So, I was thinking one of the things I like to use this blog for is to write about things happening or existing in the world that there isn't otherwise enough written on, or in the detail or tone or perspective I really want. For instance, my information about Egypt and Harbin and Eureka are the sorts of things you don't find in a travel book but you really want to know (although, that sentence itself sounds like an advertisement for a travel book). You'd think that in this Age of Information - this positive glut of Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, of information every second (more if you multi-task), when we're all information workers - you'd think there would be enough information on...well, *anything.* But there isn't. For instance, no one has really told me what I'd like know about, say, the newest Star Wars slot machine. This means I wander around, quite a bit, in my subject matter, but that's only because there's such a wonderful variety of wonderful varieties.
I was watching, once again, that epic mini-series Gettysberg, and marveling at how much gravitas has Martin Sheen, playing the part of Robert E. Lee. The scene we just watched was the morning of July 3rd (1863), the last day of the battle, although no one in the movie knows that yet. Lee/Sheen rides among the troops, waving and getting them all riled up to go. The amount of energy pouring out of the crowd towards Lee, and the amount of energy Lee is obviously giving out as well, is tremendous. We often watch scenes of this same nature - a rock concert, an election, a theater performance - and, depending on whether you are the crowd or the focus of the crowd, your experience can vary widely. It's electrifying to be the center of this type of attention - it happens to me, on occasion, in the circlesing: everyone surrounds you, supports you, uplifts you, encourages you. When you're doing something creative, the crowd can help you soar; the song I sing in the center of the circle comes from somewhere far beyond me; I can do things I can't really do.
Wo don't think about it very often but the exchanged energies are going both ways. Both sides are putting out AND giving out a tremendous amount of telepathically projected life force. That's the connection people love when seeing live art performances; they pay thousands of dollars to watch Bono sing "One" for that very reason. And let's not forget, in groups of any size - from arenas to living rooms - the connection of the members of the group to each other. We love meeting someone and finding out they like the same obscure ________ as we do!
Which brings me to HJ - the final bit of the Hugh Jackman story, which, I guess, should be told to be complete. I won't go into the whole situation, because, as before, much of it involves even more of my personal history and my personal point of view - and though pouring out the personal and equating it to the universal is the writer's job (and really, every artist's), I don't want to drag anything out. But anyway!
I've talked before about that curious debt of gratitude one can feel towards art or artists. Steve Martin has given me so much, and all I've ever done back is buy his books, listen to his music, and go to see his films. It's hardly fair. And I've felt this way....oh, since before I can remember. I think I was desperate to tell Han Solo how much he helped me; who knows WHAT he could have helped me with, child I was, but I know he was inspirational in some way. I remember the feeling.
The problem is, because the nature of art is often so distant - it's old, created long ago, or far away, and you can't get to the artist, whether because the person is dead or famous or whatever - you get stuck with this...what do I call it? Unexpressed gratitude. You can't say thank you, and it feels wrong. Now, the person may or may not want your gratitude, but unexpressed emotions - love being the worst, but all of them (anger, grief, fear) - can become toxic. People are meant to express themselves freely.
It's especially frustrating when the person is alive and around, but just otherwise untouchable - like famous. I don't pursue famous people, per se, but I like to connect with the actors, writers, singers that I like, many of them well-known, so I've met my share of famous people. I have a knack of being able to interact well with them (there's many stories around this), but I've never been able to quite thank any of them in a manner that would be fully expressive of the depth of my gratitude. I've tried in various ways and have had measures of success, but never in the way that felt...definitive.
Well, after my long blog posts about HJ, I thought, well, this is a story, and this at least kind of expresses thanks. It wasn't even close to all I wanted to say, but it was in the ballpark. So, I hatched and then executed a crazy plan: I published my blog, in two days (thanks, 48hrsbooks.com), a very limited edition (sadly rather riddled with spelling errors - sometimes I have time to write the blog, but not proof the blog). I trooped down to the Curran Theater a few Thursdays ago and I waited with a copy of my very first bound book. (Who knew? The blog, it seems, is a book).
There were already a few women waiting for HJ - like me, they'd either seen the show already or had upcoming tickets, and now were just wanting to meet him. I had to stand against one of those metal crowd barriers, which made me uneasy (I have a fear of being crushed by a crowd; Black Fridays are my deepest nightmare), and as the show let out and the crowd thickened around me, the scene became freakier. It was freezing cold - I was stamping my feet to keep the feeling in them. The hum and buzz grew and grew, the anticipation. Orange-coated security guards paced, saying "Once you get your picture, step back and let someone else get a turn."
Get a turn? Get your picture? Agh! The whole thing was freaking me out. What were all of these people doing here? I mean, I knew what *I* was doing there, but what were they? The woman next to me said, "Oh, you'll be able to hear when he's coming. Everyone will be screaming."
"I won't be screaming," I said. "Why not?" she said. "Why would I?" I answered, and she turned away and never looked at me again. I mean, I scream when someone DOES something on stage, perhaps - like a Turkish drop, a rare and difficult bellydance move - but I wouldn't scream when I am meeting someone. However, I could see "meet" was an optimistic misnomer. HJ was a force, and he was also going to be swept along. I huddled down tighter, clutching the metal barrier as people pushed from behind me.
HJ appeared (and, really, a few calls but no screams) and all of the sudden, it was flash, flash, flash - people taking pictures, videos - screens lighting up the spaces in between the hands, outstretched with show programs. He was a master - shining bright, kind, calm, relaxed, lookin' good, shaking hands, winking, saying hi, waving hi, giving autographs expertly - writing, smiling, moving - all of it done with the height of professionalism. There seemed to be hundreds of people there, and although before he had appeared I'd had said we'd be there for hours, or he'd have to cut some of us off, HJ was seemingly dispatching with everyone in a matter they deemed satisfying yet was taking hardly any time at all.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like it was a cakewalk. He'd just finished a two-hour, one-man song and dance show, and was likely very tired. Plus, remember the energy exchange - you get a lot, but you gotta give a lot too. But HJ was graceful and gracious - it was a pleasure to see, and I found myself more and more curiously watching his technique as he approached, charmed, delighted, and thinking, ah, so that's how it's done.
But it was a juggernaut. The wave was coming, slowly, yes, but not stopping. Yikes. I really had to bust my ass to publish a book in just a couple of days, and now I had to get this book to him and explain it in a very quick sentence - I tried out one in my head, edited it down (as we must with all communication these days; texts and tweets, God!) and got it down pat just as he appeared, in front of me, and very much taller than I expected - he towers over my by a foot, and because there was a metal barrier, there was no space barrier. I craned my neck, handed him my book, said my sentence (basically, here's my blog and the last entry is a review of your show and how that made me a better person) and -
And he stopped. A full and complete stop. He looked at me, astonished as I have never seen someone be astonished. "What?" was his general response (verbatim stuff I can never recall), and "How did you...?" He turned the professional-looking book over in his hands, because how could he be holding a book that contained a review of a show which was only running for two weeks and still had four performances left? Everyone around me stopped and looked at me. Everyone was surprised. It was without precedent. Also, I had given him something, and taken nothing (not his signature, not his picture) and this strange reversal of pattern also contributed to a collective feeling of "wait up, what's this?"
HJ flipped open to the entry I'd tagged and started looking at it. "You can read it at your leisure," I joked. He looked up and seemed to remember it was time to move on. "I usually don't read reviews," he said, "but I'll read this one." "It was the opening night," I said. "Then I will definitely read it," he laughed. The pantsless episode was, I think, memorable to us all.
Then he thanked me. And that was that.
I turned, as I'd been told, to go and let someone else take my place. But I was pinned; there was no where to go. I turned back around and said "I can't move." "Aw, stay here and try and keep warm," he said in his rich Australian tones, and then off he was to the next person, who held out a full Broadway set: Hugh In Performance, A Steady Rain and The Boy From Oz. Boy, I thought - that's a fan. I am a rank amateur!
Well, that's the last thing that happened in the Hugh Jackman in Performance at the Curran Theater and How It Changed My Life. (For the same personal reasons I won't go into here, it was incredibly significant as a moment in my own personal development, but that's another story.) It's a little silly to write in your blog about printing and then giving your blog to someone, but in this case, it's Hugh Jackman and anyway, why not?
I'll leave you with the Rob Brezny horoscope (http://www.freewillastrology.com/) that popped up in my Gmail today. His stuff is always right on, like Robin Hood's "end to end" arrow shot; it gets right to the heart of the heart of the matter. If you're a moon child, as I am, or even if you aren't, this is a nice concept to leave with:
Here comes your ninth loss of innocence, Cancerian. Or is it your tenth? As you will soon prove once again, you manage to make every time feel like the first time. When the moment arrives and the sweet purity ebbs away, the twinge that shudders through you will have the same primal intensity you've experienced before. But here's the redemption: Like most of the previous transitions, this one will lead to a surprising blessing you couldn't have gotten any other way. When your innocence is reborn -- as it will be, sooner or later -- it will be wiser and wilder than ever before.
I was watching, once again, that epic mini-series Gettysberg, and marveling at how much gravitas has Martin Sheen, playing the part of Robert E. Lee. The scene we just watched was the morning of July 3rd (1863), the last day of the battle, although no one in the movie knows that yet. Lee/Sheen rides among the troops, waving and getting them all riled up to go. The amount of energy pouring out of the crowd towards Lee, and the amount of energy Lee is obviously giving out as well, is tremendous. We often watch scenes of this same nature - a rock concert, an election, a theater performance - and, depending on whether you are the crowd or the focus of the crowd, your experience can vary widely. It's electrifying to be the center of this type of attention - it happens to me, on occasion, in the circlesing: everyone surrounds you, supports you, uplifts you, encourages you. When you're doing something creative, the crowd can help you soar; the song I sing in the center of the circle comes from somewhere far beyond me; I can do things I can't really do.
Wo don't think about it very often but the exchanged energies are going both ways. Both sides are putting out AND giving out a tremendous amount of telepathically projected life force. That's the connection people love when seeing live art performances; they pay thousands of dollars to watch Bono sing "One" for that very reason. And let's not forget, in groups of any size - from arenas to living rooms - the connection of the members of the group to each other. We love meeting someone and finding out they like the same obscure ________ as we do!
Which brings me to HJ - the final bit of the Hugh Jackman story, which, I guess, should be told to be complete. I won't go into the whole situation, because, as before, much of it involves even more of my personal history and my personal point of view - and though pouring out the personal and equating it to the universal is the writer's job (and really, every artist's), I don't want to drag anything out. But anyway!
I've talked before about that curious debt of gratitude one can feel towards art or artists. Steve Martin has given me so much, and all I've ever done back is buy his books, listen to his music, and go to see his films. It's hardly fair. And I've felt this way....oh, since before I can remember. I think I was desperate to tell Han Solo how much he helped me; who knows WHAT he could have helped me with, child I was, but I know he was inspirational in some way. I remember the feeling.
The problem is, because the nature of art is often so distant - it's old, created long ago, or far away, and you can't get to the artist, whether because the person is dead or famous or whatever - you get stuck with this...what do I call it? Unexpressed gratitude. You can't say thank you, and it feels wrong. Now, the person may or may not want your gratitude, but unexpressed emotions - love being the worst, but all of them (anger, grief, fear) - can become toxic. People are meant to express themselves freely.
It's especially frustrating when the person is alive and around, but just otherwise untouchable - like famous. I don't pursue famous people, per se, but I like to connect with the actors, writers, singers that I like, many of them well-known, so I've met my share of famous people. I have a knack of being able to interact well with them (there's many stories around this), but I've never been able to quite thank any of them in a manner that would be fully expressive of the depth of my gratitude. I've tried in various ways and have had measures of success, but never in the way that felt...definitive.
Well, after my long blog posts about HJ, I thought, well, this is a story, and this at least kind of expresses thanks. It wasn't even close to all I wanted to say, but it was in the ballpark. So, I hatched and then executed a crazy plan: I published my blog, in two days (thanks, 48hrsbooks.com), a very limited edition (sadly rather riddled with spelling errors - sometimes I have time to write the blog, but not proof the blog). I trooped down to the Curran Theater a few Thursdays ago and I waited with a copy of my very first bound book. (Who knew? The blog, it seems, is a book).
There were already a few women waiting for HJ - like me, they'd either seen the show already or had upcoming tickets, and now were just wanting to meet him. I had to stand against one of those metal crowd barriers, which made me uneasy (I have a fear of being crushed by a crowd; Black Fridays are my deepest nightmare), and as the show let out and the crowd thickened around me, the scene became freakier. It was freezing cold - I was stamping my feet to keep the feeling in them. The hum and buzz grew and grew, the anticipation. Orange-coated security guards paced, saying "Once you get your picture, step back and let someone else get a turn."
Get a turn? Get your picture? Agh! The whole thing was freaking me out. What were all of these people doing here? I mean, I knew what *I* was doing there, but what were they? The woman next to me said, "Oh, you'll be able to hear when he's coming. Everyone will be screaming."
"I won't be screaming," I said. "Why not?" she said. "Why would I?" I answered, and she turned away and never looked at me again. I mean, I scream when someone DOES something on stage, perhaps - like a Turkish drop, a rare and difficult bellydance move - but I wouldn't scream when I am meeting someone. However, I could see "meet" was an optimistic misnomer. HJ was a force, and he was also going to be swept along. I huddled down tighter, clutching the metal barrier as people pushed from behind me.
HJ appeared (and, really, a few calls but no screams) and all of the sudden, it was flash, flash, flash - people taking pictures, videos - screens lighting up the spaces in between the hands, outstretched with show programs. He was a master - shining bright, kind, calm, relaxed, lookin' good, shaking hands, winking, saying hi, waving hi, giving autographs expertly - writing, smiling, moving - all of it done with the height of professionalism. There seemed to be hundreds of people there, and although before he had appeared I'd had said we'd be there for hours, or he'd have to cut some of us off, HJ was seemingly dispatching with everyone in a matter they deemed satisfying yet was taking hardly any time at all.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like it was a cakewalk. He'd just finished a two-hour, one-man song and dance show, and was likely very tired. Plus, remember the energy exchange - you get a lot, but you gotta give a lot too. But HJ was graceful and gracious - it was a pleasure to see, and I found myself more and more curiously watching his technique as he approached, charmed, delighted, and thinking, ah, so that's how it's done.
But it was a juggernaut. The wave was coming, slowly, yes, but not stopping. Yikes. I really had to bust my ass to publish a book in just a couple of days, and now I had to get this book to him and explain it in a very quick sentence - I tried out one in my head, edited it down (as we must with all communication these days; texts and tweets, God!) and got it down pat just as he appeared, in front of me, and very much taller than I expected - he towers over my by a foot, and because there was a metal barrier, there was no space barrier. I craned my neck, handed him my book, said my sentence (basically, here's my blog and the last entry is a review of your show and how that made me a better person) and -
And he stopped. A full and complete stop. He looked at me, astonished as I have never seen someone be astonished. "What?" was his general response (verbatim stuff I can never recall), and "How did you...?" He turned the professional-looking book over in his hands, because how could he be holding a book that contained a review of a show which was only running for two weeks and still had four performances left? Everyone around me stopped and looked at me. Everyone was surprised. It was without precedent. Also, I had given him something, and taken nothing (not his signature, not his picture) and this strange reversal of pattern also contributed to a collective feeling of "wait up, what's this?"
HJ flipped open to the entry I'd tagged and started looking at it. "You can read it at your leisure," I joked. He looked up and seemed to remember it was time to move on. "I usually don't read reviews," he said, "but I'll read this one." "It was the opening night," I said. "Then I will definitely read it," he laughed. The pantsless episode was, I think, memorable to us all.
Then he thanked me. And that was that.
I turned, as I'd been told, to go and let someone else take my place. But I was pinned; there was no where to go. I turned back around and said "I can't move." "Aw, stay here and try and keep warm," he said in his rich Australian tones, and then off he was to the next person, who held out a full Broadway set: Hugh In Performance, A Steady Rain and The Boy From Oz. Boy, I thought - that's a fan. I am a rank amateur!
Well, that's the last thing that happened in the Hugh Jackman in Performance at the Curran Theater and How It Changed My Life. (For the same personal reasons I won't go into here, it was incredibly significant as a moment in my own personal development, but that's another story.) It's a little silly to write in your blog about printing and then giving your blog to someone, but in this case, it's Hugh Jackman and anyway, why not?
I'll leave you with the Rob Brezny horoscope (http://www.freewillastrology.com/) that popped up in my Gmail today. His stuff is always right on, like Robin Hood's "end to end" arrow shot; it gets right to the heart of the heart of the matter. If you're a moon child, as I am, or even if you aren't, this is a nice concept to leave with:
Here comes your ninth loss of innocence, Cancerian. Or is it your tenth? As you will soon prove once again, you manage to make every time feel like the first time. When the moment arrives and the sweet purity ebbs away, the twinge that shudders through you will have the same primal intensity you've experienced before. But here's the redemption: Like most of the previous transitions, this one will lead to a surprising blessing you couldn't have gotten any other way. When your innocence is reborn -- as it will be, sooner or later -- it will be wiser and wilder than ever before.
No comments:
Post a Comment