Live from Goldendale, Washington, while listening to Hank Williams on my laptop, and my hubby is packing up the motorcycles with our gear; I’m thinking of what to share with you that will give your day a panache. Been on the road since last Monday, over one week ago. We started from LA and drove through California towards Nevada taking the backroads on a pair of two wheels each. I ride a Suzuki SV650, and Bruno rides a Honda Shadow 1100. We’re traveling with my electric guitar and a Line 6 XT with headphones, so that I can noodle at the end of the day when we pull over after a day’s ride. Our destination was Hayden, Idaho. It’s just a few miles north of Coeur D’Alene. We left his buddy Jean Pierre and his family just yesterday.
What’s over here near Goldendale? There’s a life size replica of Stonehenge in Maryhill.
Stonehenge in Washington State
This was a memorial that Sam Hill built to help us remember that war is not the answer. Sam Hill was Quaker and was a proponent of peace.
Hill constructed two notable monuments. The replica of Stonehenge, at Maryhill, commemorates the dead of World War I, while the Peace Arch, where today’s Interstate 5 highway crosses the U.S.–Canada border, celebrates peaceful relations and the open border between the two nations – Wikepedia
We visited Stonehenge two hours ago; the replica was impressive as it sat on the edge of the Columbia River, and to the west was a view of Mount Hood. A few yards away from Stonehenge stood a war memorial dedicated to fallen soldiers from the surrounding area. The period spanned from WWI thru Afghanistan. Despite the impressive site, we noted the bare flagpole stand. We found this strange. The flowers were dried. The other two cars that drove to look at the monolith site did not bother to visit the war memorial.
This monument that Sam Hill created has not made the lasting impact he meant it to have. I stood beside Bruno at the memorial to make a silent prayer. I thought, despite his efforts to help us to remember that ravages of war and how it only tears families apart and distances cultures from one another, we still continue to carry on with our prejudices.
Traveling through backroads of Nevada and Idaho, I was a little apprehensive, because of my racial background. I was not sure if I would encounter blatant racial prejudice. When a dog smells the phenomes of a fearful person it makes the dog fearful too. Don’t be afraid, I told myself. Face your fear, and I discovered that 99% of my fear is in my head. I have met wonderful and kind folks through this part of the country that have been labeled as red-neck country.
I ride on and open my heart, open my mind to the open road. Take it as it comes, and face your fears.
by Laura Shamas can be read on the HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL website under the “Industry Impressions” section. I found Laura’s article to be well written, informative and to be honest comforting. We, artists, have our ways of being that make us who we are and who we are is what sets the pitch and frequency of our voices and the stories we tell… Please go here to read it.
As Gay Wellington in Tent Theatre’s You Can’t Take it With You
These posts have become a sort of check-in, reflect and documentation of my journey of being broke, moving back home, and trying to survive while still moving my career forward. It’s not really what I thought I would be writing about when the incredible Jennie Webb asked if I would be interested- I had high hopes of theatrical and playwriting insights and dissections, but these were quickly ousted by the avalanche of upheaval I experienced and my own inability to do anything but focus on it. I’m grateful for that and as hard as some of these days are to live and to document, I hope at some point and in some way it can be read as an encouragement of sorts for others in similar positions of trial and teeth sharpening.
I can’t know how much longer my Missourian exile will last, other than to say it will be much longer than I thought and hoped. And I can’t know what highs may be on the horizon for me here, but feel I can say with some confidence that one of the highest of those peaks has already come. Last month I got to take a few weeks off from my cubical prison to be a part of Tent Theatre’s You Can’t Take it with You. Instead of sitting in a cubical 8-5 Monday through Friday calling, emailing, doing math, collecting, making spreadsheets, getting headaches and giving credit meetings, I got to go to rehearsal. I got to play with incredibly talented people from all over the United States. I got work on my Russian accent. I got to pretend to be drunk and sing “I Wanna Be Loved By You” while fellating my cast-mate’s nose. I got to laugh and make other people laugh. And, I got paid for it. Let me say the obvious here: THERE IS NOTHING GREATER THAN THIS ON EARTH.
As Olga Katrina in Tent Theatre’s You Can’t Take it With You
One day some of the cast and myself went up to Branson to go zip lining. I had never been before but thought it looked fun. It was fun. Then, it wasn’t. After you zip line you reach this 100 foot tower and the only way off is to jump/fall straight down. I was trying very hard to maintain a head-space of fun and adventure and when the other woman with me began panicking at the edge. I was able to confidently summon up, “You got this! It’s gonna be so much fun! You can do it! Whoo!” And over she went along with four screams of “Oh my God!”
But then it was my turn and as I stepped the 6 inches forward to the edge, I suddenly saw what she’d seen. Imminent death. There was no way to survive. And to call it “fun” was psychotic. All the brakes inside my body locked down and I looked back at the one remaining cast mate to go after me and said, “I can’t do this.” The guide kept saying, “Let go of the edge. Take a step forward. Let go of the edge. Take a step forward.” You are still attached to this line that is supposedly going to slow your fall as your reach the ground, where a man stands yelling at you to “Land on your feet!” There is no resistance felt at the top, though, so it just feels like you decided to jump off a tower and commit suicide.
I have no idea how or when the switch occurred in my brain from red light to green, but at some point, squatting into almost a fetal position I managed to teeter myself over the edge, losing all control of my body on the way down. “Land on your feet! Get your feet out!” the man at the bottom screamed, but it was futile. For all practical purposes, I had resigned myself to death. Then, my butt hit the ground and I realized I was still alive. “Did you have fun?” He asked. I looked at him and laughed maniacally, “NO!”
Branson Zip Lining Free Fall
I thought about that moment, looking down, every night during the show while I waited under the hot blanket for my cue to jump up, the forgotten Gay suddenly animated and locked in on the rigid guest Mr. Kirby, “Now, listen! Big boy….” It’s not in the script, but it was an improvisation they let me keep. Every night from the first rehearsal to the last performance I worried they wouldn’t laugh. It felt like jumping off that tower. It would either be a fun adventure or the stupidest way to die. I am happy to report that every night was a fun adventure.
And I think about that moment today and how moving back here felt that way too. While there have been moments of fun, if the whole of my experience were a summary I was forced to answer about, I feel my answer would also be, “NO.” I’m exhausted. I work constantly and still am no where close to being financially able to move back to a land of greater opportunity for my career and living my own independent life. I have not been writing as much as I want/need/expect myself to because after working all day and night on a computer, my eyes/head/hand/neck/shoulders/will are knotted with tension. I see friends getting together, going places, having adventures and I wish I could be out having fun with them, but I have to work and I don’t have money. I dream about love, romance, partnership, and sex- and that’s about as close as I get to a dating life. There’s no time.
It’s hard to move at the pace life hands you. I’ve been behind schedule since I was about 8, but then I’ve always had pretty big expectations for my life. All I can do right now is focus on one moment at a time, because the big picture is too overwhelming. I am grateful for acting for many reasons but in particular because it taught me about moments- living in them and appreciating the hell out of them. I remember playing Emily in Our Town at 16 and listing all the things she was saying goodbye to and realizing the grand depth of comfort and beauty in the little things. It’s overwhelming in it’s own way- the simple beauty of a bath, a look, a touch, a flower, a breeze, coffee.
On the horizon is a series of one-acts I’m acting in, some sketches for a local TV station, lots of work work and hopefully some pen to paper story development because goddammit I’m itching to make something and I’ve got about a million story’s sketched down waiting to be fleshed out. Right now, however, I want to take a small moment to be grateful for this moment:
My EMC card!
12 years after playing Emily in Our Town at the Avenue Theatre in West Plains, MO, 7 years after graduating from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, after 5 years and 4 plays and three days worth of sitting at Equity Open Calls for plays I never got seen for because I was non-union in Los Angeles, and 7 months after arriving back in Springfield, MO… I got my Equity Membership Candidacy card. It’s a small step, that took many years. It’s a piece of paper that takes me one step closer to doors of bigger opportunities. One step at a time.
It was very hard to select 400 words from a play that gave enough of a storyline, showed the style of the piece, and embodied the essence of the piece and I only wanted to use the female characters. My 400 words were pulled from my play The Grass Widow’s Son. Seema Sueko, Associate Director at The Pasadena Playhouse, did an excellent job of casting it. The actresses, Daisy Eagen, Tegan Ashton Cohan and Rena Strober, with Seema reading the “active” stage directions were excellent in their cold read. The audience clapped – no awkward pause after the reading; I was a happy camper. All of the reads went very well; these thespians knew their craft. It was amazing to watch them deliver on the spot. Their performance in STONEFACE was phenomenal as well. And, French Stewart’s voice – have you heard it? – reaching the balcony in full resonance – something to behold. I personally had never seen a play like that in my life. I knew of Buster Keaton; my mother used to talk about the silent film stars who transitioned to talkies and the ones who just faded away. French Stewart’s portrayal of Buster Keaton was like watching the real thing. It felt as we were all transported in a Pleasantville sort of way back in time. It was a documentary, it was film, it was alive, it was spectacle, it was theater… I loved the way seeing something new and unexpected made me feel.
I stopped to tell French Stewart how much I enjoyed his stellar performance and to thank him for participating in our micro-reads when he commented about liking my 400 words and said, “Get after it.”
It hit me like an arrow, jump started my heart, woke me up out of a lull. French Stewart just told me to get after it like he knew I counted, like my 400 words were all he needed to know that I belonged. I thanked him, wandered about the Carrie Hamilton Theatre area a bit, found myself standing looking down into the courtyard when he approached me again and said, “Get after it!” Okay, twice in one night – I heard it! This was not something I was going to put in the “oh, that was so nice” area of my memory. I confessed to him how much I needed to hear those words, how much they meant to me, to my soul…
Then, I shook myself and made a conscious effort to get after it…again… Battle bruises had left me numb – more numb than I realized but I decided that as long as I do something creative whenever I get the chance, in between submissions and rejection letters/emails and writing, it will keep me from being too vulnerable to the drop-of-water-on-the-soap syndrome. I bought fabric and patterns to start back sewing, bought more music for my fiddle, bought some running shoes and put more me time in my schedule. It really helps to be doing something creative – anything creative – at all times…
Funny thing about art, it hurts to do it and it hurts worse not to do it. Back on point getting after it…
Susan Sassi is one hard-working writer, producer and actor! Sassi’s Victorian Courting & Zombies is a hilarious musical romp where zombies run amok amongst aristocrats of the Regency period. Much like we all run amok at the Fringe while dodging traffic, finding parking and our seats (with camera in tow) in the nick of time, but in much more comfortable clothing.
Due to the Regency period’s societal hierarchy, the upper class were most often viewed by the common folk as sublime and fantastical, fiction-like, or in this case, as zombies who run with the “in crowd.” Inspired by Jane Austin, the work structurally and ideally mimics the period by using fantastical creatures who rub elbows with Dukes, attend formal balls and even propose all in zombie-like fashion.
We loved the comedic timing of this work. The actors’ chemistry and energy billowed throughout the audience and beyond, making us want to jump right in and sing along.
Susan, thanks for the great writing and fun times with the Funktard sisters. We can’t wait to see what happens to them next! We could watch your show again and again. We’re suckers for zombies. Enjoy the video.
A special thank you to Susan Sassi and the cast and crew.
Whenever I submit a play to a festival or fellowship and that cunning little box pops up in the submission form asking to discuss what you hope to achieve if awarded this fellowship or what, specifically, would you like to work on in your play?, a sinking feeling starts to creep into my stomach because I have no idea what I’m going to say. I do know that it will require pulling something out of thin air that will take more effort than the actual writing of the play did.
In short, I will have bad flashbacks of high school English all over again.
A little about me and my relationship to institutionalized learning: I pretty much hated it. Sure, I loved when the teacher asked us to be creative and use the material on the reading list to write our own interpretation of the story; but to discuss and dissect something as directed by someone who was often no more interesting than the cardboard holding the pages together caused me to compulsively doodle or get lost in the hairstyle of the person sitting in front of me. I never understood why we were being led through the beautiful forest and, instead of simply going where instinct took and enjoying the experience, had to keep our heads down and study the compass the whole time.
That’s what these questions feel like; and I’m completely willing to admit these are very much my own issues coming up.
How to answer questions like, “What do you hope to achieve if awarded this fellowship?” I hope to work with great people who can help me take my writing to the next level. “What would you like to work on in your play?” Anything that is keeping it from being the fully-formed, fleshed-out piece of theatre that I originally set out to create. I don’t mean to be snarky or arrogant. I really don’t. I am genuinely flummoxed by these questions, especially when they require an entire paragraph of answer.
But last week I filled out one of these forms. It took three days. And something happened: I found myself taking the time to really give these questions some thought — not just so that I would sound erudite and thoughtful and everything that, on a good day, I’d like to think I am, but so that maybe, just maybe, I would find something that I could take with me regardless of the outcome of the application process.
And maybe, in the end, that’s what I hope to get out of this: learning. A little or a lot. About me, about others. About what we do and why and how we do it. And how that learning can help us grow — not just into the artists we want to be, but into the people we want to be.
Many years ago I was in a production of ANTIGONE that made all the actors perform wearing full face masks – a nightmare for diction and a weird foray in acting without a face to express a performance.
I remember lots of drooling and sweating and mumbling behind those masks. I couldn’t wear to tear it off after the show and bang it on the dressing room table, a certain enemy for being understood on stage.
But I also remember the eyes of the other performers during the show – how much electricity was shared in the gaze with one another. Often times their eyes looked like wild animal eyes, blazing out of a dead mask on their face. I don’t know what the audience got out of that performance, but I hated doing it.
Years later, I saw TANTALUS, by the Royal Shakespeare Company, and those actors were also asked to wear full face masks in performance. I understood every word the actors said (some with a plummy British accent) and the mask work was amazing. I loved seeing it. And I know that most of the actors in that production hated their masks too.
I was reminded of that memory of TANTALUS when my niece Claire wore a couple of masks this past weekend; she loved hiding/posing/playing with them. And I loved the visual of her bright blue eyes peeking behind the mask. I’m rethinking what masks are in performance.
Robert Petkoff as Achilles in TANTALUS, with the Royal Shakespeare Company, an amazing performance behind the mask.
Sisters in the Woods, artwork by Cynthia Wands, 2014.
I found this interview by Olivia de Havilland, who turns 98 years old today. I love the look of her in this interview. Her age and her dignity, reminded me so much of my own grandmother, who passed away some years ago. I don’t get to spend much time with women who are this old, and I miss that. Her story of working with a new director, and her emotions and concerns about her work, was fascinating.
In the past, I’ve found myself working with people I didn’t want to work with, and yet they have informed me and shaped me in ways I never anticipated.
I did a photography shoot with my young nieces this past week, and they were very – enthused – for short bursts of time – and challenging to direct.
But I also learned a lot about the way that they imagine things, and the way that they play, and create characters they enjoy interacting with. Actually, I think I learned a lot working with them.
I have twin nieces, Jeanne and Claire. They are four and they are connoisseurs of costumes. Their mother is French and my brother is not. Julie (my sister in law) is beautiful, clever, warm, and very French. She can put on a burlap sack and a scarf around her neck and she could go to a cocktail party at the Met. She understands that her daughters, my nieces, love costumes. But only certain colors. And with certain trims. They are, after all, half French.
I started buying them costumes when they were very small. All kinds of costumes in all kinds of colors and trims. But Jeanne, the oldest twin, only loves the blue dress. The blue dress has been worn for the past year, and is now a rather grey, torn, dirty, ragamuffin blue dress. That does not matter to Jeanne. She prefers it to all the other costumes and will wear it when no one is looking. I purchased several other costumes this week, and yes, included princess dresses for the girls to try on. They would not even attempt the “Jasmine” (Aladdin Princess) harem pants outfit. They both wrinkled their noses. They murmured something in their four year old French about the color. I still don’t know what they said about it, but the color was so unfortunate, that they could not try it on. “Mais non, ” was all I could get out of them about this particular costume. And unfortunately for my brother (who does not like this princess dress attachment) I also bought a larger size of the dreaded “blue dress” for Jeanne.
When Jeanne saw the new “blue dress” she immediately shot her hands in the air, to be changed immediately out of her current costume, so she could try on the familiar dress. She wore it most of the weekend. With pearls, with a stuffed dog, and also with a purple floral fan. But no other dress was worn, or even considered. Claire, her sister, wore a variety of the costumes I brought for them. She seemed enthused, but never expressed any interest in her sister’s blue dress.
I marvel at this attachment to an idea, a costume, a color, a dress. I wonder how many of my old ideas, about myself, my writing, the plays I have loved, I continue to wear. I became really aware of the contrast of embracing a new idea with an old idea, when I saw Jeanne’s old dress lying on the floor next to the new one. How much love and energy and time had been spent in the old dress.
I have taken some writing classes that have pointed the way to “write what you know”, “write with your authentic voice”, or “write what you feel”.
I stopped writing plays and novels and stories in February when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
That wasn’t the “write what you know” that I intended.
I started writing a blog about cancer. But its far away and less about other people and ideas and plays – than about me. It doesn’t even seem dramatic. It’s more of a conveyor belt.
Now my life has two people in my household with cancer, and writing seems….more about taking the steps to finding a way through it.
I’m more than halfway through my chemotherapy, then I have 5-7 weeks of radiation. Then, maybe, later, I will get to have hair again. Having loved the script “Wit” (about a woman fighting cancer, chemo and being bald), I thought being bald might make me look…smarter? More intellectual. More like a playwright. Instead, I do rather resemble a human light bulb. Or a large hard boiled egg. Or more accurately, Uncle Festus from “The Addams Family”. Not that much more like a playwright.
But I’ve changed, and I don’t quite know how I will write with that. I wasn’t sure I should about that here. But it’s what I know to be true.
I will say that I am, more than ever, interested in the stories from women. And that’s why I wrote this. Please keep writing.
