Grace

LOAD.



Head: I'm struggling with this, you know.

Heart: Of course you are. Quit trying to control everything and maybe you might get there... Eventually.

Head: Why is this so hard? I'm an open-minded person.

Heart: Just...open your.... Why don't you try quitting saying "No". You do realize that you are constantly doing that, don't you? You are always seperating the good from the bad. Quit trying to refine everything all the time. Maybe there really is beauty in ugly things. The oyster...the pearl?

Head: I fucking hate seafood.

Heart: This isn't about Red Lobster, dumbass. It's about finding a way to be happy without trying to be. It's about letting it come to you rather than continually chasing it. It's about stopping and saying to yourself, "that carrot on that string is not worth it, and I'm not doing this any longer."

Head: I fucking hate carrots.

Heart: And they hate you, pal, they hate you.



WASH.




I count my blessings that I was even able to be involved in the production. I got to watch something amazing happen from backstage, just behind the curtains. My role was insignificant, a one-scene only part where I played a "juvie" in lock-up, a future sexual predator who gets kicked in the nuts for his bad behavior. The scene served the play, and wasn't much of a showcase for my talent, but was a critical construct that helped the audience make strong connections to the main character. It also allowed me hours in the wings to sit and watch and learn.
You'll pardon me if my memory misfires, as it was over 20 years ago, but I can never forget how two young women, just girls really, not yet 21, transform into very powerful beings; Displaying courage in the face of a demanding director, the success of the play resting squarely on their shoulders, they took The Risk, and jumped into the darkness.
In the Spring of 1988, the production at the Greer in Santa Fe was Marsha Norman's Getting Out, a heavy-duty play about a woman released from years of incarceration. Cast as the ex-con Arlene was Shawna Gillenwater, a delicate slip of a girl who suffered from terrible shyness and a lack of confidence in her abilities. Cast as Arlie, the younger version of Arlene who exists only in her memories, was Sara Fernandez-K, a little ball of fury onstage, full of energy and outward trust in her skills, but doubting her impact, not yet at peace with her artistry.
The play was well-cast by the director Phil Chapman, and he was extremely engaged from the outset, creating a poisonous environment for Arlie, a succession of psychologically and sexually abusive episodes that pulled no punches. She was victimized by her environment, a real-life statistic. Yet we see Arlie endure. Then we see Arlene try to reconcile the abuse, make her way out of it, while dealing with new but familiar treacheries. The play is not gentle. It is hard, and filled with the worst elements that our world has to offer. These young actresses, with the ensemble around them challenging them, prodding them, pressing them to the edge, created a beautiful thing out of the ugliest of scripts. It's a story about fighting for your life against all odds. It is a story of perseverence, and protecting the innocent person inside us.
Sara and Shawna are my friends, and have been for years, even after an extended absence. They both deeply understand something about transformation. Shawna still battles self-doubt sometimes, and the old shyness, but has a quality about her that is nothing short of stillness. It is a remarkable change from the girl I knew who was terrified of being exposed to the prying eyes of an audience, and she has built a life that reflects the tranquility and acceptance that was absent then. She surrounds herself with beauty and peace. In fact, she sells it in her shop that she owns on Canyon Road. Sara is still a fireball. Her identity is all activism and positive healing energy. She has walked down a path that requires a bravery unknown to me, a path of endurance in the face of tremendous obstacles, but with that passion and intensity that I first admired the day she cussed someone out first in Spanish, then in Hungarian, just for effect.
Arlie and Arlene. Really, really, great casting.


RINSE.




[Two Case-Workers standing at a work table that is covered with blueprints, various photographs, post-it notes, yellow legal pads, and empty coffee cups. Smoke from long-ashed cigarettes burning in the ashtrays hangs in the air above them, while the single over-head worklight burns steadily. They are obviously at a moment of stress, and on deadline. The Boss is hovering, watching, waiting, and expecting results.]
Michael: We need to run the history again. There are significant breakdowns in the life span. Too many periods of lost direction...a huge gap in consciousness from 26 to 30 and again from 39 to 42. Causal relationships?
Angela: It's not drugs, and his alcohol consumption isn't out of hand...Honest opinion? I don't think he mourns properly. The marriage failings. His mother. The Girl.
Micheal: We've established the alcoholism in the root-family. He had years to process it, and was adjusted to intox at 11...This isn't a story about drunks... Mourning...Maybe....What's the six-month timeline?
Angela: The Gift was given at the end of August, it roused him from the Sleep for a few months, but he lapsed again in December, probably loneliness, and single-malt scotch... Two short periods of Clarity, followed by Stasis. He's definitely floating...He's making personal connections easily enough, but intimacy is fleeting, followed by over-analyzing, and Retreat.
Michael: What's working for him?
Angela: His creative mind is firing at a very high level. He's seeing things in an active dream state, and he is able to project his emotions into his ideas. It's the healthiest the mechanism has been since he was 20.
Michael: His Emo-Intel is peaking. A breakout possible?
Angela: That would be ideal, but there's the Fear...He's made an entire lifetime of holding onto the edge of the pool. He gets in the water, but he doesn't really swim.
Micheal: I concur...He was dosed with a half unit of The Gift after the funeral...That was a PTSD case, yes?
Angela: Very bad scene at the hospital. Strong negative imagery, feeling of helplessness, disconnected emotional response, followed by memory repression....A recurring nightmare in which he was performing CPR while her family watched...pretty ugly stuff...I recommended at the time that we wipe that one from his program, but it was thought that it might be useful later, a Vivid Dream.
Michael: I typically don't proscribe cleaning the hard drive. Really, I never...way too dangerous, especially for artists. Besides, he's battling. He is processing. Does he have a Support System in place?
Angela: It's not the root-family. He's off the reservation and has been for years. He's made a series of significant connections online. Re-connects from high school and college. Actually, it's very healthy in my estimation. They are Feeler/Thinkers, a lot of artists in his circle, some pretty serious people, and overall, a strong community. He's active, and receives It from them.
Michael: Okay, I think it's time to shake it up a bit. Based on your analysis, I think we have to get him into the water, let him sink, then wake him up under water.
Angela: The Drowning Man?
Michael: Make the water ice cold... I'm thinking: Alaska...man overboard...have him aspirate a half a cup of sea water, and then release him. I want to see him kicking for survival...He needs to pull himself out of the water, coughing and choking and fighting for air...If he does this, then give him a full dose of The Gift, and open his mind while your at it. I want him writing about it...it would benefit him if he was writing for someone, maybe a theatre group...let's get him involved in something...just make a decision, I'm sure it will be fine...and Angie, whatever you do, don't let him Retreat.
Angela: Okay, I'm on it...you want me to write it up?
Michael: No thanks, I've got this one...I'm on my way upstairs now. He's been waiting.


SPIN.




When I was about fourteen years old, there was a car accident very near my parents house. A young driver in a pickup truck was cut off by another vehicle that failed to yield. The driver was inexperienced, and swerved hard to avoid colliding with the other car, jumped the curb, and ran the front of his truck into a brick wall. His passenger was killed instantly. She was his girlfriend. I remember two things very clearly about that night: First, the sound of the truck hitting the brick wall was so loud, it sounded like someone slamming our garage door down, and second, the way the boy, who was barely older than I was, made a sound like all of the air escaping his lungs at once.
When I was about twenty-five, I was driving with my son through a school zone and noticed a motorcycle was down in the road. A police officer was kneeling over a young man who had smashed head first into a passing car. The officer was trying to shield the man's body from the views of the children who were staring at the scene from the school windows. I remember two things very clearly about that day: First, the large pool of blood that had built up on the road, and second, the pained expression of the officer as he was battling the stiff wind that kept blowing up the flimsy blue tarp, and exposing the horrible accident to the children less than a hundred feet away.
A month ago, while I was driving in the limo, barely moving because of some traffic snarl just ahead of me, I found myself cursing the idiot driver who wasn't paying attention and causing me to be late to my appointment. As I finally made my way past the back-up, I realized that a pedestrian was laying on the train tracks. A very small woman was laying on the ground, her body twisted by the unnatural violence that she encountered when she walked into the path of the train. A young woman from one of the cars was kneeling over her and praying a rosary. I remember two things very clearly from that day: First, the terrible wave of guilt I had for cursing the driver that caused the accident, and second, the beautiful expression of the young woman who was praying, her face radiating such pure love and compassion for her fellow traveller.