Showered, Shaved and Ready to go 
The first of our three showcases is tonight in Adams, which would make today the 28th of June. WAIT WHAT?!?! The 28th? WTF? I’ve often used the expression “went by like a blur” but the last four weeks have given it new meaning. But of course, when you factor in the six to eight hour days of rehearsal every weekday and the everything that goes in between it does make sense, the cast hasn’t just been lounging about in our Becket summer house playing on the rope swing and watching the blueberries grow…
I can’t put the right words together to describe what this rehearsal process has been like, except well, pardon my french (and please include scottish accent) but it’s been fucking great. There have been rough patches sure, just like there are in any play. But in keeping with some advice I got from our director, I’m just going to speak for myself. The play is just what I love: illogical, physically and emotionally demanding, and altogether strange. Shit who am I kidding, I get to play washboard, I’m like a kid in a candy store…a really messed up candy store. 
Gail Shalan mentioned in her last blog about the show that actor’s are inherently. It extends to most performers as well. Kill me for being sentimental but if you’ve listened Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page” and it gives you the same tingle of ambivalence and excitement that it gives me you’ve probably got a little bit of nomadic actor in you too  (or you just really dig Bob Seger). That wanderlust is indigenous to theater (anyone who wants to argue that live music isn’t theater please be my guest) and is part of why we’re all so prone to parties, affairs, drugs, alcohol, spirituality, and the like. We crave a reincarnation of the feeling we gave - or hoped to give- to the audience for that hour or minute or however long we were onstage. Something to fill us back up after we’ve poured out our innards into the crowd. Why? You might ask. It’s a valid question. Why does the whole thing sound so painfully overdramatic? The answer to that exists within every artist and I don’t have the time or patience to get really specific about it, but it has a lot to do with voluntarily putting yourself in an extremely vulnerable position in front of a large group of people, who have gathered to either enjoy you or judge you - most likely both.  
I might have wandered from my point. Seger’s song brought something up in me when I heard it that resonates with this play. Sure, he’s writing from the perspective or a road weary country star who now feels exploited and jaded because he’s spent so long in the spotlight. But the refrain “here I am playing the star again, here I am, turn page,” conjure the feeling of eternity. “The Dick and The Rose”  succeeds I hope, in creating the same sense of perpetual damnation and salvation. It’s characters forever locked into in a world outside of time, charged with the impossible task of ending violence against innocence. A horrible tango of art and life ensues, for the violence is necessary for the art, the art beautiful in its violence, and the one impossible without the other. 
I’ve come to the end of what I can write today. The next time I post I’ll be in Scotland…
Now about those blueberries…
DW

Showered, Shaved and Ready to go

The first of our three showcases is tonight in Adams, which would make today the 28th of June. WAIT WHAT?!?! The 28th? WTF? I’ve often used the expression “went by like a blur” but the last four weeks have given it new meaning. But of course, when you factor in the six to eight hour days of rehearsal every weekday and the everything that goes in between it does make sense, the cast hasn’t just been lounging about in our Becket summer house playing on the rope swing and watching the blueberries grow…

I can’t put the right words together to describe what this rehearsal process has been like, except well, pardon my french (and please include scottish accent) but it’s been fucking great. There have been rough patches sure, just like there are in any play. But in keeping with some advice I got from our director, I’m just going to speak for myself. The play is just what I love: illogical, physically and emotionally demanding, and altogether strange. Shit who am I kidding, I get to play washboard, I’m like a kid in a candy store…a really messed up candy store

Gail Shalan mentioned in her last blog about the show that actor’s are inherently. It extends to most performers as well. Kill me for being sentimental but if you’ve listened Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page” and it gives you the same tingle of ambivalence and excitement that it gives me you’ve probably got a little bit of nomadic actor in you too  (or you just really dig Bob Seger). That wanderlust is indigenous to theater (anyone who wants to argue that live music isn’t theater please be my guest) and is part of why we’re all so prone to parties, affairs, drugs, alcohol, spirituality, and the like. We crave a reincarnation of the feeling we gave - or hoped to give- to the audience for that hour or minute or however long we were onstage. Something to fill us back up after we’ve poured out our innards into the crowd. Why? You might ask. It’s a valid question. Why does the whole thing sound so painfully overdramatic? The answer to that exists within every artist and I don’t have the time or patience to get really specific about it, but it has a lot to do with voluntarily putting yourself in an extremely vulnerable position in front of a large group of people, who have gathered to either enjoy you or judge you - most likely both.  

I might have wandered from my point. Seger’s song brought something up in me when I heard it that resonates with this play. Sure, he’s writing from the perspective or a road weary country star who now feels exploited and jaded because he’s spent so long in the spotlight. But the refrain “here I am playing the star again, here I am, turn page,” conjure the feeling of eternity. “The Dick and The Rose”  succeeds I hope, in creating the same sense of perpetual damnation and salvation. It’s characters forever locked into in a world outside of time, charged with the impossible task of ending violence against innocence. A horrible tango of art and life ensues, for the violence is necessary for the art, the art beautiful in its violence, and the one impossible without the other. 

I’ve come to the end of what I can write today. The next time I post I’ll be in Scotland…

Now about those blueberries…

DW