Weigh In #9

12/28/08

Weight:
244lb

Weight Loss in Past Week:
0 lb

Total Weight Loss:
8lb

Exercise Last Week (SNOWBOUND!):
1 gym visit
cardio only
60 min visit
2 Snow walks
60 min each

Goal for next week:
243lb

THEY

Contemplation does not comfort. It creates an unsteadiness...a feeling that the ground is composed of very loose soil...and that a sinking is possible.

Nothing exemplifies this more than our love of referencing "they" when citing our expertise. In our use of this amorphous source, we seem to be saying, "Don't give me specifics...it might shake my reality." And doesn't any person spend the majority of his/her life defining reality...a place to call "home" so as to breathe easy and settle into routine? There is great comfort in predictability...in knowing "what is"...and we have this comfort based on what "they" say.

In a benign example, take this recent weather in the Northwest. You heard it constantly...in grocery stores, from friends on the phone, from those passing on the street. "They say we'll be getting another six inches of snow this weekend." "They say it's going to warm up and melt soon." "They say this will be a harsh winter." Etc. Etc. And people spoke with such conviction. Then when things did not always turn out the way "they" said it would, people felt betrayed. "They don't know what they're talking about!" "I made plans and they were wrong!" And on and on. But if these people had simply looked at the four or five different weather models online, they would have seen there was virtually no agreement amongst the myriad meteorologists. So the only question is: which "they"?

And this is what I'm getting at. The majority of our society bases reality on a surface understanding of virtually everything. Without even scratching the surface of possibilities, people claim to know things. They use this knowledge to build a foundation for themselves...and often, it is all an illusion.

Less benign is the fact that the media is completely corporate controlled. And these corporations have biased political interests. This leads some to seek knowledge from blogs or other online sources - which have much to offer, but many are simply exercises in narcissism. Where does one find trust? Our science industry is run by stockholders. It is almost impossible to get a grant for research if the result of the funded research is not a sellable product. If those funding research are mostly companies run by stockholders, then how is there any possibility of reliable results? If the scientist wants more funding, the results better yield something to sell...so the scientist will want to make sure this happens.

Point is...be careful of what "they" say. Who are "they"? Did you bother to look for yourself? Did you bother to question? Or is it too inconvenient, because the simple answers give you that longed for foundation? Is it troublesome, because if you looked deeper, you might find the answers don't fit your politics?

What is your excuse for accepting what "they" tell you?

Weigh in #8

12/21/08

Weight:
244lb

Weight Gain in Past Week:
+2lb

Total Weight Loss:
8lb

Exercise Last Week:
4 gym visits
cardio and weight lifting
60 to 90 min per visit
2 Snow walks
60 min each

Goal for next week:
243lb

Sister

I waited with sweating palms and short breaths, bad vending machine food stuck inside my cheeks as her father came into the waiting room and said, "It's a baby girl." I was twelve. No longer an only child. I had a half sister.

I watched her in a baby swing - the ones you wind up and set rocking - and I sneezed and she laughed...a huge laugh out of a six month old. And so I sneezed again - fake sneeze. And she laughed harder. So loud, so tickled, happy tears crawling down her cheeks. And I sneezed again and again and she cackled and cackled and I began to learn more about unconditional love.

Oh, how she was stubborn. Oh, how she had to have her way. Oh, how we were so much the same. And oh, how we fought. Yes I was 17 and she was 5. So what? We did such battle when I babysat. I had changed her diapers. I had stayed up with her some nights when she was scared and so I had the right to tell her what to do! She'd have none of it. She told me what she thought about me and bellowed "I hate you!!!" as she ran to her room. And I went in there and hugged her as she kicked and screamed for me to let her go...and eventually her body went limp and she began to curl her limbs around me, and her head fell upon my chest and she cried soft sobs. And I realize that though we were both so stubborn...these tears had nothing to do with me. She had entered this world haunted. And it would take much to exorcise that.

Back from college, I stood in an elementary school hallway with a big yellow visitor's badge stuck to my shirt. And around the corner a line of munchkins came marching. She didn't know I was coming. Near the back of the line, she finally looked up to see me there. Surprise! A lunch date. She was permitted to leave the chain of children and take my hand. And we were off!...through the lunch line of hairnets and unrecognizable food and to a table not meant for a 20 year-old ass (especially mine). She babbled excitedly about her class...their projects...her teacher...her second grade friends. I shared what I could of the college experience. Lunches are so short in elementary school. She rejoined the line. Conformed as she was told. Her teacher smiled at me and winked as they faded around the corner, little shoes clicking on a checkered tiled floor.

I was marinating in dramatic tension. I'd walk out the door and be back to Dallas and then off to Portland in a U-haul. Away from Texas. And thousands of miles away from family. Good-bye time. A hot afternoon. The high windows cast perfect rectangles across the living room. I stood up from the couch and the embraces began. And she looked at me...now twelve. In between little girl and young woman. She hugged at my waist. A tight, forever hug. And my mother, eyes fully welled, mouthed to me... "pick her up." I reached under her arms and lifted her. She wrapped her arms and legs around me...and she wept. And I wept...holding her as I did when she was a napping toddler those not so many years ago.

And then a strange and inevitable acceleration. The Portland years. So many and so fast. A birthday visit for her fifteenth birthday. Living with me while her mother battled a divorce in Texas. Giving her an internship at the theatre (no one takes line notes like she does!) Offering her a place to stay when things got bad...and worse. And then becoming roommates, and fighting like roommates...but quieter than in the past, passive aggression as the new "I hate you!!!". Wiping tears off her face during her first big break-up. Hugging her in another good-bye moment as she headed to California to breathe in a new understanding of herself. Phone conferences about school, career, travel, and of course...what to do with our family. Embracing her as she returned to Portland...with much baggage in tow.

Yesterday we had a winter blast hit the city. Snow and wind and magical spirits reminding us of all the meanings of cold. And there is much cold here. My family is divided. I am on the outside...anchored firmly to boundaries and principles. And so that leaves one person to call family. You know who. And call we did - literally. With my partner out of town, this empty house was beginning to assert its weight. And who better to offer levity?

She came over, exuding such excitement about the snow. She has this ability to harness a child's wonderment in almost any given moment - and it's incredibly charming and makes her shine so bright. After a quick coffee warm up, we decided a walk was in order. I bundled up and put snow grips on my shoes. And off we trekked down the white path. She casually reached down to grab some snow. "Don't you dare!" I yelled at her with as much big brotherly authority as I could muster. Oh how tempted she was, the snowball forming in her hand. Her eyes were filled with much mischief. Again, quite charming - but not enough to stop my threats. "You will be SO dead if you do that! You have no idea. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW!!!" And we giggled and the dance of 'will she? won't she? will she? won't she?' went on a bit longer until I managed to slap the frigid ammunition from her hand and send it exploding onto the road.

We laughed. We slipped. We stepped over yellow snow. We shivered as whirling dustdevils of icy powder assaulted us in the ripping wind. We cursed the teenager racing down a long driveway to do doughnuts. We marveled at the obvious joy of dogs in the park. And at one point, she grabbed her camera phone, wrapped her arm around me and directed me toward the lens. A quick click. A moment in time captured. This moment. Precious. And needed. Me - now 35. Her - now 23. Friends and unconditional love.

I wrote "I had a half sister." But of course, she is my whole sister. And now...she is my whole family. There is nothing and no one in the world I love more than my sister, Katie. And yesterday, we got to play in the snow...

Weigh In #7

12/14/08

Weight:
242lb

Weight Loss in Past Week:
3.5lb

Total Weight Loss:
10lb

Exercise Last Week:
4 gym visits
cardio and weight lifting
60 to 90 min per visit

Goal for next week:
240lb

Thin Line

I have often been accused of taking things "too close to the line" in my theatrical work. This means different things to different people, but mostly it refers to my love of the grand emotional moment - one that sits on the razor thin line between comedy and tragedy. This has led many a colleague to worry about my work in terms of its intended tone. Will it be misunderstood? Misinterpreted? Accepted as emotionally truthful? Laughed off the stage as histrionic trash?

I'm entering a third stage in my artistic life. In Stage One, I would receive this sort of criticism and I'd simply blow it off. My wall of arrogance was so impenetrable such comments were brushed off my shoulder like irritating dandruff. As I humbled and worked to develop lasting collaborative relationships, I swung the other way. Stage Two began, and I became terrified of such critique. I became confused as to how I could have such a skewed perception of my own work. And I worried endlessly about pleasing everyone. I worked to imagine scenarios for plays that might please the masses - please the critics. I looked to colleagues who were being produced...who were getting far more acclaim for their offerings...work that seemed more accessible.

Now I enter Stage 3 - and I'm simply trying to embrace my own taste. Truth is, I love moments in art that push me to that line. It is often a place where the audience member has to choose to "go along" or "check out." I look closely at the horror genre, which I love immensely. You cannot be scared by horror unless you choose to be scared. Okay, I suppose there are those who frighten easily. But what I mean is...if you buy a ticket to see a horror movie and buy a horror book...you are making a contract with yourself to feel scared. You agree to that experience. Otherwise, it would all be comic. I can also look at opera in this way. And that may be the best way to discuss my taste. I love the operatic gesture in sculpting emotional moments. I love the extreme. This does not mean mindless melodrama. But it certainly isn't subtle. And I've come to loathe those who believe that a lack of subtlety means a lack of complexity. Subtle can be beautiful...but it can also be plain BORING.

This came up for me a few days ago when I was watching an interview between Ed Norton and film critic Elvis Mitchell. To my shock, Norton went off for a moment about how great Faye Dunaway's performance is in Mommie Dearest. Mitchell was clearly perplexed and tried to nuance his reaction by saying something like, "But that's more like a Kabuki style..." Then Norton went on to discuss how much courage it takes for an artist to take something to the very edge and how much he admires that. I was tickled, because I have always felt that Dunaway's performance was stunning and quite misunderstood by those who enjoy it merely for camp value. Even the new DVD packaging hails it as a camp classic and is clearly intended to target the drag show audience. But to this day - and I saw the movie about a year ago - I find her portrayal honest. It is not subtle. But I find it filled with integrity.

There are other moments in film/theatre that have divided audiences where it was declared the "line was crossed into absurdity."

--The final scene in There Will Be Blood
--Almost anything in The Exorcist
--The climactic monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer
--George C. Wolfe's staging of Angels in America
--Jack Nicholson's performance in The Shining.
--Piper Laurie in Carrie
--The Tokyo story in Babel

This is a list of some of my favorite artistic things. I find none of them comic or inappropriate to the material or vision. As I look at it, I realize that much of it is immersed in sex/religion/violence. When these things are mixed into the emotional arc of a story do I simply have a high tolerance? As I said in a previous post, it may have much to do with my desire for art to transport me to completely different place. The unreal. And as "large" as these moments are, they are filled with truth for me. They thrill me.

Anyway...point is, I can only create what ultimately pleases me. I'm trying to own my aesthetic and create work that I enjoy. And hopefully, within that is the potential for truth and emotional relevance. And if a few laugh and roll their eyes, ("Oh, Matt....you WENT there...") so be it.

:)

A Pride

There is a particular sentence in yesterday's blog post that is incredibly insulting. I stated: "My work is a series of failed experiments in artistic expression, none of which have brought me a bit of satisfaction." To all of the many incredible artists with whom I've worked, I'm sorry for declaring such a thing without clarification. My point was simply that I am never fully satisfied with my work - the part that is my job. (This is said of all perfectionists - I am certainly nothing special.) What I must do is chill the fuck out and realize that artistic expression is a flash in time - a snapshot. Five minutes after that moment, the artist's viewpoint may change - the world changes - and so the art changes - and may no longer please the artist or audience. It is a maddening chase, is it not? If an artist is fully "present" - then his/her work is always in the past - leaving a vast emptiness to the front and a line of relics in the back. Is this why so many artists never fill the void?

But to not be satisfied is different than to not have pride. And I have a lot of pride in my endeavors - and even more pride for those who have been by my side. The nagging demons in my head have nothing to do with you. I am filled with joy when I think of the artists who have been so gracious to share with me and of those who have handed me my opportunities. So please...don't misunderstand my indulgent and melancholy ramblings...

I am proud of my work. I am proud of your work. I am proud of any artist who works hard to filter his/her inspiration through a rigorous exercise in craft. That's integrity. That is something of which to be most proud.

And now...I have more chasing to do.

Cave Dwelling

This is highly indulgent - maybe even irritating. But then, I set out to reveal the warts and all.

Yesterday was a tough day. And I have no idea why. I have no idea why late last night, I wanted to crawl into a cave and not come out - or why this morning, for breakfast, I have swallowed down the lump in my throat multiple times. I feel isolated and alone and as though my mind is sucking me into some version of hell where all I see is disappointment. And I have no idea what brought this on. I rarely do. All I know is that these moments are happening more and more frequently, and I don't know how to push the rolling boulder back up the hill; its weight threatens to crush me into a version of myself that is simply...lost.

My beautiful and empathic partner sensed my darkening mood last evening. I tried to talk it out with him. In doing so, I had a moment of silence - like one of so many "beats" I insert into my plays - and I simply said, "I'm a complete failure." Michael almost laughed - not out of cruelty...really out of sweetness. He said, "You would never accept that from me...if I said that, you'd smack me down." He's right. In my tough love Texan way, I'd probably hug him, give him a kiss, and then say, "Quit whining, Little Camper!" as I bopped him on the head.

But in that moment, it is how I felt - feel?

I am almost 36 years old. I live pay check to pay check. I haven't had a play of mine seen outside my immediate community. One of Portland's beloved theatre companies closed under my watch - and with that closure, my passionate dream for a thriving new works driven theatre company was obliterated. And I was humiliated. My band, Zero G, dissolved - really because I was unable to compromise my principles - but was that smart...or once again, short sighted? My family is divided - I have not seen or spoken to my mother or littlest sister or nephew in over 6 months. And my anxiety disorder is ramping up to a point that I now have major IBS issues along with painful aches and deep energy collapses - which make every single work assignment nearly impossible. Every day is filled with terror. And as I manage to push myself through - sheer ego navigating the way - I come out the other side exhausted - more and more each day. And in the quiet moments, I have no idea how I became...this.

I am aware this sounds like a pity party. It is. It's my blog. So shut up. :)

I'm also aware that I have much to be thankful for. I have a partner that is a truly magical spirit...he is...it would take one to put up with me. I have many wonderful teaching assignments and have gained much respect from my colleagues in this field. I have many students and parents who show me incredible gratitude. I have also had an amazing two years regarding readings of my plays - and have been well received by audiences and colleagues. And though I do live pay check to pay check - I AM making a living completely in the arts. Independently. And I am thankful for this.

So what gives?

I came across an old file of recommendations. The amazing Charles Helfert...long time Associate Dean of the Meadows School of the Arts...and largely responsible for my being able to attend SMU, given his determination to find financial aid for a blue collar family trying to send their son to an "Ivy League of the South" school - this amazing man wrote me a recommendation two years after my graduation. I asked for this letter as general testimony of my potential - something to give theatre folk as I tried to move ahead in the business. It is a generous letter and in it he says that the Meadows School is often looked at in terms of the eras of its now famous alumni. The Kathy Bates Era. The Beth Henley Era. Etc. He closed by saying "One day, we will be talking about the Matt Zrebski era."

I almost ripped this letter into tiny pieces. Such embarrassment.

What makes things worse - is I can't simply wallow into a pool of sadness - because I know how stupid it is to do so. Even as I type this, I'm berating myself. I have a spiritual awareness that there is a cosmic logic to why I am exactly where I am right now. As I continued talking to Michael about this last night - I may have landed on something that gets to my dilemma.

I said, "Michael. My arrogance is the only thing that pushed me through my twenties and early thirties. And arrogance only hides insecurity. As I worked to reign in this unpleasant aspect of my nature, the vulnerability took hold. Because the fact is, I'm not confident in what I do, and I never have been. Because secretly, I've not been pleased by one single artistic offering I've ever produced. It is never good enough by my standards. I fail every time. Others may compliment my work and have nice things to say, but in truth, I feel I have simply pulled the wool over their eyes. My work is a series of failed experiments in artistic expression, none of which have brought me a bit of satisfaction."

And then a small epiphany. (Is that oxymoronic? Anyway...) I must learn to be thrilled by and completely accept IMperfection. This is not a completely new concept to me. I have long known my "all or nothing" self-assessment is an evil in my life. How did I get to be 75 pounds overweight? Because if I couldn't have the perfect body, why try at all? This is ludicrous, but it's something hardwired into my brain. And I know where it comes from - but no mother and childhood bashing in this post...

What this means is I feel I am living in my own cesspool of "mediocrity". And no word I can think of is more repulsive than that.

I'm now trying to find a way to bring this post to a close...and I cannot. So it's simply going to end. And I'm simply going to hope this day will turn up. I am going to see A Christmas Carol at Portland Center Stage tonight. Barring any anxiety attacks - which I have 90% of the time I attend theatre - it will be a pleasant evening with Michael, watching a terrific adaptation with magical stage craft...maybe I can learn from the ghosts...maybe.

Weigh In #6

12/7/08

Weight:
245.5lb

Weight Loss in Past Week:
2lb

Total Weight Loss:
6.5lb

Exercise Last Week:
4 gym visits
cardio and weight lifting
60 to 90 min per visit

Goal for next week:
244lb