Monday, April 14, 2008

Creative Discipline?

The other day as I was at the library, about to check out All the King's Men because I haven't read it and it's a classic, I stumbled across a real find that was forlornly stranded on an empty shelf near the new arrivals. It's Michael Palin's diary from 1969 to 1979--my perfect read! Not only do I have a prurient interest in what even boring people have to say about their own lives, but Michael Palin is my idol. And since the period this volume covers includes the height of Monty Python, Robert Penn Warren got re-shelved for another time. He's not going anywhere.

I'm not too far into the diaries, but they've made quite the impact already. First, I was intrigued by the jacket notes saying that this is a remarkable collection because Michael talks as much about his children's first steps as he does about Python. What a man! What a dad! But as I get into it, I realize that this note must have been written by a man. Michael does talk about his children, and his pride is obvious and touching. But dammit, 90 percent of these writings, easily, are composed of details about the day-to-day of putting together the groundbreaking show. From a man's point of view--and probably a baby boomer man's--writing about your family 10 percent of the time must seem absolutely remarkable. What a man! What a dad!

I think about how I'm never really off the clock as a mom, and how Jeff and Fiona still call me up at work to solve family disputes--something we in my family would never have done to my dad--and I'm just not that impressed. In another example, I originally intended for this blog to be more about work, and how I'm escaping it in my head by writing at the office, but really, it's mostly about my family and the bit of life I have outside the office. So no awards for Python parenting. But big kudos to their wives, who apparently never saw them.

But what really does impress me is that a) he's still an extraordinarily sweet guy, especially for someone so famous, and b) he's extraordinarily disciplined. Now, he admits that he's never had to do the 9-5 in his entire life, and he shudders at the thought and the greyness of the life of those who must (thanks, Michael). Be that as it may, he writes of being at Terry Jones' house at 9:30 am to start writing for the show most days of the week. Now, if I could live by a schedule of my own devising, as long as I produced the goods, I'm pretty sure that no writing would be done before 9:30 PM. I'm just sayin'. Yet Michael and (some of) the boys could sit down and knock out brilliant comedy during the day, while the rest of us--me, for example--are struggling to write a story for our member magazine about our recent House of Delegates meeting. YAWN!

I can't imagine being creative on demand. I'm not spontaneously funny. Then again, no one ever said I was, I've never been expected to be, and I've never had to rely on it to feed my family.

Nevertheless, I'm impressed.

I'm also impressed by his personal discipline. He discovered he was addicted to nicotine, then he decided to stop smoking immediately, using the diary to serve as the outlet for whatever emotions or urges the nicotine used to soothe away. He still writes in his diary almost every day, in the morning before he gets up. I can't imagine this. I'm not human in the morning, so I can't imagine the insane, incoherent ramblings I might produce before coffee. It simply wouldn't be safe.

He mentions frequently running on Hampstead Heath. This in the 70s, when most people his age got their only exercise from lifting a bong to their mouths. And on his birthday, he decides to forgo his usual "breakfast discipline" by having bacon and eggs! Imagine! I consider myself a model of dietary restraint if I have only two desserts in one day.

I really admire this man. I'd like to be more like him. How the hell do I do that? Am I to accept that it's just a personality difference and that some of the world's greatest artists have been wildly undisciplined? Or have I always used that argument as an excuse not to get my act together?

Technorati Profile

Monday, April 7, 2008

Give it up for the girls

The last weekend in March, my courage, nerves, and minimal dancing skills were put to the test at two performances with the ensemble put together by my teacher, the lovely and talented Artemis. The first was at a theatre on Capitol Hill, a hefty but lovely walk for me from Union Station. The Atlas Theatre is a gorgeous facility, although in a bit of a dicey up-and-coming neighborhood. (Perhaps more "coming" than "up.") This place is the real thing, and I must say, even though I've performed in the real thing before, it was intimidating. It's a small house but with top-notch lighting and sound equipment, complete with snotty technicians. (Okay, only one was snotty, but he made an impression.) But the really scary thing about this place was that the lights were so bright that when they went to black for us to go onstage and line up for our performance, it was the blackest black I've ever seen. Blacker than your-brother-trapped-your-head-under-the-covers black. Blacker than caught out in the woods on a moonless night black. Black. It was everything I could do not to panic. Would I have enough time to adjust to whatever light there was so that I would find my spot and not look like an idiot dancing off by myself somewhere?

Amazingly enough, I was able to find my spot. The lights came up, and of course, they were blindingly bright. My eyes adjusted to the light; I smiled seraphically at K. and the Three Graces as they did their solos, and then, apparently, the smiling stopped. I had work to do. All day long, all the possible negative outcomes of this performance had been going through my brain on an endless video loop. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to get up from the floor, where I was smiling and watching, without bobbling. I bobbled during tech. It was a legitimate fear.

I got up cleanly and did my little dance with no mistakes that I was aware of, but also with very little joy. The stage was huge, and the margin of error so small. I was never so happy as when the lights died again and I was able somehow to find my way through the pitch black of the wings to the stage door and freedom.

Despite my jangled nerves, the day still wound up being one of those red-letter days for the sistahood. We were there roughly eight hours, most of which was spent not rehearsing but dressing, making up each other's faces, and telling each other about our lives. I have to tell you, this is a great bunch of girls. As our teacher said, "Not a bitch in the bunch." I haven't had much girl time lately, and I tell you, I was savoring it. There's a bond you forge when a) you're bored and b) you're doing something terrifying, that no one can easily break. Sort of a foxhole thing, I think.

The next day, however, we reprised our performance, although slightly altered because we were missing two out of our troupe. Instead of a scary, professional theatre, this was at one of my favorite restaurants ever, Mem Sahib in Rockville. This is where Jeff and Fiona and I go to celebrate special occasions. The Indian food is excellent, and they have belly dancing and play Bollywood movies! You eat family style, and the process takes more than three hours. Our teacher had an informal recital there for her private students, and she let our little group perform there as well.

This was a blast. We ate the Indian buffet, saw some great dancing, ululated our appreciation for the performers, improvised our performance, and had the time of our lives. I got the performance rush that I was expecting the night before but sadly didn't get. I smiled like an idiot for the crowd (the place was packed), and I know I was looser and danced better. That, along with hanging with the girls and getting to know them, made all the weeks of preparation, the hellish rehearsal hours, and the scary stage all worth it. I might actually do this again.

To Artie's Hussies, if any of you catch this, you totally cook.