. He lands another hit on me. Down by two, knowing if I'm hit again, I'm out, I refocus. I patiently wait. I get a hit. Anthony dances around me, moving in circles. I only move slightly, always facing him. He moves to attack. I dodge and hit him a second time. Next hit wins. We're both sweating. We're both tense. We have several moments of hitting at the same time, moments we refer to as doubles which do not count towards our scores. It has to be a clean hit. Anthony raises his arm to begin a downward slash. In that moment, I make the first true lunge I've made the entire fight. I strike him straight on, winning the fight.
I move into the semi-final. My next opponent is Chris, a ruthless fighter who uses scare tactics. They don't work on me, but he's even faster than Anthony. He's more precise. I only land one hit on him, and he beats me. He proceeds to beat Eric in the final, winning the competition undefeated. Eric and I face off for second place and the match ends the same as the first one of the competition: a fluke disarm, and I earn second overall.
Class continues, our scenes continue to be tweaked and cleaned up as we improve our movement, as we learn our lines, as we work on building our characters. Every day we're covered in sweat and new bruises and carpet burns. We're all getting beat up each day. We're all tired. But it's fun work. It's enjoyable. It's acting work. And the general consensus is that Dan Granke is a wonderful teacher, not to mention just a great guy. He's friendly, extremely knowledgeable, and he works from an acting perspective. His criticism of our work never feels discouraging. He explains things in ways that are clear and precise, and even when he has to repeat himself, he never seems annoyed. He works to help his students learn and grow. If ever I have the opportunity to work with him again, I would say yes in a heartbeat.
The day of our fight tests comes along. Scott Mann, a fight master from the SAFD is our judge. He watches our fights with a smile. He then takes us through two short masterclasses. These are focused on fighting for film. We do a short knife fight pattern in one. In the other, we do a short unarmed punching pattern. Scott, in the brief hours he is with us, strikes me as another fantastic, knowledgeable teacher.
All of us students exit the building for a brief time so Scott and Dan can discuss our work. When we're called back in, Scott lifts up a fight certificate and says, "Daniel Banks. Please talk to your teacher after this. Fail." He tears the certificate apart. An audible gasp comes from everyone in the room. A beat. Scott laughs, "I'm joking, of course. Look, you all passed and several passed with recommends. This was one of the strongest sets of fights I've seen in a long while."
I did not receive recommends for either of my fights, but the pass is still good, and Scott gave advice and feedback on what I need to continue to work on.
These last three weeks have been extremely busy. Our classes had four hours of work a day with an hour lunch break in the middle. The first week of class was also production week for the farce I directed. Then over the last two weeks I was in rehearsals for Glengarry Glen Ross, which was a difficult production and I had a ton of work to do in a short amount of time. Over these three weeks, I got around 6 hours of sleep a night, and my day would start at 9:45AM and go until about 1 or 2AM without much of a break. I've been exhausted, but I have had a blast. The weeks flew by.
So, what happens now? Well, I'm taking a break. Sure, I still have performances of UTH every Monday-Saturday, and I have Time of War performances every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. But overall, my schedule has opened up dramatically. Yesterday afternoon, I sat and read for fun for a while. Last night, I hung out by the nightly bonfire. I actually got a full night's sleep. I'm planning on continuing to read a lot. I'm planning on writing more often (both blogging and working on some stories/scripts I have rolling around in my head). I'm going to pick up running again. I'm going to take walks and go swimming and try new restaurants. I've just started to look at possible MFA programs in Directing--Dan actually gave me couple suggestions of potential schools to look at. The constant workload has been wonderful, enjoyable, and I am so glad for all of the training and experience I have received from it. But I am also extremely glad that it's vacation time. It's breathing time. And I fully intend to enjoy every moment.
We grab partners for the majority of our work. We grapple with one another, pushing one another back and forth across the room. We play with knives, testing what it feels like to make contact to one another with them. We discuss concepts developed by Michael Chekhov. We imagine that we stand in the center of invisible bubbles, essentially our personal bubbles. We test what it feels like to move around other people in our bubbles, conscious of not only our own but also everyone else's. We test how it feels to contract and expand our bubbles. We continue to practice grappling and using knives. We discuss martial skills and what attacks and disarms and defenses would actually do if one were to apply them with complete force. Knowing our target objectives is important. A sense of reality is important.
We choose partners for scene work, scenes which we will serve as our fight tests. One partner for unarmed fighting and one partner for knife fighting. My unarmed partner is my friend Elena and we choose a scene from Barefoot in the Park by Neil Simon. My knife partner is Kemper McDowell, an older actor who I don't know very well and we choose a scene from Tristan and Yseult.
Every Monday through Saturday, over the course of three weeks, we meet to work on our training. With Elena, I practice punches, elbows, kicks, knees, falls, chokes, grappling on the floor. With Kemper, I practice stabs, slashes, punches, knees, disarms, grappling with knives in our hands. The scene with Elena is a lovers' quarrel; in it, there is no intent to kill or seriously injure. My character while angry, does not want to actually harm his wife. The scene with Kemper is a fight against an invading king; in it, we fight to the death. I am disarmed, stabbed in the gut, and as I gasp for air, I disarm Kemper, taking his own blade which I use to fatally stab him through the eye.
The choreography is tight. We watch our classmates work. Everyone does the same choreography but the scenes are vastly different. We see bits of Shakespeare, we see contemporary works, we see a particularly terrifying fight between two women doing a scene from The Crucible. Every pair refines their fights so as to work with their own physicality. This shows us just how different working with different people can be. All of the scenes are strong. All of the fights are strong. And all of them are unique to their pairs.
As the days go by we continue to discuss the technical theory behind the work we're doing. We practice acting exercises to help us fine tune our work. We get out short pool noodles and have a competition we refer to as the UTH World Cup Knife Fights. We fight in pairs. The first person to get three clean hits wins. Day one of the competition, we split into three groups of four. Each person is required to fight everyone in their group. The two people with the most wins in each group will continue on into elimination rounds for the final. My first fight is the first one of the competition. I'm fighting Travis, the UTH fight captain. In a dumb luck moment, I upset the roster by a fluke disarm. Then, fighting Elena, I find a spot she has trouble defending, and I win again. Kemper, however, beats me. I move on to the quarter-final.
Between the first round and the semi-final, we do a different exercise with the noodles. The premise is essentially the same: two fighters face off. This time, however, Dan side coaches us as we fight. The only rule: we cannot leave the scene until he tells us. We are fighting to the death, and this work is brutal, emotional work. We're asked to imagine actually fighting as if our lives depend on it, as if we are really killing someone. Our movements change drastically. The exercise somehow doesn't feel like a game anymore. It's disturbing and emotionally draining. After each fight ends, we take time to stretch, to breathe, to calm down and recenter ourselves. We discuss the emotions and effects of such awful things as killing another person (or of dying in such a terrible way). The exercise reminds us of the danger of weapons, the danger of fighting. It is disturbing, but it is an extremely valuable exercise. It informs our work not only in fighting but in acting in general. It pushes us into a different place, one we don't necessarily want to go, but it gives us a new tool we can use.
The quarter-final round of the Knife Fights is single elimination. My first fight is against Anthony, one of the two most athletic guys on the hill. He's fast, strong, and intimidating in a fight--though outside of a competition, he's one of the most chill and friendly guys you'll ever meet. The fight begins and I take a solid stance, holding my position. I hold still, waiting for him to strike. He tries to bait me into moving, but I'm not falling for it. He lands a hit on me. I stagger. He lands another hit on me. Down by two, knowing if I'm hit again, I'm out, I refocus. I patiently wait. I get a hit. Anthony dances around me, moving in circles. I only move slightly, always facing him. He moves to attack. I dodge and hit him a second time. Next hit wins. We're both sweating. We're both tense. We have several moments of hitting at the same time, moments we refer to as doubles which do not count towards our scores. It has to be a clean hit. Anthony raises his arm to begin a downward slash. In that moment, I make the first true lunge I've made the entire fight. I strike him straight on, winning the fight.
I move into the semi-final. My next opponent is Chris, a ruthless fighter who uses scare tactics. They don't work on me, but he's even faster than Anthony. He's more precise. I only land one hit on him, and he beats me. He proceeds to beat Eric in the final, winning the competition undefeated. Eric and I face off for second place and the match ends the same as the first one of the competition: a fluke disarm, and I earn second overall.
Class continues, our scenes continue to be tweaked and cleaned up as we improve our movement, as we learn our lines, as we work on building our characters. Every day we're covered in sweat and new bruises and carpet burns. We're all getting beat up each day. We're all tired. But it's fun work. It's enjoyable. It's acting work. And the general consensus is that Dan Granke is a wonderful teacher, not to mention just a great guy. He's friendly, extremely knowledgeable, and he works from an acting perspective. His criticism of our work never feels discouraging. He explains things in ways that are clear and precise, and even when he has to repeat himself, he never seems annoyed. He works to help his students learn and grow. If ever I have the opportunity to work with him again, I would say yes in a heartbeat.
The day of our fight tests comes along. Scott Mann, a fight master from the SAFD is our judge. He watches our fights with a smile. He then takes us through two short masterclasses. These are focused on fighting for film. We do a short knife fight pattern in one. In the other, we do a short unarmed punching pattern. Scott, in the brief hours he is with us, strikes me as another fantastic, knowledgeable teacher.
All of us students exit the building for a brief time so Scott and Dan can discuss our work. When we're called back in, Scott lifts up a fight certificate and says, "Daniel Banks. Please talk to your teacher after this. Fail." He tears the certificate apart. An audible gasp comes from everyone in the room. A beat. Scott laughs, "I'm joking, of course. Look, you all passed and several passed with recommends. This was one of the strongest sets of fights I've seen in a long while."
I did not receive recommends for either of my fights, but the pass is still good, and Scott gave advice and feedback on what I need to continue to work on.
These last three weeks have been extremely busy. Our classes had four hours of work a day with an hour lunch break in the middle. The first week of class was also production week for the farce I directed. Then over the last two weeks I was in rehearsals for Glengarry Glen Ross, which was a difficult production and I had a ton of work to do in a short amount of time. Over these three weeks, I got around 6 hours of sleep a night, and my day would start at 9:45AM and go until about 1 or 2AM without much of a break. I've been exhausted, but I have had a blast. The weeks flew by.
So, what happens now? Well, I'm taking a break. Sure, I still have performances of UTH every Monday-Saturday, and I have Time of War performances every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. But overall, my schedule has opened up dramatically. Yesterday afternoon, I sat and read for fun for a while. Last night, I hung out by the nightly bonfire. I actually got a full night's sleep. I'm planning on continuing to read a lot. I'm planning on writing more often (both blogging and working on some stories/scripts I have rolling around in my head). I'm going to pick up running again. I'm going to take walks and go swimming and try new restaurants. I've just started to look at possible MFA programs in Directing--Dan actually gave me couple suggestions of potential schools to look at. The constant workload has been wonderful, enjoyable, and I am so glad for all of the training and experience I have received from it. But I am also extremely glad that it's vacation time. It's breathing time. And I fully intend to enjoy every moment.
Friday, June 20, 2014
A summary of the last few weeks
Life is busy and I've not really had time for blogging, so my apologies.
Let's see. In the last few weeks, we played capture the flag all over the hill, we went to Dollywood, I began directing a 3 act farce called Engaged, the Tonys happened and I dressed in drag, I began rehearsals and performances of Time of War, there was a blackout which cancelled the big show for an evening as the whole hill was encompassed in blackness, I saved one of my castmate's lives, I watched an incredible one man canteen show, I traveled back home briefly, I saw a production of Henry V, and I got stung in the eye by a dive-bombing bee.
So....... Any one of these things would merit its own individual blog. However, ain't nobody got time for that. Instead, here's the quick versions. Each section will be titled so if you're only interested in small chunks, you don't have to read the whole blog!
Capture the Flag
It's a dark, wet night. Two teams spread across the hill from the theatre to the dorms. Our flags are placed. Our hearts are pounding. The game is almost upon us. A phone buzzes. We have word that a black bear has been spotted in no-man's land. The game comes to a standstill. We wait. Ten minutes later, we decide to go forth with the game anyways. I guard my flag, hiding under the bridge of the theatre. I see Anthony, one of my enemies sneaking close under the bridge. I run towards him. He scurries away. I hide again. A few minutes pass. Anthony return. He's cautious, wary, fearful. As he starts to reach to scale the bridge, I run towards him. He jumps ten feet into the air onto the bridge. I stand beneath my jaw agape. He grabs the flag and takes off. I cut him off at the pass. In the meantime, my team has stolen Anthony's teams' flag. We win the first round.
Round 2. I'm on offense. I go up into the woods. I'm planning on circling around the enemy team's defenses. Suddenly I hear feet pounding. A chase. Anthony again. He has my team's flag and David is in pursuit. I race down out of the woods behind him. It's too late. He makes it to his base. We've lost the second round.
Round 3. The teams switch up. Anthony is on my team. I'm thrilled. I'm on offense again. This time, I spend 45 minutes army crawling across a mulch pile, across an open grass field, towards the enemies who guard their flag. Just as I am within 10 feet of their flag, I hear a mess of confusion as first Anthony and David searching for the enemy flag. Then, out of nowhere, Barbara, our fight director, shows up with my team's flag. We lose. I crawled for nearly an hour across open land without being seen to no avail.
Dollywood
I get free tickets to Dollywood all this summer for me +1. (So if any friends ask nicely I might take you to Dollywood, hint hint). A group of us went one Sunday. We ran around riding every roller coaster and any other rides we felt like. We spent the full day there being an obnoxious tourist group. We would chant "UTH! UTH! UTH!" on the rides. We took lots of group pictures. We laughed and carried on and had a blast. We even had a brief flash mob of the hoedown dance from our show. It was a lovely day.
Engaged
I'm directing W.S. Gilbert's 3 act farce Engaged. Gilbert is the Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan fame. The play is absolutely hilarious. I am having as much fun working on it as I've ever had with a production. I had 17 people audition for the show, which made casting it extremely difficult, as it only has 10 roles. I don't want to say too much here, as it performs next week and I don't want to spoil it for the audience. It is so much fun and I can't wait to share pictures (and possibly video) later!
Tonys
The Tonys took place the same day as the Dollywood trip. Elena, one of my cast mates, and I decided we were worn out of group events, so we went to her house (she lives in the next town over, Sylva) instead of going to the big group party. We watched the Tonys casually and enjoyed just chilling. Then, Elena says, "So... Want to go make an appearance at the group party? You could dress in drag." And I was like, "Sounds great!"
So, I dressed in drag, we went to the bar, we all laughed. It was great fun.
Time of War
Time of War is the extra battle reenactment performance I'm in with a few of the other guys. Three days a week we go next door to the Oconaluftee Indian Village. It's a brief show, where basically all of us white guys play evil British soldiers who get beat up and killed by Cherokee warriors. It's fun, lots of quick action, and it's nice to be involved in another performance. We perform the show twice a day. The most interesting event so far is a day that my regular battle partner couldn't be there for the second performance. His understudy knew our fight just fine. However, we accidentally didn't tell him when to enter. Thus, he ran in during the first wave of the fight instead of the second. So... we had a bit of an improv battle and I died a solid 5 minutes earlier than I normally do. It was pretty funny and fortunately the show was able to continue without any big issues.
Blackout
It rained. And rained. And rained. The evening sky blackened and then lit up. The world shook with the force of the thunder. The lights flickered once, twice, and then they cut out. For the next three or four hours, the entire hill, theatre and dorms alike, were enveloped in blackness. The darkness was eerie all across the hill. After all, they say the hill is haunted. Alas, I had no spiritual encounters. I did not stay on the hill long during the blackout. I ended up going with my regular group of friends (David, Elena, and Felix) to Cookout in Sylva. We hung out eating the gloriously cheap junk food and enjoying the surprise night off--though honestly, I'd have rather not have had the blackout and just done the show as normal.
Starcatcher
Imagine a wooden platform with the walls of a cabin on wheels that rolls on and offstage. Now imagine a 7 or 8 foot drop to the side of the platform down to a concrete floor. Imagine it is night and that rain has glazed the platform into a slick deathtrap. Now, imagine a young, athletic man walking across the backside of the platform to exit after a scene. The man's name is Max and he plays Junaluska, one of the lead characters in Unto These Hills. See, if you will, as his moccasin covered foot slips and he spins trying to grab something that isn't there to catch himself. He's falling backwards, down, down, falling speeding towards the ground. His head will almost certainly bust. He might break his neck or an arm or a leg. A handful of people look on in horror, all too far away to do anything to help. Pause.
Let's backtrack just a bit. A water bottle is sitting offstage next to the moving platform. It's my water bottle. I leave it there by mistake as I exit after having helped pulled the cabin offstage. I have walked down the stairs to head back to the dressing rooms when I remember it. I turn around and head back to grab the bottle. As I walk along the path beneath the platform, I look up and see the above scene unfold. So, let's continue.
Max falls and I step forward reaching out catching him. I set him on the ground safely, unharmed. So yeah.... I kinda saved a dude's life. Um. What. Thanks, water bottle.
An Iliad
Algernon D'Ammassa, one of my cast mates, performs a one man retelling of The Iliad. He's toured it around a bit and brought it to the hill as a canteen show. He's planning on doing another performance of it in July in Black Mountain, NC. I plan to attend again and will write a proper review at that time, because he deserves a proper review. Suffice to say, his performance astounded me the first time. I cannot help but give it heaps of praise. Incredible.
Home
I went home briefly to gather various costume pieces and props for Engaged. I took Elena and Felix with me--David opted to go to his own home for father's day. The eclectic items we gathered varied from a chunk of fence to a super soaker backpack gun to wigs, blazers, and skirts. It was a most excellent expedition full of good food (Dino's! Kimchi! Wedding cake and ice cream with raspberries!) and enjoyable company.
Henry V
On the way back from home, we stopped in Asheville to see an outdoor production of Henry V. One of Elena's former theatre teachers was performing in the production. It was an enjoyable evening. We ate Japenese takeout as we sat in our grassy amphitheater seats. A handful of other UTH cast/crew members met up with us for the production, and it was a lovely evening of theatre.
OUCH!
Yesterday morning we had a read through of a musical being workshopped this summer. Chief Little Will is kind of Unto These Hills: The Musical! After this, I had Time of War to perform. In between the two events, I was standing outside some of the dorms talking to a couple of my castmates when all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain right on the bottom edge of my left eyebrow. A bee had, for no apparent reason, swooped in attack. Fortunately, I'm not allergic. I went on to Time of War, where Mike Crow, the Cherokee man who plays the lead in Unto These Hills, gave me a plant stalk to rub over the battle wound. He said it would help stop swelling, as well as help it feel a bit better. He was right. The swelling ceased, I hardly felt the sting anymore, and my day continued as normal.
In conclusion
So, it's been a super busy few weeks and continues to get busier. Engaged is taking most of my focus right now--next week is tech week, and I've been cast in Glengary Glen Ross in the part of Baylen, the detective, so I'm working on lines for that. I've got the mainstage show performing 6 days a week, Time of War 3 days a week, pick up rehearsals for both of those shows, plus rehearsals for Chief Little Will. Every day is an adventure here--some good, some not so good; I'd rather not have to save any more lives or get stung by a bee again. Ah well. It's certainly an eventful summer so far!
Let's see. In the last few weeks, we played capture the flag all over the hill, we went to Dollywood, I began directing a 3 act farce called Engaged, the Tonys happened and I dressed in drag, I began rehearsals and performances of Time of War, there was a blackout which cancelled the big show for an evening as the whole hill was encompassed in blackness, I saved one of my castmate's lives, I watched an incredible one man canteen show, I traveled back home briefly, I saw a production of Henry V, and I got stung in the eye by a dive-bombing bee.
So....... Any one of these things would merit its own individual blog. However, ain't nobody got time for that. Instead, here's the quick versions. Each section will be titled so if you're only interested in small chunks, you don't have to read the whole blog!
Capture the Flag
It's a dark, wet night. Two teams spread across the hill from the theatre to the dorms. Our flags are placed. Our hearts are pounding. The game is almost upon us. A phone buzzes. We have word that a black bear has been spotted in no-man's land. The game comes to a standstill. We wait. Ten minutes later, we decide to go forth with the game anyways. I guard my flag, hiding under the bridge of the theatre. I see Anthony, one of my enemies sneaking close under the bridge. I run towards him. He scurries away. I hide again. A few minutes pass. Anthony return. He's cautious, wary, fearful. As he starts to reach to scale the bridge, I run towards him. He jumps ten feet into the air onto the bridge. I stand beneath my jaw agape. He grabs the flag and takes off. I cut him off at the pass. In the meantime, my team has stolen Anthony's teams' flag. We win the first round.
Round 2. I'm on offense. I go up into the woods. I'm planning on circling around the enemy team's defenses. Suddenly I hear feet pounding. A chase. Anthony again. He has my team's flag and David is in pursuit. I race down out of the woods behind him. It's too late. He makes it to his base. We've lost the second round.
Round 3. The teams switch up. Anthony is on my team. I'm thrilled. I'm on offense again. This time, I spend 45 minutes army crawling across a mulch pile, across an open grass field, towards the enemies who guard their flag. Just as I am within 10 feet of their flag, I hear a mess of confusion as first Anthony and David searching for the enemy flag. Then, out of nowhere, Barbara, our fight director, shows up with my team's flag. We lose. I crawled for nearly an hour across open land without being seen to no avail.
Dollywood
I get free tickets to Dollywood all this summer for me +1. (So if any friends ask nicely I might take you to Dollywood, hint hint). A group of us went one Sunday. We ran around riding every roller coaster and any other rides we felt like. We spent the full day there being an obnoxious tourist group. We would chant "UTH! UTH! UTH!" on the rides. We took lots of group pictures. We laughed and carried on and had a blast. We even had a brief flash mob of the hoedown dance from our show. It was a lovely day.
Engaged
I'm directing W.S. Gilbert's 3 act farce Engaged. Gilbert is the Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan fame. The play is absolutely hilarious. I am having as much fun working on it as I've ever had with a production. I had 17 people audition for the show, which made casting it extremely difficult, as it only has 10 roles. I don't want to say too much here, as it performs next week and I don't want to spoil it for the audience. It is so much fun and I can't wait to share pictures (and possibly video) later!
Tonys
The Tonys took place the same day as the Dollywood trip. Elena, one of my cast mates, and I decided we were worn out of group events, so we went to her house (she lives in the next town over, Sylva) instead of going to the big group party. We watched the Tonys casually and enjoyed just chilling. Then, Elena says, "So... Want to go make an appearance at the group party? You could dress in drag." And I was like, "Sounds great!"
So, I dressed in drag, we went to the bar, we all laughed. It was great fun.
Time of War
Time of War is the extra battle reenactment performance I'm in with a few of the other guys. Three days a week we go next door to the Oconaluftee Indian Village. It's a brief show, where basically all of us white guys play evil British soldiers who get beat up and killed by Cherokee warriors. It's fun, lots of quick action, and it's nice to be involved in another performance. We perform the show twice a day. The most interesting event so far is a day that my regular battle partner couldn't be there for the second performance. His understudy knew our fight just fine. However, we accidentally didn't tell him when to enter. Thus, he ran in during the first wave of the fight instead of the second. So... we had a bit of an improv battle and I died a solid 5 minutes earlier than I normally do. It was pretty funny and fortunately the show was able to continue without any big issues.
Blackout
It rained. And rained. And rained. The evening sky blackened and then lit up. The world shook with the force of the thunder. The lights flickered once, twice, and then they cut out. For the next three or four hours, the entire hill, theatre and dorms alike, were enveloped in blackness. The darkness was eerie all across the hill. After all, they say the hill is haunted. Alas, I had no spiritual encounters. I did not stay on the hill long during the blackout. I ended up going with my regular group of friends (David, Elena, and Felix) to Cookout in Sylva. We hung out eating the gloriously cheap junk food and enjoying the surprise night off--though honestly, I'd have rather not have had the blackout and just done the show as normal.
Starcatcher
Imagine a wooden platform with the walls of a cabin on wheels that rolls on and offstage. Now imagine a 7 or 8 foot drop to the side of the platform down to a concrete floor. Imagine it is night and that rain has glazed the platform into a slick deathtrap. Now, imagine a young, athletic man walking across the backside of the platform to exit after a scene. The man's name is Max and he plays Junaluska, one of the lead characters in Unto These Hills. See, if you will, as his moccasin covered foot slips and he spins trying to grab something that isn't there to catch himself. He's falling backwards, down, down, falling speeding towards the ground. His head will almost certainly bust. He might break his neck or an arm or a leg. A handful of people look on in horror, all too far away to do anything to help. Pause.
Let's backtrack just a bit. A water bottle is sitting offstage next to the moving platform. It's my water bottle. I leave it there by mistake as I exit after having helped pulled the cabin offstage. I have walked down the stairs to head back to the dressing rooms when I remember it. I turn around and head back to grab the bottle. As I walk along the path beneath the platform, I look up and see the above scene unfold. So, let's continue.
Max falls and I step forward reaching out catching him. I set him on the ground safely, unharmed. So yeah.... I kinda saved a dude's life. Um. What. Thanks, water bottle.
An Iliad
Algernon D'Ammassa, one of my cast mates, performs a one man retelling of The Iliad. He's toured it around a bit and brought it to the hill as a canteen show. He's planning on doing another performance of it in July in Black Mountain, NC. I plan to attend again and will write a proper review at that time, because he deserves a proper review. Suffice to say, his performance astounded me the first time. I cannot help but give it heaps of praise. Incredible.
Home
I went home briefly to gather various costume pieces and props for Engaged. I took Elena and Felix with me--David opted to go to his own home for father's day. The eclectic items we gathered varied from a chunk of fence to a super soaker backpack gun to wigs, blazers, and skirts. It was a most excellent expedition full of good food (Dino's! Kimchi! Wedding cake and ice cream with raspberries!) and enjoyable company.
Henry V
On the way back from home, we stopped in Asheville to see an outdoor production of Henry V. One of Elena's former theatre teachers was performing in the production. It was an enjoyable evening. We ate Japenese takeout as we sat in our grassy amphitheater seats. A handful of other UTH cast/crew members met up with us for the production, and it was a lovely evening of theatre.
OUCH!
Yesterday morning we had a read through of a musical being workshopped this summer. Chief Little Will is kind of Unto These Hills: The Musical! After this, I had Time of War to perform. In between the two events, I was standing outside some of the dorms talking to a couple of my castmates when all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain right on the bottom edge of my left eyebrow. A bee had, for no apparent reason, swooped in attack. Fortunately, I'm not allergic. I went on to Time of War, where Mike Crow, the Cherokee man who plays the lead in Unto These Hills, gave me a plant stalk to rub over the battle wound. He said it would help stop swelling, as well as help it feel a bit better. He was right. The swelling ceased, I hardly felt the sting anymore, and my day continued as normal.
In conclusion
So, it's been a super busy few weeks and continues to get busier. Engaged is taking most of my focus right now--next week is tech week, and I've been cast in Glengary Glen Ross in the part of Baylen, the detective, so I'm working on lines for that. I've got the mainstage show performing 6 days a week, Time of War 3 days a week, pick up rehearsals for both of those shows, plus rehearsals for Chief Little Will. Every day is an adventure here--some good, some not so good; I'd rather not have to save any more lives or get stung by a bee again. Ah well. It's certainly an eventful summer so far!
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
"unto the hills"
The terrain, air, weather, and water in Cherokee are all imbued with an earthy, mountain flavor. Flat roads and paths are brief, man-made atrocities in the midst of the mountains. The motion of the mountains is like that of a musical movement: full of crescendos and decrescendos, ebbing and flowing and bleeding into one another constantly, creating a unique kind of beauty. These mountains are old. Their symphony began to be crafted long before we invaded the land. But invade, we did. And our invasion introduced new instruments into the mountain orchestra. We built roads and buildings and cultivated the land into the new world where we live now. But the land will outlast us.
The Mountainside Theatre is just as the name suggests: a theatre built into a mountainside.
A brief walk uphill from the theatre takes a person to the dormitories our company calls home for the few months we're spending here. The housing area is referred to as "The Hill." If you continue uphill from the dorms, you can follow the winding, thin road to the Oconaluftee Indian Village. Here you can view reenactments and demonstrations of Cherokee life in the mid 1700's. Just above the village proper is a nature walking path, the Cherokee botanical gardens.
The Cherokee Historical Association was founded in 1948 and Unto These Hills began performing in 1950. It has, of course, changed a fair amount over time. Still, I find myself humbled and honored to be welcomed into this historical company. I get to spend my summer working as an actor. I perform both in Unto These Hills and will also be performing in the village in Time of War, a battle reenactment. I may even direct an in-house canteen production.
Given that I grew up in the mountains only about 120 miles northeast of Cherokee, I feel at home here simply due to the flavor of my surroundings. I am comfortable. I am happy. When I accepted this position, I hesitated, because I had another offer to work across the country in Olympic National Park, an offer I really wanted to take. However, I chose to follow the path that made the most sense career-wise. We are only three weeks in and I have no doubt that I made the right choice. I am exactly where I need to be.
3 He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.
4 Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
6 The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
7 The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.
8 The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.
The Mountainside Theatre is just as the name suggests: a theatre built into a mountainside.
A brief walk uphill from the theatre takes a person to the dormitories our company calls home for the few months we're spending here. The housing area is referred to as "The Hill." If you continue uphill from the dorms, you can follow the winding, thin road to the Oconaluftee Indian Village. Here you can view reenactments and demonstrations of Cherokee life in the mid 1700's. Just above the village proper is a nature walking path, the Cherokee botanical gardens.
The Cherokee Historical Association was founded in 1948 and Unto These Hills began performing in 1950. It has, of course, changed a fair amount over time. Still, I find myself humbled and honored to be welcomed into this historical company. I get to spend my summer working as an actor. I perform both in Unto These Hills and will also be performing in the village in Time of War, a battle reenactment. I may even direct an in-house canteen production.
Given that I grew up in the mountains only about 120 miles northeast of Cherokee, I feel at home here simply due to the flavor of my surroundings. I am comfortable. I am happy. When I accepted this position, I hesitated, because I had another offer to work across the country in Olympic National Park, an offer I really wanted to take. However, I chose to follow the path that made the most sense career-wise. We are only three weeks in and I have no doubt that I made the right choice. I am exactly where I need to be.
Psalm 121 I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
2 My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.3 He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.
4 Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
6 The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
7 The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.
8 The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Bonfire
It rained during the day--a fresh, mountain rain. By evening, the world was damp, covered in the glistening green of newly watered nature. The rain, having done its job, let up, and slowly we gathered down in the grotto. We used the driest wood we could find and slowly began to build. Small twigs were placed first, gradually adding larger sticks, and eventually broken branches. Large logs were gathered to create stools, these encircling the pit. Still people slowly gathered.
The evening was calm, conversational, quiet. A bonfire lends itself to stories and to humor. Innumerable discussions intersected throughout the evening. A small grill grate was placed over the open flame of the pit and we continued to talk, to laugh, to enjoy, over the smell of cooking burgers and hotdogs. As Ray Bradbury wrote in Dandelion Wine, “Sandwich outdoors isn’t a sandwich anymore. Tastes different than indoors, notice? Got more spice. Tastes like mint and pinesap. Does wonders for the appetite.” The same is true of burgers and dogs. The same is true of conversation.
The evening settled into night around the fire. People came and went, seats were traded, and all the while the cool, wet, mountain air kissed the warm breathing of the flames. Welcome to summer, that kiss said. Welcome to community, it said. Welcome to a world worth living and working and simply being in.
---
This summer I'm working in Cherokee, North Carolina for the Cherokee Historical Association at the Mountainside Theatre, performing in their historical drama Unto These Hills. We've been rehearsing for a couple weeks now and open at the end of this week. Last night we had the first bonfire of the summer, and it was definitely my pace. I look forward to many more wonderful days and experiences during my time here. This blog will hopefully be where I share a bit of what I'm up to publicly.
The evening was calm, conversational, quiet. A bonfire lends itself to stories and to humor. Innumerable discussions intersected throughout the evening. A small grill grate was placed over the open flame of the pit and we continued to talk, to laugh, to enjoy, over the smell of cooking burgers and hotdogs. As Ray Bradbury wrote in Dandelion Wine, “Sandwich outdoors isn’t a sandwich anymore. Tastes different than indoors, notice? Got more spice. Tastes like mint and pinesap. Does wonders for the appetite.” The same is true of burgers and dogs. The same is true of conversation.
The evening settled into night around the fire. People came and went, seats were traded, and all the while the cool, wet, mountain air kissed the warm breathing of the flames. Welcome to summer, that kiss said. Welcome to community, it said. Welcome to a world worth living and working and simply being in.
---
This summer I'm working in Cherokee, North Carolina for the Cherokee Historical Association at the Mountainside Theatre, performing in their historical drama Unto These Hills. We've been rehearsing for a couple weeks now and open at the end of this week. Last night we had the first bonfire of the summer, and it was definitely my pace. I look forward to many more wonderful days and experiences during my time here. This blog will hopefully be where I share a bit of what I'm up to publicly.
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