It has been nearly four years since I entered anything into this blog. For one, I have been a bit more active on Tumblr, perhaps ironically, given its low status on the social Internet charts (despite its adeptness at generating viral memes); for another, I have been tending to a family and managing my own demons in (mostly) private.
This week, several events have led me to feel inspired to return to this blog where I have indirectly charted my artistic and critical journey in the arts, specifically theatre, and culture at large. My memory has been sufficiently jostled, and my soul, which has cried out for connection and artistic fulfillment, is starting to more firmly grasp onto those things. It turns out I truly do believe in the world, and I truly do cherish life in all its forms, and I truly do want to write whatever is in this brain of mine, however I can manage to do so. I scribbled a note recently that it seems impossible to write during crisis, but it is doubly important that one does. And so, I write.
I was in the audience of Heated Rivalry: The Unauthorized Musical Parody on Tuesday night. Written by my former colleague and fellow BMI workshopper Dylan MarcAurele, the musical truncates the hit television series into a one-act filled with sex jokes and catchy numbers. I found little to fault in the production, and I suspect that, until the buzz about the show fades, it will run for a long time and bring MarcAurele and his team much notice. I hope it brings to bear the kind of work he really wants to write; but also, as has been seen with Titanique, perhaps it can scale up into a Broadway house. Even someone who has no familiarity with the source material, like me, can find it an enjoyable evening of theatre. (And did I see Bill Hader in the front row? Quite possibly, though I haven't confirmed it.)
The next evening, I was able to catch up with a dear friend who was in town. We went to Oscar Wilde, an excessively decorated cocktail bar that its namesake would no doubt have cherished. It was one of those evenings where one hour turns into three without notice, and one must be reminded that one has obligations in the morning that sleep would most certainly help along. I had, of course, forgotten that stimulating conversation about the arts and other people's lives is vital to survival. This was a fabulous reminder. Friends, though far, are closer than we think.
And tonight, I was asked to participate in a staged reading of a new musical. The Web is an adaptation of the classic book Charlotte's Web from the brilliant mind of Dan Wilson, another BMI member in my cohort. I had forgotten what it was like for a scrappy group of theatre artists to put together a performance, even just a staged reading. The house was full, and by the end, so were our hearts. It's a very touching adaptation with very accessible music sticking very close to its thesis about the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Dan tells me that E.B. White wrote his novel because he wanted to save a pig once, and he couldn't. In the book, he could. It's the hope that rings true, it's the possibility of salvation, of being accepted and included and even lauded for just being. These are the stories which keep humanity going. They must be told and retold.
I left the theatre tonight and got back into my old habit of texting people I haven't talked to in a long time. I wasn't outright looking for connection, but theatre reconnected me. It fixed a small but vital part of me that had been broken. It reminded me more strongly than mere words that I am a part of this whole thing. It took me out of my lazy just-get-through-it-ness and into my let's-just-do-it-ness (if you'll pardon the cheesy expression). And so, the return. I'm hoping the feeling sticks around.
Thank you to all the theatre makers, the art makers keeping us human, reflecting us, challenging us, reminding us. It is essential, despite what politicians and others may think. We have to keep doing it, seeing it, sharing it. It is one of our greatest inventions.
