July 22, 2007 - Yellow plastic 3-D glasses and after swimming hungry - Wow, wow, wow. Wow-wow-wee.

My cousins, brother, brother-in-law, husband and I left our Davenport, FL, summor house for International Drive in Orlando to watch the 1:00AM showing of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix at the Regal IMAX theater.

The major battle scenes were in 3-D.

Let me tell you first about this theater. The parking lot was a secret we had to find out. Once we hid our vehicle, we skipped up stairs that opened up to a view of the many-leveled plaza that surrounded the massive theater with trendy little pubs, open-air restaurants, and shops. The stairs would not lead us directly to the theater . . .and we wished for the moving staircases that would intuitively shift to allow us more direct access, even while speculating that the plaza would make a great Tribes map (thus completely exposing my inner geek), spotting alcoves for spider-clamp and laser turrets, force fields, and healing stations. The air was balmy and rich, cool from the well-ensconced night, but unmistakeably summer in Florida. I think our little group collectively shed about fifteen years, and we were furtively enjoying being out at night without our parents (whom we'd left back at the house singing karaoke . . . lest anyone should wonder why I've chosen my current profession or where I'd inheirited my aptitude for singing).

That movie was so very good. That theater was so very awesome, in the literal sense of the word. The two together made for a great movie-going experience - my brother and I went in to claim seats and found that there were only four people in the massive theater. We selected what was about the 30th row up in the sharply raked stadium seating. We could barely hear Edz` when he popped up, about sixty feet down, asking us if we wanted popcorn or candy. We settled in our seats, eight of us, and moved about until we'd all found the perfect fit (something you could never, never do in the NYC IMAX theater . . . and do they ever do 3-D?).

The movie could have been mediocre, and we would have had a great time. The movie happened to be very good, and I felt myself blown back into my seat from the digital sound check and the battle scenes (I would never mess with Dumbledore . . . or Harry Potter, for that matter). I developed a crush on Harry Potter. Every boy in our party wanted wands and spell casting ability. I desperately wanted a broom I could fly. But these were less envious wishes than wistful ones . . . the theater made us feel as though we were truly there, something I'd never quite experienced before. The panorama was amazing to see on the enormous, curved screen, and I made myself a little promise to travel to England and give myself ample time to explore. Imelda Staunton was deliciously malicious as Delores Umbrage, layering her villainess with an honesty that made her very interesting to despise. Alan Rickman is an inspiration in the few gems of scenes that he had as Severus Snape, and I actually felt sorry for his character's painful childhood! It was the trio that surprised me - Emma Watson, Daniel Radcliffe, and Rupert Grint (Hermione, Harry, and Ron, respectively) have grown up in the best ways possible as young actors, and I now want to find a fairytale that I can tell on screen because they make it look like a fabulous adventure - thus more than doing their jobs in this film.

I'm looking forward to seeing this again - the first of all the films in the group that I want to see again . . . wish I'd saved those 3-D glasses . . .

I have so much to tell you guys! I'll be back sooner than later, I promise . . . after I've visited the Queen of the Universe and Paradise Island. No explanation.

June 09, 2007 - Sunny days - Watching the game, having an iced tea, and a lovely, tired day. We're home for a balmy, cool June afternoon, and said no to most invitations by wonderful friends because if we don't clean our house, Emilia and Jeff may change their minds about staying with us . . . just kidding; they'd probably help us clean up. We walked to a friend's home two blocks away to visit, and he later came over, handed me the sweet baby that is Cassie to comfort her while he helped Edz`put in the air conditioner (which, as the rebellious Filipina I can be, I dread having to have on . . . I very much like the feel the air as it is, even when it's disgustingly hot . . . a good chunk of my parents' home country is on the equator after all) . . . I'm so glad I like to sing, and it was so nice that Cassie seemed to like it. Then again, it must be dreadfully boring to have to listen to a baseball game as a one and a half month old.

Last day of class at the William Esper Studio was yesterday, and it was taught by Bill Esper himself with Suzanne seated beside my wonderful and self-admittedly nervous teacher, Deb. I'd had a great conversation with my best good friend, a fight over nothing important with Edz`, and a fit of vicious nervousness that came in the middle of what was a (surprisingly) calm spate of time. I fiddled with the lace on my dress, I curled my toes over the platform our seats were arranged on, and I couldn't settle myself unless I threw all my attention on the scenes happening in front of me . . . then I had a moment . . . it is that simple. When all else is chaos and getting centered seems next to impossible, I throw all my attention to Joe, and I'm home.

The scene went well, as well as I've ever done it, and, as Deb said I should hope for, I went through something. I had an experience. It wasn't perfect, and I doubt anyone would buy tickets to see it, but it was mine, and it was my work, and I was tired and happy.

There was a moment this spring where I thought I might change course, and leave acting to do something else. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to hold all of that inside me. Once I got past what other actors and theater or film or television professionals saw as acting, I found out for myself what it was, and it is something wonderful, drug-induced without the drugs, and terrifying by turns. It's something that requires the whole of me, and is merciless to anything less. Something that simply will not work by overthinking it, yet if your choices are not specific, it will fail you, and you will stand there foolish, knowing that everyone watching can see it, too.

But with it, I can fly, I swear I can - it happened three solid times I can remember this year, and it is better than anything. It is one of the greatest ways to tell a story, and the only world that will keep me honest to who I am, even and especially the ugly parts - and I need that. Certain stories would never get told otherwise, and people who only know their own stories get to experience other worlds and environments, time periods, social classes, insurmountable tragedies, and the highest of the heights of joy - what a wonderful thing to know how to do for others.

I realized that I not only love to do this, but I need to do this. It's frightening and wonderful all at once. It's why I'll drown myself in a baseball game, a long run, painfully beautiful music - so I can get away from the intensity of it for a while.

Read this in the New York Times. Christine Ebersole's experiences as an actor and in Grey Gardens:

"You know, I experience psychic phenomena so people think I must be crazy," she said. "But you have to be accessible and intelligent to be a good actor. I might not have gotten the best grades in school, but I have a very high level of emotional intelligence. You have to be open to receive. Because that's the grace and the burden of the life of an actor. You not only see the suffering, you are the suffering. You become the vehicle with which to convey the humanity. That's what makes us who we are."

So when she's onstage with tears streaming as she sings, never missing a note, what is she thinking, exactly?

She considered. "Sometimes I'm literally thinking nothing," she said, "just experiencing the emotion. It's Edie's journey, trying to get away. That's my first obligation, to tell her story, though it's informed by my experience of living." She thought about it some more, and there was serenity in her face, and joy. "A lot of what happens in art, my art, I can't articulate and I don't fully understand," she said. "I can't explain it. I just can do it."

May 27, 2007, a whopping 02:26 and I can't get my brain to stop thinking away even though my body is saying sleep now you silly twit - Lycheetinis are awesome - pollen haze over the moon . . . strange . . .

Really, there should be a class of bartender that is akin to being a talented chef.

I'm weird about money. I'll make sure I use a 25 cent coupon for microwave popcorn, then go to the theater three times in one week. Now, granted, every time I've gone to the theater, it's either been complimentary (courtesy of Actor's Equity) or for no more than $26.25 ($1.25 theater restoration fee included). New York theater can be really great to students and people who are willing to get up early and get on line.

So, I hear Deb's voice in my head one morning, the one about how we should get out there and see as much as we can because that's one of the places we'll learn the most. I informed my husband that we will be seeing something the next evening, hopefully that new thing that Audra McDonald is in . . . choosing 110 in the Shade because I knew that once I started bartending there, it would be harder to make the time . . . ironic, but true. Wednesday is a great day for theater, and it was my diva day - 2:00PM matinee: Christine Ebersole was a scream and deserves every good thing anyone has ever said about her performance in Grey Gardens; 8:00PM performance: Audra McDonald inspired me so much that I was happy to wake up to rehearsal and audition even through the tiredness.

I like new sneakers. I think I'll get some.

I worked an office job today and made lots of money, so I can have the new sneaker bouncy feeling. I can pay bills and see a movie, even though there isn't a blessed thing playing in the theaters that I'm interested in . . . so I curl up on the couch with my NetFlix envelopes and frozen french fries . . . which I totally don't eat frozen, I cook them first, silly.

I try to make sense, and it's really hard. So I go sleep.

P. S. - Go see Frank Langella and Michael Sheen . . . hell, all of them in Frost/Nixon. My comrades in empty-wallet-dom and no-time-dom and don't-feel-like-it-dom, you are also my colleagues in want to become actors . . . -dom. I was shell-shocked afterwards, and I will be terribly antsy until you see it and I can finally gossip with you about it. There's a moment in the play that I know we will all be struck by, and for different reasons, but what fun it will be to argue about it . . . humor me, it's only $26.25, including facility fee . . .

P. P. S. I put my hand on the stage after the show when most of everyone was at the exit doors and it was getting quiet. It was like touching something holy, and, in a way, it was. A sacred place. The stage. Who knew.

Saturday, May 12, 2007 - Coast of Utopia - My cup is full, and it is because of how we are asked to be in the art that I study now. To be as open and receptive as possible, to allow our truthful reactions - all this bleeds out from the studio into the concrete block of the world I walk outside. It's a new, uncomfortable feeling, and I've concluded that I am grateful.

I did it. I managed to see all three parts of the Coast of Utopia by Tom Stoppard. I read what seemed to be uniformly good reviews, heard on the street love or disgust for the production(s), indifference in defense of not being able to understand the larger part of the work, defensiveness for not liking it when every important critic, formal and informal, seemed to be in raptures over it.

I'm over the moon. The actors in this ensemble are storytellers on an elite level, Stoppard is gutsy and unsparing and assumes his audiences' intelligence, the light designer painted with light, shade after shade drawing me in, and the music wrapped the whole passionate, noisy, glorious mess in an embrace. Jack O'Brian, the director, had a vision and it was one that as many people as possible should see, love it or hate it. The productions were more than worth every cent I spent, every minute spent on the cancellation line . . . what line? Any memory of that left as soon as my eyes met the stage. What a wonderful, miraculous thing this is, stories told on stage. The very best ones scoop you up, and take you into their world, forcing you to forsake the daily life you have just for a few hours. And when you come back, even the real world has changed as a result of seeing good, very good storytelling. If I ever got a chance to really meet Tom Stoppard, I'd tell him that. He altered the way I see people, my world, choices, and events and that I'm disturbed by this, and I'm glad. And I think he'd be one of those people who could take something like that as a compliment.

I say 'really meet' because running into him at the bar I work at doesn't count. It just doesn't. I need to have power of speech at the very least to make something like that count.

There's a quote at the end of the third installment of the play that isn't in my edition of the play. I'll paraphrase it as best I can. Or rather, my husband will.

'Our truest measure is how we lived in an imperfect world in our time. The only time we have.'

It's nice to hear my husband recite that after some thought. I could tell he was seeing the panorama of light and people on stage. It crossed his eyes as he remembered the words.

Friday, April 6, 2007 - Trick Track Truck - Current mood: reflective and crazy as a bedbug - One of the most romantic things I'd received was a CD of songs that reminded him of me. And her of me. And some of the more personal (i. e. - difficult to give) gifts I give the people I love are pieces of music I think they ought to hear, that make me think of them, that I think we can share and understand in this slice of time and at no other moment. I remember carefully writing titles to songs, and having my heart in my hand hoping the intent was clear, aware of rejection, or, worse, misunderstanding. And not being able to turn back, no matter what outcomes I envisioned in the damned dark hours at night with no way to get that CD back, abusing myself for being sentimental, stupid.

So dear whoever gets my CD in class today, I'm crazy or deep or corny or funny or sad or pathetic. I'm joyous and scared and in despair and fearless. I love old music and new music, the things my dad listened to and the things my youngest voice students listen to. I don't remember where I got that track, but it means so much to me now, and there are songs where I remember what I wore, who was singing along, and holding on with all my might to that moment so I can know that I once felt like that even if it never happens again.

How wonderful music is, akin to scents where everything important in that moment comes to my brain in amazing technicolor in all its glory, sad and happy memories powerful as the other. Sometimes it's just how it's composed and I imagine what the composer felt as the notes were being committed to paper, and other miracles where the words and the notes are wed and I can't imagine one without the other.

Le sigh. It is the great love affair of my life, barring the obvious loves, my husband, babies I might have someday, that moment I fell into what I knew of love just at the sight of the person . . . but music speaks these moments, and is capable of describing those memories to the people who weren't there. So you're allowed to see, just do it before I change my mind.

Thursday, March 29, 2007 - ten minutes until the curtain drops - Current mood: Flying - Dear self, please don't run Billy Crudup over with the bar stock crate, and learn to smile in a way that doesn't make the receiver of said smile wonder if you're experiencing muscle spasms.

I write from the lobby of the Vivian Beaumont Theatre in Lincoln Center on one of those perfect, crispy spring evenings with just the right amount of nip in the air that only really calls for a sweatshirt as long as you keep up a brisk pace . . . or play freeze tag. I am inspired for no particular reason at all, only that winter has faded into a sleep and spring is skipping, quietly, cautiously into the room and hoping not to get in trouble.

That's how I feel lately . . . too giddy, half happy and half worried, taking pleasure in the work that must be done even as I lay awake at night wondering over it. No longer seem to have the moments where I wonder the worth in it. I spend too much time hearing my nieces' beg to hear another Disney song, crying over sad movies, spraining stomach muscles over funny movies, and being startled to abject beauty in the form of perfectly composed strains of song melody from just one man under one spotlight with one piano on one stage. There's so much that goes on that I'm privilged to watch, feel, and listen to that I find myself wishing for less of a need to sleep.

I've just come crawling back to Netflix, more movies than I can handle, gems of stories that preoccupy my train rides back and forth to NYC, imaginary people sitting beside me, earnestly telling me of their woes, contentments, joys, pains. Sherrybaby is part of what reminds me of how lucky I truly am to be surrounded and influence by truly good, unconditionally loving people. At the same time, what a fantastic role Maggie Gylenhaal gets to play, up and down the emotional scale, with an honestly that makes the viewer squirm in their seats. I admired her before, but now I love her for her freedom in front of the camera, her lack of vanity, her willingness to be vulnerable in all its ugliness for the world to see and for us to understand who Sherry Swanson is. I recommend this, but only if you've got time set aside to take a nice, long walk outdoors in nice weather right after. Just in case.

I watched Singing in the Rain with my nieces over the weekend, and remembered why I started doing what I do. The number, Make 'Em Laugh, sent everyone into the stomach muscle pain laughter, grownups included. And say what you will - Gene Kelly is dreamy. That smile and that dancing gets me every single time. Before my sister (in-law, though that always sounds so antiseptic, very unlike loving and fun Basia) and her family left for home, they requested songs and piano from me and Edz`. So I sang Disney Princess songs to Edz`'s accompaniment and was only just successful enough at hiding my teary eyes when the eldest niece told me that I sounded better than her Disney Princesses recording.

Silly, but that meant the whole world to me.

So, with a nice number of little inspirations to carry me to the end of March, I will try to get to sleep so I can do my oral presentation tomorrow. About a poker playing Broadway producer. Hmm. I wonder if this is a presentiment on Deb's part.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007 - Well, I like Alabama now. By proxy. Because my friend, Jillian, is from there. Which makes Alabama coolio.

I had an off day, and was very kindly told that everyone has them, and when they inevitably do happen, the thing to do is to make contact, and live through that contact for whatever it means right then and there. No matter what you're supposed to be saying. Or doing.

I felt Joe moving further and further away, like I was sinking in water. Water like in the Philippines, warm, bright, quietly teal, and deceptively right. Joe was trying to reach me, and did, figurative hand reaching for me while I said line after meaningless line, meaningless because I'd left where I was supposed to be. He didn't let me sink, even as I tried to drown myself.

No one there did. Not one person in the studio. All I could feel was the home-like feeling of empathy, cursed it, because it made tears come to my eyes. The burning kind, not the kind that helps, but the kind I'd rather just find myself alone with.

And I love them for it. Every actor should have a home, a place where he's allowed to experiment and craft and imagine and build, free to fly, fine, but free to fall flat on his face, bloody his nose, and look positively ugly for it. I have this place to learn these things, to live these lives, and have the best, the absolute best group of people to be doing this with. It's with a good amount of disbelief that I realize it's possible to be so inspired, even from the bad days.

Which makes these kinds of days not so bad.

Good going, Pollyanna. Hot chocolate, walk with the dog and husband, and I feel like a whole person again. Keep on keeping on. Like the song.

Thursday, March 8, 2007 - My eggrolls exploded, and Ben Brantley and I saw two different shows in the same theater space - So, it seems that if you make fresh eggrolls, you should freeze the ones you don't use right away.

And, for the first time in a long time, I disagree with Ben Brantley. But not completely. There is definitely something to the idea that shows radically change from previews to opening night.

We're both in love with Michael Cerveris, so all will be well in this troubled marriage between critic and adoring audience member.

I love Alfred Molina, but Howard Katz had its issues, and I had the unfortunate experience of having The Little Dog Laughed in the back of my head while I watched another story of an talent agent and the trials and tribulations involved. Molina's Howard blocked out the difficulties of a personal life with his job while Julie White's Diane had this delicious, cynical enjoyment of the job - you get the sense that this is no escape for her, it's a delight, an embracement of the pettiness, weakness and cowardice of her clients as a special kind of theater. There were too many lines in Howard Katz that didn't need to be said out loud, especially considering the talent of the cast that threw themselves into the telling of this story . . . Patrick Marber's writing wasn't egregious in this respect, but there were more weaknesses in the dialogue than one would expect from the writer of Closer.

So, instead, I eat up movies and books in the precious spare time that I have between jobs, auditions, and class . . . the latest inspiration to be ever more fervent about the vocation of an actor is the Departed. What a gem of a twisty story about how dirty people's true selves are once you get past all the justifications and rationalizations of why things must be done as they are . . . and Leonardo DiCaprio is a man to me, finally - nor did I ever mind the boyish thing with him, when it was appropriate. There are all shapes and sizes in the acting world, and we need to have a varied mix of complex characters for the art of the stage, filmmaking, television, all of that. It's just really nice to see an actor grow past what people have been pigeonholing him into.

I think I came to Howard Clurman's the Fervent Years at just the right time in my life as an actor. I also think that this is one of those books that actors should read at different points in there life. He's so deliciously prejudiced, opinionated, and passionate - without a care in the world for what anyone may think of his positions, and, because he is so very articulate, he doesn't need to care. He's worded it down to the last punctuation mark, and that's that. The best parts inspire the work of everyone involved in theater, and I am going switch from my library copy to actually owning the book . . . and, as addicted to the library as I am, it's a big move. I lead a quiet life, I do.

I have a great nugget of an intense scene to do with my new acting partner (you MySpacers would know him as Kiltie Lad. He truly is). I should finish working on it. If any of you lovely people have recommendations for movies, books and such, drop me a line . . . I'm feeling extra energy . . .

Monday, February 19, 2007 - How sharper than a serpent's tooth is a thankless child. - It began with three little girls walking to the center of the stage with wire baskes containing bottles of colored sands. They began to decorate the center tile of sand with the colors they had brought with them, forming the shape of the country their father ruled, complete with its shoreline borders and such a bright blue ocean that only a small child could imagine. Two of the girls whispered to each other conspiratorially, and I knew the one left out was Cordelia.

I left the Public shell-shocked. It had been a while since I'd been transported by theater in that way, so I feel a little a though I'd been ambushed, and I was glad. I think I've loved Kevin Kline since watching Dave and had since made it my business to see everything he was involved in. So he was the original reason to be there.

What was an absolute treat it was that everyone involved in the telling of the tale had put their heart and soul into it. I looked away for a moment in scene one, and heard Michael Cerveris' elegant, buttery voice and was taken away by his passionate loyalty to the king - I usually find Kent's role overwrought and forced. I grew up wishing to be Cordelia someday and made an about-face as soon as I saw Laura Odeh's poisoned (literally and figuratively), half-mad Regan. This time, I felt Edgar deserved to win as Brian Avers played him with fervor and anger, though I could understand how the sisters would be seduced by Logan Marshall-Green's Edmund. Edmund's ease with his duplicity and frankness with his motive reminded me that villains are never fully evil and are just as tempting to play as the heroes and ingenues. Maybe more so.

James Lapine is a genius for getting together all the people that made this production happen. It is a pleasure to see his vision for this play, right up to how the stage was lit and laid out. He twisted and turned a story so that I wept by turns and jumped with shock at others. I escaped the theater as soon as intermission came and reminded myself of the outside world, even while I was thrilled that this imaginary one existed, a labor of love that we have the privilege of witnessing.

The cherry - Stephen Sondheim composed the score for the play. It was the score for my walk to the subway, our drive home, the dinner angrily cooked, the tears afterward. How his music always seems to follow me around.

Was there anything not to my liking in this production? Sure. Much of it was overridden by what was good and inspired, so those details fade to the background. Would that this happened for most shows. Some shows just can't be stopped. This is one of them. I am so glad to be working so hard at what I'm doing - things like this remind me why it's worth it.

Thursday, February 08, 2007 - Deb's voice is so comforting - Stayed up until 2:47AM last night. Writing. The words came in spite of myself, like water over rocks from a height, and it was as though the people in my head were coming to life and challenging me, forcing me to let them speak they way they would and refusing to let me make them nicer, more polite, reveling in my startled expression. I can't wait for this to happen again - probably the reason why I can't sleep just about every other day and my brain is roiling with moments and ideas.

Crafting for my work at the Esper Studio is a catalyst. Working with Deb is what really fired me up; she demands nothing less than our most painful, raw, honest reactions in the rehearsal studio, and when that happens for me, I can't help but think and probe and imagine. And how I did fight that to the very end - it took Deb telling me that I wasn't allowed to craft things about acting anymore - work with things that are important to me . . . that I had to step off that cliff. I hung out at the edge for a while. Vertigo, nausea, and a strange attraction to the fear.

She's right, of course. All actors have this sick desire to live out in front of the camera or on stage, these awful and amazing situations that hasn't necessarily happened in real life - blackmail, humiliation, rape, pregnancy, a criminal trial, getting married, difusing a bomb, assignation with a gorgeous being in a cafe restroom, being tortured for information, a wirework aerial fight to the death . . . all these things, I can't wait to do; I've just made a list. And the only way there seems to be to do this is to let the awful, uncomfortable, difficult to access things come through and get expressed along with the thrilling, exciting, easy to live moments. Dammit.

So I sit on the cliff. Then I slide off. And I fly. And it is the best feeling in the world, visiting all the worlds in my mind, living out different people and lives and moments, and coming back to who I am, except my brain feels like it got bigger somehow.

Sunday, January 28, 2007 - PopcornandIcedTea - I'm two dance classes and a random diet of awkwardly matched food short of sleep tonight, and looking at the week that just passed . . . can't help it, I suppose, the way the dead of winter (for NJ) will make me comfortably retreat into my own thoughts . . . it's my theory on how the Russians came up with all the glorious literature that drove me to long car rides, spontaneous hikes up the mountains nearby, and time spent staring out the window comparing the heat to the cold outside by fogging the glass with my breath.

I love what I do, but I get tired some days. This morning was one of them. I knew for a fact that I had a friend waiting in NYC to take class with, and I would have loved to burrow under the down throw on my couch and watch Law & Order for the rest of the day. Coffee. Leftover bread pudding. Dog. Husband. Not necessarily in that order. I misread the schedule for the dance studio. The only options left were the difficult classes.

I would have slacked off, and the said friend said he was going anyway. Intermediate level jazz be damned.

So I went. And it was hard. And it was worth it, every minute. I remembered why I like being a performer, and what it's like to come alive to the music, and how I can't help but dance. To funky corny cool 60s music.

Ha.

I'm often told it's okay to get tired of things, that, regardless of the profusion of self-help tomes and magazine articles hawking optimism, one is allowed to have a listless day. Scary when it's about something you love.

Apparently, one solution is to dance.

Saturday, January 6, 2007 - Porch coffee. - Diesel and I sat outside on the stoop of my shoebox shaped home watching the morning grow. I repeatedly offered him some of my coffee, but my dog kept giving me dirty looks, so I cut it out. I can't count how many times I've heard the words global warming this week, but I have, and I take it in, and do my level best to not contribute to the problem any more than I have to, but what a beautiful jewel of a week and two we've had in the New York metro area. Usually, I'm peering out my window for the scrap of sun and moon light in the minimal allotments we get in the winter. Today, I can't stay inside, the moss between the pavers show tiny blossoms, and the berry trees outside my door have the audacity to bud. I rehearsed with my scene partner in Central Park last night. I'm prepping veggies for dinner in the backyard, and my housemate helps with dinner party preparations by washing the windows with a garden hose. I'd be outside whatever the weather at this point in January because of cabin fever, and so much the better for this day, even if the world is coming to an end. What an odd, heady, illegal joy to have such sunny afternoons now.

Monday, January 1, 2007 - It is so very beautiful out . . . overcast with two layers of clouds rushing past each other in different directions, and at irregular intervals, breaking apart to show a full moon, in bits and slashes, but thank goodness Diesel got us out for a walk. Dogs have such sense, requiring a walk morning and night, and a quick nip out in between . . . we'd be better off if we imposed such a ritual on ourselves I think, whatever the weather, just to know the world outside of our brains, remember that it's out there.

A friend I once worked with reminded me how much pleasure it was to take pleasure out of the world, the obvious things. Today, it's a temperate new year's day, a comfortable tiredness from rich food and complicated wines, a luscious breeze and an appetite to take on the next day. Thanks, Adam.

Sunday, December 17, 2006 - Lewis Black and Sonic Burgers - Sometimes, my friend, Emilia remarked, we go to Gallagher's for steak and watch a Broadway show - other, just as juicy evenings, we come to see a reading of Lewis Black's play and scarf bacon cheeseburgers at Sonic Burger. Both ways, I feel so awake and so alive and it's all I can do to breathe in while walking down the street in Ybor City and relishing homesickness for the Philippines that is pleasure and pain at the same time.

Lewis Black is one of those genuine, interested, kind, and unrelentingly honest people that I meet just when someone's convinced me that the famous are largely fake, uninteresting, unreal. It was very strange to have my out of body moment where I realized that I was talking to Lewis Black about storytelling, playwrighting, and all this as though he were one of my friends from school hanging out with me at the Dunkin Donuts. He was forthright about how torturous the workshop process was, how glad he was it was over, even as he was glad that it happened . . . how necessary these steps are, but how scary . . . all things I appreciated getting to hear even as I realized that I'd TiVo'd his HBO special two nights before.

Emilia and I stayed so long chatting that we'd realized the only things open to get a bite to eat in Tampa were corporate restaurants (NO MORE APPLEBEE'S) and fast food . . . and I'd never been to Sonic Burger!

The bacon was crispy, the fries were good, and we were very happy girls.

After four hours of dancing (five hours total, with the extra hour accounting for the discussions on chair-ography and water breaks), those burgers tasted pretty damn good. Emilia and I had our first dance rehearsal for our cabaret (April 28, 2007), and will have our first musical rehearsal with our director on Monday before I fly back to New York. Thus, our long conversations, copious e-mails, unrecorded number of bottles of red wine, notes scribbled on pizza boxes, cab receipts . . . have all come to life to be our show. For us, pizza and red wine drove the creation of our show. I bet it would be a really different show if it was Sonic Burgers and wine . . . we probably ought to find out for sure.

Sunday, December 03, 2006 - Red wine, Italian bread, and soft cheese - Yet another list of reasons why I either A. I will never become a supermodel or B. why I love life. I suppose both are true.

Was reflecting at my kitchen counter with a glass of wine (Chilean cabernet sauvignon, 2005, young, straightforward, and goes well with my pedestrian love of Philadelphia cream cheese). New York City had about four, luscious balmy days where you couldn't help but be outside, sweater-less, jacket-less, and deeply appreciative. I floated easily, and loved feeling the breeze on bare arms, ... one of the nights was at Lincoln Center just outside the Metropolitan Opera House. It was picture perfect, and, damn it, I really wanted to be angry and frustrated with my day. Fortunately, the powers that be know better and gave me a night sky that reminded me of my midnight blue Crayola crayon, surrounded me with the soft energized hum of conversation floating out of the theater, and threaded in music from students rehearsing just outside of Juilliard, about a hundred yards away from where I was sitting in view of a lit fountain in the center of the quad, with kids running headlong at nothing.

I actually shook my fists at the sky.

I love life, even as I am irritated and frustrated with it, and it's almost always because I managed to get several tastes at a time of how wonderful it can be. I almost hate that I'm willing to put up with the bad because I know firsthand how phenomenal it can be, and I can just see the smug, self-satisfied smile of whatever's responsible for this amazing ride that we're all on.

And, quite frankly, whatever it is deserves to smile the smile.

So I will just enjoy this brash red wine and my cream cheese and bread, the nearly full moon, and my husband falling asleep under my giant down blanket, and ... just eat life, how delicious it all is, and how lucky are we, anyway? I love my world, even as my heart breaks for its pains and imperfections, I can't help but rejoice in its beauty and be grateful. I am so grateful.

Friday, November 10, 2006 - Will Ferrell had food poisoning - Was at the Lincoln Square movie theater with Kim for the BAFTA screening of Stranger Than Fiction, and pleasantly surprised at Will Ferrell's vulnerable portrayal of Crick. Really. To be honest, all I really knew about Will Ferrell was Anchor Man (which did not endear me to him) and Wedding Crashers (and I am only slightly embarassed to have found that funny). I find it a very interesting truism that comedic actors are strangely adept at tragedy. I'd often thought that this came from having to be a (figuratively) naked target on stage for stand up comedy in well worn bars with an afterthought of a stage complete with a semi-hostile, inebriated audience.

Maggie Gyllenhaal continues to leave me starry-eyed, and for half a minute, I didn't recognize her - and look out for a ferocious first scene. Dustin Hoffman plays a college professor I wish I had, and Emma Thompson continues to be one of my heroes. I'm slightly disappointed with the ending (which I won't give up here), the disappointment accentuated by my relief ... and we can talk about that weird sentence once you've seen it.

Anthony Minghella did not have food poisoning, and therefore was available for the Q & A after the screening of his film, Breaking and Entering. Maybe it's because I'm at Esper Studio that I took extra pleasure in the quiet desperation of the lives in this film ... or maybe it's that I really love it when those characters allow themselves those small explosions that break up their status quo. Robin Wright Penn startled me - I wish I could take her to lunch and ask her how she did it, how she played a woman with that much hostility and hopelessness under a well built seal of calm ... while allowing the poison underneath to reflect in her eyes for the camera to capture. I wouldn't ask, I know. I wouldn't be able to. I think it would be enough to have food and talk about anything else.

I leave for Tampa, FL in a couple weeks to rehearse for a joint cabaret for the Tampa Performing Arts Center ... yum ... I'm glad for the opportunity to make music and keep the winter blues away (though I'll be the first one to admit that some of those blues are rather nice). It's nice to have reached a rhythm with working, studying and researching ... and I'm appreciative of the reminders of why artists work as hard as they do ... so that people leave the movies, the theaters, the museums, the books ... daydreaming of the characters and scenes and pictures and situations brought to life for them by their creators.

Sunday, October 29, 2006 - Beavers sound like babies, and the film version of Narnia did a great job approximating them. Oh, October. You came, you saw, you conquered. Here goes:

Crazy go nuts amount of auditions: Not that any actress ought to complain about this sort of thing ... but I will confess that I started to get pretty whiny. My solution: I decided that I hadn't been making music for the sake of it, so I went downstairs (my darling piano lives in the basement) and wailed 80s songs (go ahead; judge me), opera, and schlock musical theater (the best kind). I remembered that I knew how to play the piano. I also remembered how fun it was to do that just for the sake of it. Current favorites - Jason Robert Brown anything (even if my fingers can barely keep up with his musical gyrations), 25th Annual Spelling Bee (I remember being that girl in middle school), and Pat Benatar (no explanation).

Insane number of shows seen: In one weekend, I saw The Color Purple, Alice Ripley and Emily Skinner's cabaret at Town Hall, Wrecks starring Ed Harris at the Public, and The Fantasticks at the Snapple Theater in midtown. I was an arrant mess after watching LaChanze grown from a thirteen year old girl to a beautiful, wise, broken and healed again and again woman. She was truly amazing to watch, and from start to finish, she Was Celia of the Color Purple. I wish Ripley and Skinner's cabaret was billed as a concert - I would have been in a better frame of mind to enjoy the work. Fault my expectations for what a cabaret should be: casual setting, short amounts of patter and monologues that set the stage for the songs, ... Town Hall is a concert setting, and I was expecting the kind of show that I would see at Joe's Pub. Speaking of which, Ed Harris is worth watching in Neil Labute's play, Wrecks. I like dark stories, and this one has a very interesting twist that I appreciated ... And, the Public does rush tickets - $20 two hours before curtain ... I think (check their website). The third floor space of the Snapple Theater is just right for a show like the Fantasticks, and I was pleasantly surprised that this musical was not necessarily the feel good fairytale that it was touted as being ... it's what Into the Woods would be if there was only one tale instead of four ... being told by a pack of traveling vagabond actors complete with a brightly colored horse drawn wagon filled with a full complement of well worn, well used costumes and props. I love that kind of thing very much. Besides, what woman hasn't let themselves get swept away by an El Gallo? ... even though, deep down, they knew better? ...

Cable TV, I heart my DVR, and unlimited rentals: Mary Louise Parker in Weeds is luminous, biting, and worth ever second of small screen time for the renewed inspiration she gives me to keep going after those stories worth telling. ROME is coming back in January! Even though the title is ridiculously long, Studio 60 at the Sunset Strip is so enjoyable, I'm still startled I'm not paying extra in cable fees to watch the show ... go, NBC. As a result of this gem, I now look for the names of the writers in the credits of the shows I like. Battlestar Gallactica and Spielberg's Munich had so much in common this week ... but, then again, I don't mind when my preferred sources of entertainment choose to closely parallel current events - how else are people going to learn about it?

Sports is my crack: My friends and family were so kind to me about the Mets (ie - no heckling) ... and I'll admit to being brokenhearted that evening ... and the two days afterwards. I take a grim satisfaction that St. Louis had to play seven games before they could take it away - I'd pretty much already watched the world series when I watched them duke it out for the NL pennant. Crispy cold wind, fall leaves, and Sunday afternoon football is what it's about now ... win or lose, what a great escape. I love the organized battle that four fifteen minute quarters of football is.

William Esper Studio: Yikes. Boot camp for actors, especially if you're working with Deb Jackel. It alternately scares the crap out of and exhilarates me. I recommend it for any actor. Getting ready to rehearse with my new scene partner tomorrow. Hopefully, no injury reports to submit afterwards. Just kidding.

Much love to my friends for understanding the work load I'm carrying and my hermit-like need to go AWOL until things get wrapped up ... well, more wrapped up than they were. Truth be told, this week, I wondered what would happen if I just stopped and hung out in bed with some music, books I've been meaning to read, chocolate Teddy Grahams, and cold milk. For two weeks. I know the world would not stop - it has more important things to manage than my balking at my schedule. Then I remember why the good actors work as hard as they do, and I save the Teddy Grahams for another day.

Sunday, September 24, 2006 - Notes on a beach weather day - I can fool myself into thinking I'm down the shore (here I am, exposing my true Jersey girl-ness) when the breeze and humidity is like this in my neighborhood. It's a worthy reason to procrastinate ... I know I have reading to do, a piano to play, an acting partner to visit, and a dog to care for (note to self: never, never feed Diesel chicken fat in the vast quantity randomly chosen two nights ago. It will, literally, come back to haunt you). I like it when sunny moments have brief, sullen arguments with overcast moments - there's always a slight scent of rain to go along with the slow wind, and, if you're in the mood for it, it can really set off the creative phase.

I LOVE TO MAKE MUSIC. I'm cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs (tm) enough to run down the street yelling that (the kids in my neighborhood would probably run right along with me, albeit, while laughing at me). I'm so grateful for amazing composers and gifted singers who place a high priority on song interpretation, actors who don't take themselves too seriously, teachers who take art seriously, and pet dogs who nap blithely by while I'm hooting and hollering along with the piano. I love new songs, new stories, great movies, awful movies that make me talk about why I thought they were awful, musicals that not everyone likes, musicals that everyone likes and that I like in spite of myself (Hi, Mike). I love to dance, watch great dancing, cringe at awful dancing, and entertaining the idea of learning to stand on my head and be otherwise upside down in order to add to my movement vocabulary. I think it's amazing that my husband doesn't think I'm off my rocker because of this because he sings and plays a mean piano. And I mean MEAN - can't mess with that ... I think pianos are the greatest invention human hands put together, and I agree with my otherwise blunt, nonsensical, brutally honest, and very caring acting coach (Deb Jackel) ... in believing from the bottom of my heart that art can heal the world in a way nothing else can.Sing, write, run a trail, walk a path, play an instrument (even if it's labeled Fischer Price or happens to be a row of drinking glasses with varying levels of water) ... talk to someone book smart, then talk to someone life-smart and make the comparison. Listen to something new. Knit. Then use the knitting needles as javelins in the park when you get frustrated with it (just don't hit anyone unless in self defense). I'm going to go run down the street with the neighborhood kids.

September 21, 2006, 11:01 - Oh, my gosh. School starts tomorrow. As in the start of the two-year program at the William Esper Studio. We paid my tuition on the internet, and now, there's no turning back. I really love my teacher. She let me know that it would be great, that it would scare the crap out of me, but that it would be great.Yikes. I feel the way I did the first day of school for the fifth grade: glad and sorry at the same time that summer is over. The difference between then and now is that I no longer care if I'm considered a nerd for looking forward to school. I'll provide a full report tomorrow, of course.

September 20, 2006, 17:03 - from myspace.com/sachaiskra, sometimes easier to talk to - Some mornings, just can't seem to help but wake up focusing on that one bad, annoying, frustrating thing that I dealt with right before going to sleep. I suppose if one deliberately chooses to be an actor and a poker player, one ought to expect the tough evenings with the good ones, and, so, I try to keep a sense of perspective while riding out the hard moments.Last night, my sense of perspective let me know that I was pretty much on my own.My dog, Diesel, didn't whine, yip, or otherwise harass me into getting him out the door this morning. But he did sit very near me, watching patiently while I struggled with the idea of yet another day of auditions and poker. There's something about Diesel that everyone who meets him seems to understand rather quickly.His solution to everything is a good long walk.I pulled on sweats, sneakers, and a baseball cap with the proverbial cloud over and in my head. Diesel (fortunately for me) had very little sympathy for my mood - he set a brisk pace from the start.The world conspired against my bad mood. There was a crisp, crunchy breeze that was just right. Sunshine was that sweet golden color that it seems to get when fall gets closer around here. Indigo morning glories spilled over a length of fence with careless extravagance. My cup of coffee tasted good, and my sense of perspective reappeared. The leaves glided down in a light breeze, breaking into a rays of light like in Japanese animated flicks and Ang Lee films.I'm not allowed to be in a bad mood. Mother Nature will slap me.Diesel and I reluctantly came back home. He unwittingly provided moral support while I indulged in J. Lo glow-style make-up, my favorite green dress, and a long, fluffy sweater. Had the second cup of coffee. Watched the latest installment of the World Poker Series on ESPN while putting audition things together. Dreamed about winning a bracelet someday. I patted Diesel on the head and left the house and jumped into the beautiful new Jetta our mechanic loaned to us while they finish working on the little, little Honda (my mouse).

And I had a nice audition.

August 9, 2006, 20:43 - attend the tale of Sweeney Todd - There are things that just go without saying - a very good friend comes to NYC for a big audition, and I open the doors, cook my favorite meal, put on the reality television, turn on the mute button so that we can narrate the talking heads ourselves.

I love Tracy Wiu. She took care of me the first time I did Miss Saigon, and we did our level best to keep each other sane by cooking Filipino food, gorging on music videos, and going on smoke breaks (which, for me, would be my non-smoke breaks ... Tracy was good about equal rights for non-smokers). I sure hope that those of you who are privileged to know her appreciate it because you'll never meet anyone more blunt, more generous, and more in love with life and living it.

My one regret of the day is that I didn't take her to the Anheuser Busch plant for a gigantic beer before I put her in Terminal C at Newark Liberty International Airport forty-five minutes ago. Those are the things you just do for friends like that. You don't consider it remotely a big deal because of how much the woman does for you. Tracy's like that. Especially when I'm taking myself way too seriously, which happens way too much. She grounds me, and she calls me out, and she cares, and she cooks for you, and she'll look the other way while you're making mistakes, and help you deal with them without saying I told you so. She's one of the few people who's allowed to say 'I told you so' who doesn't take advantage of the privilege.

She decides that she needs to take me out to a Broadway show, fourth row, center, in exchange for my picking her up from the airport and staying the night at my house. As if. It took me a considerable amount of time to get over the price of the ticket. I'm an actor. I get tickets from Actor's Equity, TKTS, BroadwayOffers.com, and student/general rush. I felt like royalty, and I struggled to feel as though I deserved it, and decided that I would suck it up and deal because Tracy told me to, and had that look on her face that stated 'just let me do this.'

She took me to see Sweeney Todd. I'd never seen it before. I was blown away, and will be an emotional wreck for at least a week, and I wouldn't have it any other way. What a dark, funny, twisted fairy tale that I was treated to on a breezy Wednesday afternoon. The stage had a modicum of set pieces, the lighting was stark and frightening, the writing and music was brilliant, and the cast - I don't have enough superlatives ... I was transported, I didn't think, I let the music and the people carry me away, and thank the powers that be that there is theater that still does that. I recommend it, there are rush tickets if you don't have a Tracy in your life, and if you can't do the rush seats, beg, borrow, steal the nickels and dimes little by little until you're seated at the Eugene O'Neill Theater with your hands gripping the polished wood armrests in sheer fright and awe. I can't wait to do it again.

July 29, 2006, 01:58 - so you think you can dance - should really be called 'we can and love to dance' . . . I am trying, in vain, to get my mom to watch the amazing feats of the human body in motion instead of "America's Got Talent." Really - playing the spoons? I'll never randomly flip channels like that again. I highly recommend Natalie's powerhouse theatricality (which is balanced beautifully with a sensitivity to music and story) . . . it's my reliable source of inspiration when I'm too tired to go to dance class. For you lovely supportive people asking after my next performance, I am working on my solo concert and a joint cabaret with the lovely and talented Emilia Sargent. We realized that putting an Asian and a redhead together opens the door to a lot of long-winded jokes and inappropriate suggestions, so we went ahead with some preliminary location scouting. I am excited at the prospect of having a well-established musician direct our show, and I will keep you all posted on the progress we make . . . which will move at a clipped rate now that I've let you in on our plans!On a side note, somewhat related, I am looking forward to working with Tiffany & Co. on an industrial project . . . I'm playing a business woman in her 20s toying with purchasing lots of lovely things . . . I adore playing dress up . . .

July 19, 2006,0050 - outside with the storm - It's food for the soul to gorge on Shakespeare and get soaked in a rage of a thunderstorm. King Lear and the shipwrecked of the Tempest couldn't ask for more, and I was a part of their stories for a couple impractical moments outside in my backyard, worth watching for the sight of the trees backlit by lightning. Then I realized that the hood of my prosaic Jets sweatshirt was failing me, and I retreated into the doorway. My housemate one-upped my romantic, poetic moment . . . he drove home from the gym with the top down on his convertible, wind and rain whipping by, and apparently comfortable once he reached aboved 35 MPH. I suppose that once you leave your car windows open during a downpour, you may as well welcome the onslaught of water. . . I hope I forget to roll up the windows someday . . .

June 22, 2006, 00:47 - Philly is for birthdays - The best part about all this was that none of it was planned. Had the pleasure of visiting Philadelphia Shakespeare Festival for an audition, and decided that I wanted to make a day of it for my birthday. A brief description the nerdy and fun natal outing courtesy of my lovely husband, Edz`: 1 - ate a hot dog at Nathan's for breakfast because I'm a grown-up, and I can (I'm sure Edz` wanted to say something, and graciously chose not to). 2 - auditioned for the lovely Carmela Khan because I'm a grown-up, and I had to (do try to catch one of their productions when you're in town). 3 - went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to see the steps Rocky Balboa ran up (I know he's just pretend; I just love his moxie). 4 - had a fancy lunch at the museum restaurant (had something called a dark chocolate terrine that was, forgive me, to die for. 5 - tried to be cool around the amazing galleries and exhibits and failing miserably (the biggest oohs and ahhs went to the museum building itself, the Japanese Teahouse exhibit and the Korean Buddism collection . . . and a scroll with a small owl painted on it) 6 - went to Pat's King of Steaks and had a cheese wit (if you don't know what that means, it would be my pleasure to take you to the corner of Wharton and Passyunk in Philly so you will no longer go without this knowledge).Many, many thanks and love for all the singing voicemails, poetic voicemails (really, got one of those), and yelling voicemails (especially those!) to mark the day . . . my heart is full, and I am blessed to have the wonderful people in my life that you all are. Now you just wait for your birthdays. The songs I'm composing are positively obnoxious but, hopefully, charming.

June 13, 2006, 02:04 - You will find relief from vain fancies if you do every act in life as though it were your last. -Marcus Aurelius, philosopher and writer (121-180) June 6, 2006, 20:11 - There is nothing that makes a singer feel more helpless than losing her voice. Fortunately, my vagabond pack of friends know just what to say to me when such things happen. Here's my personal favorite, posted recently on my MySpace profile: 6/4/2006 10:45 PM - ok. so. think of it this way. in "The Little Mermaid" Ariel lost her voice. She was really upset. but ultimately, her prince eric came along and got it back for her. So the only thing that needs to happen, is Ed needs to ram a broken down pirate ship into a monstrous overweight octopus thereby killing her, and getting you your voice back. So, i shall search Ebay and see what i get for "Obese Octopus women" and i'll get back to you. in the meantime, enjoy your legs and combing your hair with a fork. Confused? watch the movie. Hugs and kisses. Let me know if you need anything at all.
<3 Mike

June 2, 2006, 14:14 - Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then
you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it. -Colette, writer (1873-1954) - I didn't really consider myself a hard sell as far as entertainment was concerned, but I'm starting to think that I've become one of those difficult-to-please kvetchers in the movie theater, the theater theater, in the living room with the television . . . I feel like I'm being beaten over the head with cliffhangers, special effects, and unnaturally perfect people. I'm not saying you should exactly replicate real life, I can walk out the front door and look at that form myself, thanks very much. But there's a rather fine line between a good story and a sorry waste of $9.75, $99.75, or one hour on my couch. I'd like to think that regardless of who you are, where you're from, what social demographic you currently occupy, that you still are interested in being told a really good story.

You might imagine that I've recently seen a bad movie, gone on a bad theater outing, or spent time silently cursing myself on the couch as I suffered through another television series extruded by substandard writers. Actually, no. In response to actually going through said three things last week (where I will never, ever get those hours of my life back), I decided to be a complete nerd and figure out what was critically acclaimed and watch one from each category. And uplifted, I am. When it comes right down to it, we're responsible for what we take in with these eyes and ears. So get off the bus, and start walking. The path you pick for yourself is infinitely more interesting.

May 31, 2006, 02:39 - It's finally happened. I have purchased a seat on the Desperate Housewives bandwagon. My gay boyfriend can now profess his love to me, I have a renewed interest in form fitting polo shirts by Lacoste, and I want to bake something complicated and delicious while wearing something very expensive and incredibly inappropriate. Fortunately, my darling husband brought peonies from his mom's garden in NJ to actor housing in Massachusetts along with my favorite doughnuts (damn him), a pair of rollerblades (wait a second), and bubble tea, so I'm not going to go out and spend ridiculous amounts of money.Now, if that isn't true love, I really don't know what is.

We finally have bona fide summer weather here in West Springfield, so I've come down with the need to watch summer blockbusters (damn me), live in flip-flops, and jump in swimming pools . . . Memorial Day this year was the first time in a long time that I actually celebrated the official start to summer . . . with a party at the home of the very cool guy playing Chris in our production of Miss Saigon - the Ashley home is a strong argument for not living in a city. I firmly believe that on the third time you're shoved into a swimming pool by a twelve year old and his cohorts, you've officially begun the season. The third time down the slip-and-slide shows just how hardcore you are. And, if you say yes to the fourth cheeseburger off the grill, winter simply doesn't exist anymore.Thanks, Ashley family!

May 16, 2006, 17:38 - ghosts - An acquaintance recently asked after someone I dated during high school, that time-honored question, "Whatever happened between you two?" I was taken aback by my response. It was unfiltered: "------ and I broke up during college . . . that was heartbreak of an order I'd never imagined. I think we all used to imagine these amazing, wonderful, terrible, joyous scenarios in imagination, and then act them out, in daydreams, conversations, car rides, . . . with the kids I used to nanny for, even, using random dolls and kitchen utensils to represent the dramatis personae. I don't think I've ever hurt or been hurt like that ever or since. There are certain things in Edz that I remember loving in ------ . . . but there were too many things we didn't love and couldn't reconcile between the two of us, that I think we knew it was going to end well before it did. I don't mind you asking. It was good to think of it for a little bit."I used to think an actor's life was glamorous and exciting, and parts of it are. Then there are the frequent times one has to visit the past and the imagination and the amazing and terrible world of 'what if,' and remember that it's a difficult, worthwhile, but not always glamorous life.

May 12, 2006, 00:52 - the company I keep in my dressing room - It's a dark and beautiful role I get to play on stage six days a week, and out of curiousity, I took note of the music I listened to from our call time one hour before the show to the last three to five minute stretch of time I have before the show ends. Pre-show, apparently it's all about Janet Jackson and Beyonce. Soundtracks from various Cirque du Soleil shows, Joss Stone, Shakira during the first act. Etta James, Amel Larrieux and Norah Jones for intermission. Instrumentals for the second act. There's a very quiet moment right before I'm dragged on stage in act one . . . I'm aware of the darkness off stage, Jhun's hand gripping me, ready to stride out whether I've changed my mind or not, straw hat at my forehead, the beaded slippers I'm gripping with my toes. Then I'm thrown in the midst of the derision of the other girls on stage, the calculating amusement of the Engineer, and the ride begins again. My heart pounds just thinking of it, and I'm glad that the very next thing I will be doing tonight is curling up in a large sweatshirt in front of some reality television. I'm not ready to do it again quite yet. And I wouldn't rather be doing anything else later tonight. Today, it was all about the scratches on the bar table, the stiffness of the uniforms the GIs were wearing, how glassy the soldiers' eyes were gazing at the bikini girls, and the saxophone solo gliding through the air.

May 3, 2006 - I know quite a few actors who say they never read reviews, and I waver between disbelief and admiration. I try to skip the bad ones, but for the most part, I'll read them all. "'Miss Saigon'. . . is a triumph in its current production at the Majestic Theatre. . . The singing is gorgeous in this epic show, evoking a range of emotions, and the chemistry is just right among the leads, a young Vietnamese girl, the American GI who falls in love with her. . . Kim, (Sacha Iskra), is sweet, innocent and then single-mindedly passionate about first her lover and then her child." - Ronni Gordon, The Republican I was touched. Corny but true. I care a great deal about this story, and that a theater critic was moved enough to talk about how the characters grew from start to finish means a lot to me. One of my favorite parts was when Franc's Engineer was likened to the "wisdom, desperation and humor of one of Shakespeare's clowns". . . high praise, indeed. Loved that he described Caty as "a soulful Catherine Mae Hung graced the stage as the child, Tam" . . . soulful, what a great word . . . I'm so happy for this production!

April 23, 2006, 09:56 - It's quiet in the house I share with a friend playing Mimi, the little girl playing Tam, her mom, and my band member husband. There is something pleasant about knowing my family at this house still sleeps, and I won't be scolded for microwaving yesterday's coffee in place of letting them make a fresh pot. It's rainy and moody in West Springfield today, and I like it. I thought I would be more nervous four days before opening night for Miss Saigon. The nerves are there, of course, but not in the way I'd expected . . . There's a neat zone of activity that is focused and chaotic at the same time, rushing only to wait, . . . there's the theater for you, and just about every medium of performing arts, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I am honored to make my debut with this cast, this crew, and this crazed week of miraculously making it work, whatever it takes.

Here's the short list of why I'm still sane: My reality show enabler, Adam (Ensemble), inappropriate dance breaks-Barbie, Alecia (Gigi), t-shirts just this side of profane on Tony (Thuy), impromptu dance class with the choreographer's son (I efficiently broke out in a sweat), soulful renditions of Barry Manilow from Jhun (Assistant Commissar, Ensemble), and coffee driven nonsense songs using syllables reminiscent of Vietnamese from Lisa (Mimi, u/s Kim). And this is just the short list. Wait until you meet the rest of the cast.

March 23 , 2006, 18:48 - There's nothing like being sick to keep you attached to the couch catching up on a backup of pop television and films on the TiVo. Diluted juice, crackers, and mom's soup are the only fuel for me, and Diesel (my dog) is a most loyal comfort. It's probably coincidence that he poked my laptop with his nose, but I like to see it as him reminding me to keep in touch. I leave for West Springfield, MA, to begin rehearsals for Miss Saigon at the Majestic Theater. This weekend. Deb and Lawrence (astute, perceptive, and talented acting coach and voice teacher, respectively) have been working with me on this since I was cast last summer. I've known and loved the story since elementary school and have had the score memorized since college. My sister, cousin and I acted out the show on long drives to and from Florida for summer vacations. We wore out cassette tapes, then CDs. We took turns with the different roles and featured solos. My and my cousin's parents have the patience of saints. They must; my enormous family and loyal friends are planning a road trip to see me debut as Kim, a red hot four hour drive for most of them.Oof. Unbelievable how jittery one can get.Excited, happy, scared. Well, as excited as one can get with the flu. Something interesting I've found about being a musical theater performer is how the nervousness fades away once you get to start singing. I can thank my coaches (and teachers of days gone by) for that. I love it. It goes back to those days in the Astrovan acting out musicals on thousand mile drives, telling stories by singing with imperfect voices, tiny spaces, and makeshift props. Telling stories for the love of the story. So, here, I'd like to pay tribute to my sister, Dale, and my cousin, Jennifer, my very first teachers of that particular course. I'd have a lot of competition to deal with if they'd decided to follow me into this crazy world. And a lot of company, too.

E! Entertainment News and SportsCenter repeats episodes at about the same frequency. Whoa. Blame that on the delirium brought on my sickness. Or the lag time between football and baseball season.

February 28, 2006, 02:11 - . . . we can always take temporary refuge from life's painful truths in the warming embrace of fictions that reshape them into art. - Charles Isherwood, New York Times.

February 12, 2006,12:37 - The last time I experienced a storm like the one outside my window, my father realized that we had not done the panicked grocery shopping that people in our neighborhood typically did as a result of the dire predictions of the anchors in our local news shows. My father looked outside, looked at me and my siblings dying to run outside and build igloos, and asked us if we wanted to go to the store with him. We bolted for our snow gear, packed our toddler sister in a suit onto a sled, and set off for the exploration of our new landscape. As far as we were concerned, we were escaping from the prisons of Siberia, and our father was our fearless leader. We each of us carried a bag back to our home, even our littlelest escapee, who insisted on helping. Today, I'm mesmerized by the snow, not so much falling as flying diagonally past the windows, mentally reviewing where my ski pants are, and looking forward to my dog hopping through the snow because it is next to impossible for him to do anything resembling a walk given the depth of the stuff. Three cheers for wool socks, furry boots, and coffee with hot chocolate in it. May you win your snowball fight.

February 8, 2006, 16:11 - There's something beautiful and awful about the way Woody Allen is able to viscerally portray the meaness and pettiness in human beings. I loved and was mortified by "Match Point." Jonathan Rhys-Meyers showed the ugly desperation in someone afraid to lose comforts he was ashamed to have become used to, and Emily Mortimer did more than play the cuckold - she inspired my anger at her willful ignorance - one gets the sense that she made a conscious decision to ignore the maelstrom in her husband. I like how honest Scarlett Johansson is in everything she's done. In admitting her fears and desires, she became only one in the story willing to see herself, faults and all. I found, to my sneaking shame, that I was hoping the sinner would succeed . . . until I realized hope wasn't the correct word. Woody Allen (see "Crimes and Misdeameanors" for a full articulation of this) reminds us that most of the time, the sinners get away with it. Well, that is, they did until Woody Allen started making these movies. Keep on firing, Mr. Allen. I'll see them all.

Post script: The film's website is brilliant, but, if you don't like even a hint of a spoiler, I'd wait until after you've seen the film. It's an acting student's dream come true to get to peak at the process not just from the production side of things, but also from an actor's point of view, and the site lets in on the secrets nicely.

January 31, 2006, 20:11 - It is one of the maladies of our age to profess a frenzied allegiance to truth in unimportant matters, to refuse consistently to face her where graver issues are at stake. - Janos Arany, poet (1817-1882) I decided to watch the state of the union speech this evening. One can probably make the argument that 'watch' is a strong word for me to use, or, even the word, 'decide,' but I came home to a friend watching our president, and didn't leave the room. I even minimized the amount of arguing I normally would have spent with the giant talking head on my television screen. I confined my rebuttals to the prerequisite bouts of applause.There. It can no longer be said that I get my news solely from The Daily Show. It's been a while since I've plugged Gehring Dance Theater, and I'm doing this as I continue to negotiate muscle soreness from taking their company class. It's really that good. I highly recommend working with this amazing group of dancers and their (literally) fearless leader, Heather Gehring. My favorite part of this experience is not simply being challenged to work beyond real and self-imposed limitations in dance, it's that this is one of the best forums to do so. My fears of back walkovers and being upside-down in general were as real as they've ever been, and I did both with dancers and a teacher who balanced supportiveness with a firm directive that I would at least try. I love this crowd. If you're interested, check out their site for schedules, contact information, and all that good stuff. R. I. P. - Wendy Wasserstein, 10-18-50 - 01-30-06.

January 10, 2006, 16:00 - Capote, Wedding Crashers, The Producers, Memoirs of a Geisha, an afternoon Lost marathon, and Rudy- in that order. What is it about the month of January that drives one to see as many films and critically acclaimed television series as one can? I'm not the only one on this binge, though I can say that I'm only partly virtuous in my efforts; the other half of the reason for me is so I know what's going on when the award shows come on.

Capote was an excellent piece of storytelling. I went to Barnes and Noble to pick up a copy of "In Cold Blood" the next day. Philip Seymour Hoffman was already a hero in my eyes for the films, "Happiness," "Almost Famous," and "Cold Mountain," not to mention for helping to give us the LAByrinth Theater Company (co-artistic director and the director of "Jesus Hopped the A Train" among others). Much is made about critical acclaim only going to those actors who inhabit the skin of infamous characters to such a disturbing extent, but isn't that what most people expect of actors anyhow? I didn't even see Hoffman; I was caught up in Capote's alternating impulses of compassion and outright selfishness. Hooray for Wedding Crashers! Say what you will about Vince Vaughn - I laughed until the tears came. I hope to see him evolve from this category of roles; I think he'll be wonderful. What an unholy waste of time the film version of the Producers was. Please go see the stage version of the show - it's the best telling of the story, and the cast has been consistently excellent with each exchange of actors for leading and supporting roles. I blame the manner in which this film was shot for its failure to engage its viewers - flat, flat, flat. Uma Thurman and Roger Bart were incredibly charming and lovable, but it came too little, too late. Memoirs of a Geisha was gorgeous, and I wouldn't have expected anything less from Rob Marshall. I have the novel all but memorized, and I still enjoyed the telling of it. I was particularly grateful that the director and his creative team had the sense to take advantage of film as a different medium and honored the book, but kept themselves from becoming slaves to it.

I'll admit to a healthy amount of guardedness to Lost - my addiction to HBO and SciFi's Battlestar Gallactica kept me from giving network television a chance, let alone to committing to renting the series. Then Blockbuster sent me a coupon good for the entire month, making it a moral imperative to catch up to the trends. Slave to fashion, media pop tart, yes, I am.

January 1, 2006, 22:27 - does anyone else explode fireworks for New Year's Eve? - I know Disney World and Land et al have spectacular shows (thanks, Tracy!) . . . we've always risked our neighbors' good will by lighting up the brightest, prettiest and loudest fireworks we could find. In this country, access to fire power is fairly limited . . . which, in my opinion, is fine, since there are running jokes about how many fingers a Filipino man has left by the age of twenty as a result of our addiction to the pretty lights. My favories are the gold and silver fountains . . . though it's a lot of fun to quietly light a roman candle three feet behind one of my macho cousins.Disney World has a beautiful replica of the streetlamp set from the film, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" - which, if you haven't already, you should go see. Tilda Swinton is delightfully wicked and, oddly, garnered my sympathy as the White Witch, and the actors and actresses cast in the roles of the four siblings defied all the negative connotations that come with the phrase, "child actors." I understand the notion of CGI characters in movies and it didn't stop me from wanting to hug Aslan, the glorious lion . . . the only lion I would voluntarily hug after watching too many Discover Channel episodes. Despite a creaky beginning, "The Family Stone" was well worth it (especially for the two and a half hour conversation I had with a really good friend as a result of watching the movie). The story is a cartoonish combination of classic moments from family holiday get-togethers. This would have been the film's undoing if it wasn't for some beautiful scenes from a very talented cast. Luke Wilson now has street cred with me, I was reminded that Dermot Mulroney isn't afraid to leave his heart on the reel for us to see, and Craig T. Nelson is no longer the coach to me. It's not a partiality for my own gender when I say this: the women of the cast really, really shine. Diane Keaton is strangely likeable even when she is being an absolute monster to Sarah Jessica Parker's neurotic 'Meredith Morton.' I identify too easily with Rachel McAdams' performance as a hard-headed, difficult to please sister. Look for the scene around the table for Christmas Eve dinner . . . it was almost as though I were seated with them staring hard at my mashed potatoes hoping for someone to come up with the right phrase to dig us out of the horrible silence. And I mean that in the best possible way, since this movie can't help itself from tying up all the loose ends with familiar, Hollywood neatness.