foxtongue: (Default)
#10 - Wilson
"Why don't you just put some clippings together, get a press pass, get in legitimately?" He is obviously more straight laced than I am. I haven't sneaked into anything yet, that's for later tonight, after dinner, but even the idea of breaking the rules is making him nervous. I offer that I haven't kept track of my work. I try to spin it like it's an airy topic, as if there's no reason I would care, a faint mask of a ditzy girl, but he knows better, he presses, and so, uncharacteristically, I lay it all out. Everything. My project, what happened to it, how it failed, how it ended my life, how I've only just barely scraped by, that I bitterly swept my work away, deleted all of my writing in a harsh wind of regret and hate. This is the first time I've ever admitted what I did. He offers very little in the way of commentary, except to occasionally ask small questions, the better to clarify details, and allow me pauses to pick at my food. He is an exceptional listener. I am struck by his understanding, how immediately he grasps the heart of the thing. I think, "This is why he has me, absolutely completely. He is the rarest of creatures, one who not only looks, but sees."

"That must be impossibly hard," he says, "How do you survive?" "I don't," I reply, and he nods, "Of course." He looks at me as if I am a wonder, a myth. He says, "It is incredible that you can bear it, that you don't fall apart." Gently, he teases more from me, as if delicately pulling threads from a loom. I am Penelope, the faithful wife of Odysseus, unraveling at his feet, spilling everything across the table. He describes how he thinks it must be, mentions the word brittle, and it is so accurate I almost cry, but not quite. He keeps me balanced, he keeps me safe. It is amazing. "So this is part of the shadow underneath your skin."

When I am done my story, terrible in all its grand detail, he sits a moment, somber. "I understand why you stopped writing." A rush of heat, not quite anger, flushes up my throat, "I wouldn't have stopped unless I had a good reason." It tastes bitter. What sort of person does he think I am? But then he continues, "So. This is the point where if I were to answer as a woman, I would offer a similar story about my life, the better to offer empathy and make you feel less alone. Shared understanding, emotional community support." I laugh. "I don't think you have anything like that." "No," he says, "not really." He gestures, one hand, then the other, not quite smiling. "Or, if I were to answer as a man, this is where I would try to offer a solution, something constructive, to address and fix your problems. Make everything better." I am blinded by adoration. This is precisely the sort of reply I have always needed, but never been given. Just like that, I am relieved of my burden. He is sublime. "Which kind of answer would you prefer goes first?"
foxtongue: (misery)
Whichever way you look at it, losing is really hard to take. Even harder than dealing with losing is breaking the news to people. You shared our dream and held our hand as we ran for all we were worth toward the stage. It's amazing the amount of momentum that built up in such a short space of time. But here it is. We didn't get it.

On October the 5th someone else bought the theatre.

We failed you and we're sorry. We had some major investors bail on us and despite all the wonderful donations from you fine people; in the end we just could not get enough money in time.

What happens now is that we honour our promise to you, that in the event of us failing to buy the theatre "the money goes back to the people". Due to the large number of donations we received it will take some time to get through them all, so please be patient.

We'd just like to say again, and believe us we can't say this enough; we're eternally grateful for all your support. You believed and tried to spark some wonder back into the world. You scrimped and you saved and you sacrificed and if that wasn't enough you then told your friends about us and made them do the same. Despite the fact we didn't get to where we wanted to be you are all still awesome, you're all kisses and butterflies and we love you.
foxtongue: (Default)
help with what you can


My cats turned one year old Oct. 11th. I missed it, I was on set from 6 a.m. until 10:30, then had to be back at 6 again the next day, so stayed at a friend's house. This month, for the wonder that is TV-land, I have played a high-school student, a college student, an art teacher, a senator's daughter, (wayward, of course, complete with musician boyfriend, hah), and someone waiting in line at the DMV. Next week I'm to mock-attend an upscale banquet at an international embassy, a prom, and an Irish pub.

It's lovely-strange, the background work I've been doing. Like a low level hum, I've been reconnecting with friends, making new ones, and generally being paid to be social. Other things have been neglected, though, and I hope to rectify that soon. Chores littered with hyphens, mostly, (house-work, copy-editing, e-mail...), but there are legitimately important things too. I need to write copy for Foxtongue that I don't immediately delete with a sense of despair. Every time I read a finished newsletter out loud, I feel as if it should be crumpled into fish-wrap, and I promptly scrap it. I'm beginning to think I should have someone else over to write it, someone who could translate my nihilistic ranting on the project into something cohesive and actually useful.

As Vonnegut said so succinctly, "There's only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you've got to be kind."
foxtongue: (Default)

loljournal
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
A Guest post from Jhayne:

I apologize for leaving everyone with a bit of a cliff-hanger earlier this week. My journal has been innaccessible for the last few days and is likely to remain so until Livejournal screws its proverbial head on straight over the latest SixApart fiasco. (For those not in the know, this is what's been going on.). I am hoping that using a third party to post will break past the endless 404 display that has cropped up every time I attempt an update.

So! news!

Someone's willing to buy the theatre and lease it to us.

However, and this is a nasty however, we have to give him a proposal stating WHY we would be the best tenants in the known local universe. This is an investment, he requires a return. This proposal has to be delivered as soon as possible, because he leaves on a business trip in about a week. Of course, that's "about a week" as of Tuesday. Now it's Thursday night and I have just spent the last couple of days glued to my computer, ignoring so-called normal-human hours, typing my fingers to the bone and aggravating my carpel tunnel beyond rational belief, all so we would have a completely new HotW proposal done as quickly as possible.

You people had better thank me, even if this falls through. Thank me and Lee, the groshing accountant Warren's provided us out of the utter blue on no warning whatsoever who's willing to work through the night for free, and thank Merlyn, who came and made me dinner and cleaned my kitchen, all so I didn't have to pause what I was doing, and Alastair, who's been hacking at my horrible rough-rough drafts, and Carlos, who's been doing the same, but from Washington, and Silva, who's been helping me write all today, and Michael Green, for continuing to know more about theatre than I have ever wanted to know.

And with that, I have to somehow extricate myself form my computer and find something to eat, because I'm fairly certain it's in the manual somewhere that one should not go over twelve hours without a meal. This may even require I leave my apartment, but no worries. I'm brave when I'm starving. Signing out.
foxtongue: (beseech)
Thanks to everyone for birthday wishes. They're appreciated. Today is a day for Heart of the World meetings. However they go, either way, there will be news by tomorrow. Maybe very good news.

There is rumour of a birthday-cake happening tonight. A very specific rumour, it says that cakery will be at my house around 5:30, but it's going to be a very cozy affair. By cozy I mean small, and by small, I mean tiny. I mean, you are invited if you know you are invited without even having to think about it, you answer Yes when asked if you are in my extended family. Also, the cake is still in flux. It is a cake-shaped wave-form, cake only in potentia. There might not be one, is what I'm saying. It could be only a metaphor. (I am broke and my mother is uncertain how to ferry one over on a motorcycle.) However, there will be ice-cream to go with the hypothetical cake, so that's alright. Right? Right. Off to the meetings.
foxtongue: (illustrated)
BABIES AS WEAPONS is the most twisted thing you will see today, even if you're a regular at ModBlog. It's the inelegant site of XenoSapien, a man in the States who believes he is "suffering from deep feminist-culture side-effects." I hope he never discovers gifs, as the flame motif is bad enough already. (Warning: for reasons unknown he plays inappropriate music very loudly). The front page has a pencil sketch named MyPain of a woman dressed as a stripper about to whip a prostrate man with a baby that's still attached to her by an umbilical cord that snakes from between her legs. For added wtf, the diapered baby seems to be angrily shouting into a microphone. The entire thing gives me the quesy feeling he watches Wicker Man and touches himself on Friday nights.

  • "NASA can no longer afford the future."
  • Plans for making a Jacob's Ladder from readily available parts.

    Today has been full of unexpected phone calls, disco light moments, when the blare of music fades into almost silence at the exact moment you see her face. Theatre people, friends, night and day. Someone's finally read my pen written letters, public transit edited. A long distance shout from an ex-lover, three defeated countries away, sunburned voice peeling across the lines, unexpected and welcome and a little puzzling. I love him, but why now? Little mirrors refracting light, circling in the room. Another chrome ring, pick-up-the-phone - a potential investor, in town from Memphis, surprise, someone I've been considering handing the project off to once I get it up on its feet and properly connected to my city. (We all know I want to leave.) I'm cancelling my plans this evening so as to see him.

    Just as a reminder: Bertolt Brecht's Life of Galileo opens tomorrow at The Western Front. Further details here. I'm going, are you? Especially quick comments have a chance at a comp.
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