Trend Away!

A very quick blog post to say that I want this new trend to go away. Far away. It creeps me out. I don't know exactly why. But it does. And I'm sick of seeing them at the gym, worn by the type of people who "get ready" to go to the gym to "be seen" with finely coiffed hair and smelling of cologne and sprayed with fake tan. Those people keep wearing these ... these...uh...shoes?

ICK!

Cool Art, Man

Three recent cool things...

1. Hey, Nostradamus by Douglas Coupland

Yes, I am incredibly behind in reading this acclaimed novel, but I have to say: wow. It captured me so fully, and the final narrative in the quartet was one of the most devastatingly bittersweet pieces of prose I have ever read. If you are interested in a moving exploration of violence and spirituality…true spirituality, then pick it up now…

2. The Human Centipede directed by Tom Six

Many will think I’m a nut for listing this as “cool”. But I do think it ranks as one of the boldest cinematic experiments I’ve seen in some time. Not unlike Antichrist in its audacity, it dares to take an audience into the realm of horror so uncomfortable, you either laugh or vomit. I have always been a fan of Cronenberg films – particularly Videodrome and The Fly. Like those films, Six investigates a purgatory on earth where one is caught in his/her own body as it hangs between life and death in a grotesque cage. I do not “recommend” it – most will curse the film, but I think it is quite an achievement…and it has stayed with me for days.

3. The Gray Sisters by Craig Wright, presented by Third Rail Repertory Theatre

I was so prepared not to like this play. You see – I dislike most monologues. I detest shows where people talk and talk and go on and on. And as a playwriting instructor, I consistently push my students away from using them. So when I learned that this newly commissioned play was a quartet of monologues, I groaned. I went to see the show, knowing that these four brilliant actresses were well worth the time – but I did not anticipate just HOW good they would be. And I certainly did not anticipate discovering my favorite Craig Wright play. His use of the one-sided monologue was so well crafted, so fresh, and the exploration of family, abuse, life, and death so rich...well, you get the point. Shame on me for pre-judging. And all applaud Third Rail for yet another brilliant production.

A handprint has touched me...

Tonight and tomorrow evening are the final two performances of Handprint Alley. This was a well paying commission to both write and score - and then direct a new theatrical work that would experiment with style, genre, and storytelling techniques. It has been one of the more ambitious undertakings of my entire career - and also one of the most fulfilling. Oh but did I mention?...

It's a high school show.

And therein lies the seed of this blog post. You see, over the past two weeks, I have had to hear no less than four times a statement akin to this: "I don't know how you do it. Aren't you sick of having to teach and do these high school shows to pay the bills?"

And with one exception, these comments came from colleagues who are, themselves, considered "teaching artists". What became evident to me - and this is no real shocker - is that many arts professionals do indeed take teaching gigs and do education based theatre (or dance, or music, or art) for the purposes of "paying the bills." To them, I say - stop teaching. If you are merely a frustrated professional artist who falls into teaching as a necessity, then you are not meant to be in that role... Judgmental? Maybe. But boy, do I mean it.

I write this as a simple response - from my heart. There is not one tiny atom in my body - not one shred of mental firings - not one kernel of spiritual ether - nothing, nothing, nothing within me that feels compromised whatsoever in my career for taking part in the beautiful communion between young artists and myself. It is a privilege to share and learn with young, gifted people. And as I get older, I realize just what a blessed life I lead to continue to spend much of my artistic energy in collaboration with such raw talent. I learn more from them than they could ever gain from me. I remember what authenticity is. I remember what first inspiration is. I remember the pure and simple joy of why I do theatre at all. And for that, I owe these young artists a great deal.

As for Handprint Alley - is it perfect? No. Of course not. It is a big, bold, often epic experiment in theatrical devices and song and myth and movement and visual relationships. I have much to consider regarding the piece once we close. But I do think in the course of my career, this play may be one of my most genuine. And there are beats that feel true - to the very core. I'm not sure I've ever reached that before. And it is precisely because I have been given this opportunity to work with youth that I was able to reach that goal.

I am happily breathing in these final two shows...filled with much love and appreciation.

Handprint Alley
written, composed, and directed by
Matthew B. Zrebski
Two Shows Left:
Friday May 21 at 7p
Saturday May 22 at 7p
$10 / $5
All tickets at the door
1151 SW Vermont St. Portland

a Re-Launch

This poor blog has been so neglected. Months and months have gone by without a post. I have no idea who will read this, given anyone keeping track gave up long ago. But I made a commitment that this blog would be there for me and no one else; I’d post when it felt right. And now…it feels right.

I could go on and on about the shifts in my life since winter fell on Portland. And there are days when I’d love to find words to illustrate my turn down a new avenue. But really…is it that interesting?

So I’ll keep it brief for now (someone told me brief blog posts should be the only blog posts).

Since my last post (October 14^th!) I have opened seven full play productions and two readings – all new works. And I have lost approximately 45 pounds – maybe more. I can’t say, because I have not weighed. And I did not set out to lose weight. I set out to change my relationship to food and to stop indulging in wheat, non-fruit sugars, corn productions, and most white rice. The result? I am wearing a size of clothing I have not worn since I was 22.

But with this shift came a lot more. And if it feels right..I will blog about it.

Evil Grins…it’s good to be back,

MattyZ

éist

A dream. Intense and fun. I was at a theatrical production...a new musical that no one had yet seen. The theatre was somewhat like Portland Center Stage at The Armory - but as dreams will be dreams...not exactly.

The show was audience participatory. Typically, I hate that. I mean...I REALLY hate that. But in this dream, the audience and performers became one unit...a blend of energies contributing to a ritual of levity. And I surrendered.

I was seated in the second row...and this worried me, because I always choose an aisle seat. I can't stand feeling trapped. And I wondered how the box office had made such a mistake in putting me in such an uncomfortable spot. But I surrendered.

And then suddenly, it was my turn to participate in the show. An actor came up to me with a large microphone and cued me and a few others to start singing the four notes in a descending minor scale...a classic bass jazz line. We were to sing it as two half notes, then a dotted quarter, with the last note as an eighth note - with two quarter rests completing the second measure...a classic jazz rhythm.

The words to our song were letters. We were to sing: E....I....S...T. Over and over.

I sang loud and everyone around me got into it. The man to my left put his arm around me in camaraderie, and I added an ascending harmony. This made the actor holding the mic giggle. He liked our improvised duet.

The performers were all in bright costumes from various time periods, stretching centuries. And it became obvious that anything could happen at any time and that the show could end immediately or go on infinitely and none of that mattered, for all we wanted to do was keep singing: E....I....S...T.

And then the alarm went off. 5:30am. Time to rise.

As I went about my morning ritual today, I have yet to erase the musical pattern from my head. E....I....S...T has been on a loop. I decided to contemplate the letters. Why those? I mean, it made sense from a singing perspective: two vowels as the long notes and a sharp T as the stinging eighth note. Often a pragmatist, I figured my subconscious simply applied a logical singing pattern. But it bugged me, and I started looking up the letters.

Nope, nope, scroll, scroll, google, google...

And then I came upon something most curious. A Gaelic word: éist. It means: to listen. On its own it can also be used as a command. In spelling it over and over, we were basically singing in Gaelic: Listen, Listen, Listen...over and over.

I also considered an anagram - and I immediately went to the word: ties. There has been much family turmoil over the past year, and I wondered if it might be in reference to the need to "rebuild" or perhaps "cut".

And now, I think maybe my jazzy bass line chant could mean both. In essence: Listen and consider your ties.

And now I have to decide what to do with that.

OR...it could just be...you know...a dream.

Oh, Luna...

I know this may create many an eye roll. But something about the NASA bombing of the moon on Friday makes me sad... And I realized it's because I feel like we are injuring an actual being.

I know that the moon is the big, dead rock. And perhaps studying a giant cloud of dust for ice particles is somehow relevant to our scientific progress. But on some primal level, I sense that we're slapping our heavenly beauty in the face...stabbing her...scarring her further. And as silly as it is...as irrational and dare I say even "sappy" as it is - it is genuinely bothering me. It fills me with a dense melancholy, but not a personal one. It's the type of grayness that infects my state when a global tragedy occurs...when the connective tissue of humanity is violated.

On Friday, I will light a candle for Luna, and I will apologize to her...

Mindstorm

There is a storm in my head this fall - more than usual. I have not blogged in weeks, because I cannot seem to find my focus (that, and I have been recovering from piggy flu) - there is so much on my mind.

This morning, I awoke once again to my body tensed up with virtually all my muscles contracted and my jaw clenched. Every move I made for the first two hours of being awake was filled with pain, and the headache will likely linger for the remainder of the day.

Why? I cannot seem to apply the filters I once could. When I was younger, I was able to use a sort of tunnel vision to operate through my days...I had clear goals and I raced straight ahead -rarely wavering - to reach them. Of course, in this process, I was often failing as a friend, lover, family member - and I was certainly not bettering myself intellectually or spiritually. But I tell ya - life felt better than it does now. As I get older and my awareness expands with regard to the world around me - and the world within me - I wonder: will I go bat-shit mad one day from this?

In just the past half hour I have found myself preoccupied with the following:

my family isn't talking and that breaks my heart, Obama needs to pull us out of Afghanistan but he won't, I want to write musicals again but how will I ever find the time, I have insurance now but how will I find a doctor I can trust and who will accept my holistic beliefs on health, should we force people out of the homosexual closet, why am I addicted to carbs, why am I tired all the time, is my partner going to burn out from working so hard, why did my crippling stage fright take hold just as my singing voice is reaching its peak, I really want to adapt this novel into a play but will the author give me the time of day, taxes are too high for self employed people and I see no way out of this hole, gay couples should all stand up and not pay any taxes until they have equal marriage rights, I love the movie There Will Be Blood, why do I love wearing cologne, my hair gets grayer all the time, Ozzy Osbourne had an HIV+ result blamed not on HIV but on his drug use which defies all current testing paradigms and validates dissident theories, I want a kitten so badly but we aren't allowed to have them and even if we were we'd not have the money to properly care for it, sometimes I really do want to be a dad, this bathroom will never get clean until the landlord replaces the fixtures, why did no one tell me we were out of buttery spread, my car is falling apart and without it I can't work, why has my best friend stopped reaching out to me, Portland is #9 on the smartest cities list and Austin is #12, my birth father never contacts me unless I contact him first, high school memories never haunted me until now, is there a ghost in this house, I'd give anything to hug my grandma again and hear her laugh at The Golden Girls, hands and feet are so unique and I get fixated on their stories...

And now I write this...if only to fulfill the obligation of attempting to keep this blog on life support, and it is making my jaw tense again and I want to go outside and run until I fall somewhere in a pile of autumn leaves and can sleep, sleep, sleep...real sleep...and stop my mind...stop it...stop...