Climbing the Mountain: An Erstwhile Discovery on a Well Needed Vacation

"The mountains are calling...and I must go." - John Muir

This past week, I took my first honest-to-God, no-ulterior-motives, journey-to-a-strange land, vacation in a VERY LONG TIME. (The last trip I've taken that I would consider to be a vacation in its full principles would be a trip taken right after my freshman year of college, where my parents and I embarked to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for a week's worth of relaxing, swimming, and miniature golf, a momentous trip if anything because it was the last time that mom was not struggling with cancer at the time, and as such, was able to actually enjoy herself for a change.) Sure, I've traveled a great deal in the seven years since that trip, to destinations including London, Tampa Bay, San Francisco, Oregon, Arizona, and the little hamlet of Moscow, Idaho, but with all of those trips, there was a purpose underlying the journey that somewhat took away from the sensation of going somewhere to sit around and DO ABSOLUTELY GODDAMN NOTHING UNLESS IT SO PLEASED US. (Bachelor party, grieving, scattering of ashes, theatre, etc.) This time around, it was a plan by myself to go somewhere where I knew nobody (or as close as I could get), where I could plan out what I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do it, with no restrictions or expectations.

I settled upon Denver, Colorado for a number of reasons. This post on the Oatmeal was a big deciding factor, and helped me to settle upon a hotel for my stay. Things to do, such as the quite wonderful Morrison Natural History Museum, were another factor. That the Reds were in town for the weekend I was looking to go helped to seal my decision in stone.

(Incidentally, on my last day of the trip, I paid a visit to the Morrison Museum, where not only did I get to meet the hotel owners, but I also got to meet Dr. Robert Bakker, a hero of my childhood. Unfortunately, as I had never seen any pictures of the man, and mostly because I've been immersed in my respective artistic fields for the last decade of my life, I HAD NO IDEA WHO IT WAS. Fortunately, I did take a picture of him, thinking he was "somebody important at the Museum". This picture will follow once I figure out which cable it is that connects my camera to my laptop. But I digress.)

What ultimately led me to my trip decision, however, was an urge within me that has been convalescing for something around twenty-five of my twenty-six years on this earth: the need to go out and see mountains.

Denver's scenic location at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains made this a particularly desirous destination in my mind. Finally, I could revel in the majesty of 14,000 foot peaks where the only purpose would be to climb them, not drive/fly over or around them. (Sorry Vandals Trip 2011, you fail on this count)

The trip was, all in all, an unquestionable success. I was able to relax, enjoy scenery, visit several attractions, explore downtown Denver, check out and sample many different breweries, and revel in the joy that comes with being a dopey, goofy tourist. However, while the trip was most certainly memorable, I'm not going to recount every single thing I did, because that would be:

a) Long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring. Reading about someone's vacation is worse than being forced to sit through an acquaintance's endless slideshow of zoo animals doing zoo animal things.

b) Too long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring for me to sit here and type. (While I enjoyed myself, I find that recounting endless details of my life bores even me. If you really want to know about what I did, ask me sometime. Or leave a comment below, and I'll write you up an account.

c) Irrelevant, because no new life-changing experiences happened to me, rendering such a narrative account long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring....

....except for one thing.

On my third day in Denver, I drove to Rocky Mountain National Park, with no clear goals in mind. Sure, I wanted to do some hiking, and sure, I wanted to see some mountains. I'd heard of the Trail Ridge Road, and driving it was certainly in my mind, getting to explore what life is like at 12,000 feet. Beyond that, I only knew what I had seen briefly glancing at the park's website, figuring on doing my own investigating once I arrived.

Pulling up to the gate, I was handed a map and told that my admission fee to the park (a meager $20) would last me for up to seven days. It was at this point, driving towards the first parking lot I could find, that the significance of the park covering 58 acres began to sink in to me. I'd already suspected that there would be far more than I could ever hope to accomplish in the seven hours I'd allotted for my visit. To speak the truth, there was a sense of relief that came with looking at the map; there was so much to see that if I only picked one corner of the map, I'd be sure to see a healthy abundance of sights no matter where I decided to park my car.

The park itself was filled with countless tourists. I'm guessing (strictly ballpark) that the number of visitors who pass through the gates each day numbers in the thousands, based upon the tithing that I saw. I deposited my car in a Park 'n Ride lot, boarded a shuttle, and found myself at the Bear Lake trail head.

Bear Lake

Bear Lake is absolutely gorgeous; let me lead with that. A .5 mile trail circles the small body of water, nestled at the feet of several mountains, and winds through a thick forest of Ponderosa pines, with multiple benches to sit on and study the crystal clear waters of the lake. It wasn't the clearest body of water I'd ever seen, but I took that as a good sign; more often than not a lake in a natural setting with silty discoloration is a healthier lake than one where you can see straight to the bottom. (After all, the things that prevent you from seeing the lake bottom are living organisms; the more living organisms thriving in a lake, the healthier it is.) I circled the lake twice, once again glad that I had purchased new hiking boots two days before and broken them in on the relatively easy terrain of the Garden of the Gods outside of Colorado Springs. Yet, even though I was enjoying myself, I found the Bear Lake area too crowded for my tastes. People milled around everywhere, photographing anything that moved, including other tourists. In the back of my head, I felt claustrophobic, in spite of being this deep into the woods of the National Park. I needed space. Perhaps the popular trails weren't the way to go.

Along my short meander, I had looked over the map, plotting a trip that would take me by a nearby waterfall three miles away. It seemed a walk in the woods would do me some good, though the trail looked to be crowded with dozens of others with similar intentions. Keeping my claustrophobia in mind, I allowed my mind to wander, noticing on my second lap a branching off of the trail that led upward. A signpost illuminated that it led to the Flattop Mountain trail, a 4.4 mile hike.

Glancing up at the ridges above, I mentally calculated the time I had available to me versus what I expected a 4.4 mile hike would bring me. Looking over my map, I realized that such a hike would also entail a 6,000 foot elevation rise; with limited experience of climbing things, I hastily decided that this would present no major challenge to me. Looking along the trail, I noticed that it was mostly ignored by the vast number of people milling about on the path. Blindly ambitious, I turned onto the mountain trail, my water-pack filled, my spirits high, and my gaze turned upward.

I'll interject here to reminisce briefly about my trip last year to Medford, Oregon. At the time, embroiled in my grieving process, I made a goal of my trip to climb whatever mountains I could find; there being few that I was able to discover, I settled for climbing the Upper and Lower Table Rocks at the northern end of the Rogue River Valley. Granted, these were highly cathartic climbs, but not quite what I had in mind when I first set out to conquer a mountain, much in the spirit of Christopher McCandless (without going fully "into the wild"). I needed to climb something huge, overcome the adversities it presented, as a way of conquering my own grief over my recent loss. Climbing a mountain seemed like one of the best ways to go about it; among many things I shared with my mother was her passion for nature and for vast, exotic landscapes. To climb one of the great western peaks seemed as fitting a tribute to her as I could muster.

With that in the back of my mind, I pushed up the trail.

I had barely gotten to the first fork in my climb when the doubts began to settle in. Well, not settle; more like they sucked the wind right out of me. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not in the greatest shape in the world, something which became readily apparent to me as I looked at my map and realized that in twenty minutes of climbing, I'd only gone half a mile. This first fork jutted away to the right, leading to lower elevations and more wooded areas. The mountain path turned left, rising higher into the treeline. Gritting my teeth, and taking a long pull of water, I continued upward.

By the time I reached the second, and last, fork before the top, I was dripping with sweat, horribly winded, and rethinking all of my decisions in life that had led me to this place. What a foolish thing I had done! My idea of a long, grueling hike to that point had been the half-mile walk to the grocery store and back! What was I doing? Nevertheless, I refused to be dissuaded by my own doubts and clambered onward and upward.

Dream Lake

The going was slow. There's no avoiding the subject. It took a damn long while. My natural tendency is to rush on ahead at my own pace (one reason I enjoyed vacationing by myself), and it became a challenge to remind myself that it was okay to go slowly. There was 3.5 miles of uphill trail ahead of me that would be there regardless of how fast I was going. "Slow the fuck down," I would say, panting for breath on one of the many boulders lining the path. "It's a hike, not a race." It became a rite of the trail that I would climb for 1/10th to 2/10ths of a mile, stop, park my butt on a rock, and take a drink before continuing my upward crawl. At each stop, I stopped to think about how much it really meant to me to finish the climb. Each time, I resolutely tightened my boot strings, hoisted myself to my feet, and continued upward.

Emerald Lake

The views became more and more spectacular the higher I climbed. Looking down, I could make out Bear Lake below, a tiny point the size of my palm. As the trail turned and winded its way along the side of the mountain, I passed above Dream Lake as well, and soon enough, Emerald Lake. The last was nestled into a mountain valley, fed by glacial runoff from Flattop and Hallet's Peak above me. The trees grew thinner and thinner, finally growing to no taller than my tiny rental Ford Focus, literally parked miles away from me.

As the treeline gave out, the wind picked up. I was now exiting the subalpine climate and venturing into the alpine heights of the Rockies. It was here that I had my first serious reappraisal of my climb. Down below, it had been in the high 80's, too hot for my flannel shirt that I had left in the car. Here, the temperature was in the low 60's, and I found myself shivering heavily in addition to my winded state. My breathing became labored, and I realized, with the sudden clarity of an anvil falling upon my head, that at 10,000 feet in the air, the oxygen is much, much thinner. Not as thin as it had been on Pike's Peak the day before, but still. It certainly wasn't helping my winded state any. Perhaps it would be best to turn back; it would be safer, I'd be less at risk of hypothermia, and I would have time to complete several less strenuous hikes.

Looking back down the trail, I then realized how high I had actually come. Debating internally, I felt that I had come too far to simply turn back now.  Besides, as anyone who knows me will attest, I'm stubborn as all hell. If I gave up now, I'd hate myself for the rest of the trip. Clutching my pack tighter to my chest, I pushed upward.

In this stretch, the views were absolutely gorgeous. Uncluttered by trees, the mountains stretched for miles and miles. Each turn brought a new view, and I finally understood the significance of the phrase "purple mountain's majesty", as the mountaintops were turning a marvelously velvet shade under the early noon clouds. Stopping to catch my breath became less and less of a necessary chore and more of a chance to take in the spectacular views all around me. All around me, ground squirrels and marmots were poking their heads out, wondering what all the commotion was about. Once they realized it was just an out-of-shape tourist, they retreated back into their burrows, chirping out their silent mocks.

As I stepped above the last of the reddish ferns that coated the mountainside, I realized three very important things:

1) I had only 1,500 feet to climb, but still about a mile of trail.

2) The gentle noon clouds in the sky were rapidly growing darker, and bringing with them a 55 degree wind chill.

3) I was out of water.

The last one struck home immediately. I still had a giant climb to do, and was already somewhat dehydrated, and now I was out of water. Surely, I would have to turn back. The sheer and terrible magnitude of the second point took a moment longer to sink in, but once it did, I was faced with my strongest moment of doubt yet; sudden thunderstorms develop in the Rockies almost daily, and high above the treeline, there would be no shelter from the wind. I was over-exposed, and out of water. Granted, this wasn't the highest mountain in the park, and there was a steady trickle of people on the mountain, but I hadn't seen anyone for almost an hour.

A landscape that would kill you as soon as look at you...

It might be overly vain of me to say this, but it was at that exact moment that I became aware of my own mortality. There was a chance that if I continued onward and upward, I might die on the side of the mountain. Or, at the very least, suffer the most embarrassing evacuation of all time. ("Sheesh, the bastard didn't bring enough water? He was only going 12,000 feet. What the hell's the matter with THIS guy?")

Those of you who know me know that I don't put much stock into prayer. I don't hold it against people who do, and encourage people to do whatever they feel is right for their religious beliefs. Myself, I think it's somewhat vain to ask for wisdom or guidance to questions that, most of the time, you already know the answers to yourself. Consequently, I keep people in my thoughts in times of need, or seek out advice from those close to me who can offer aid.

At that moment, however, there was nobody around me, and I honestly had no clue of what I should actually do. Turning back seemed the most logical choice, and going onward seemed a fool's hazard; I would literally be hiking into a mountaintop thunderstorm.

So I asked the one person I figured would be able to help me the most; my mom.

"Hey mom," I said out loud, not caring if the marmots heard me or not. "Been a while, I guess. But, hey, I'm here in Colorado. On a mountain. Out of water. I know you're probably busy with whatever it is that you're doing, but if you could just make the sun come out. Well, if you can do things like that, I guess. Anyway, I'd really appreciate it."

And the sun came out....

Almost as if on cue, the sun poked out from a crack between the clouds. I shit you not. (I wouldn't have included this part if it wasn't true) It didn't warm the air around me or anything, but it allowed me to see that with another forty-five minutes of climbing, I might reach the summit. The thunderclouds in the distance looked to have stopped their crawl over the mountain range.

I had a window of time to complete the climb.

"Thanks, mom." Bowing my head, I pushed upward.

I don't hold any kind of belief that my mom caused the clouds to part. It was just a fluke coincidence, of that I'm sure. However, at the time, it made me feel much better about my decision; had nothing happened, I might not have completed the climb at all, for which I would not only hate myself for the rest of the trip, but for years to come. Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about that.

Not ten minutes later, a couple passed by me. With a charitable nature, they asked if I needed any water. (They could probably tell a man about to pass out when they saw one.) Thanking them graciously, I filled my water pack to the halfway mark, took a long drink, and pushed upward again.

Nothing could stop me now. Not nature, not the elements, not my doubts, not anybody who'd ever told me that I couldn't do something. The peak was in range. I was going to climb this fucking mountain if it fucking killed me.

Which it didn't, obviously.

With a final burst of energy, I emerged onto the peak of Flattop Mountain, a broad, surreal world of broken rocks and bighorn sheep droppings. Tiny cairns of rocks outlined the suggested path, though as the mountain's name would suggest, there was nothing much to distinguish one part from another. I made my way to the center of the area, where a wooden signpost marked the end of the trail.

Sitting down next to the post, I found a fellow climber sitting there, who took my picture in all directions, offering wisdom that she'd gained through years of hiking in the Rockies. Mostly, however, we just remarked on the views.

"Nothing like this that you can see on the ground," she said.

"No," I agreed. "No, there isn't."

The glacier on Flattop Mountain

After fifteen minutes of ambling to all sides of the mountain, taking in the views of the valleys below and of the nearby glacier that fed Emerald Lake (I'd never actually gotten to walk on top of a glacier before, and with global warming being what it is, I'm glad that I did), I began to descend the trail. As might be expected, going down was a much faster endeavor, and one that I didn't have to stop many times for. As if on cue, as soon as I reached the treeline, the rains began to fall, and thunder boomed in the distance.

"Do whatever you want, mountains," I exhaled as I rushed down the mountainside. "I'm on my way down. Thanks for holding off for a bit."

I finished the descent in 1/3rd of the time it had taken me to climb Flattop Mountain. Rushing to the ranger station, I filled my water pack twice, draining it each time. I glanced at my trusty time-piece (my cell phone), and realized that it was too late to complete the two hour Trail Ridge road drive. However, at the time, I quite frankly didn't care. All I wanted was a beer and a burger somewhere. Besides, while I wouldn't be in RMNP for a good long while, it's high on my list of places to return to. Confident in the day's achievements, I bid farewell to the park, driving south to Boulder.

I don't know if there's a moral to this story per se, or if I want you to take anything from this. It would be overly corny and (in my opinion) bad writing to say to my readers to "go climb your own mountains", so I won't. The same applies to saying "stick to your goals, don't listen to your doubts, etc." That's not who I am.

I will tell you however to remember your flannels. And to bring plenty of water.

And don't be afraid to ask for help.

And don't ever feel you have to explain your pictures.

Fearful of the Dawn: An Erstwhile Reflection on the Post-Show Blues

"All the lies that you tell
I believed them so well. Take them back
Take them back to your red house
For that fearful leap into the dark"
Tom Waits

When I first started doing theatre in high school, (three shows only, doing them because my shoulder was not responding well to another semester of baseball) I did it for the pure joy of continuing to hang out with my friends, staying involved with extracurricular activities, and pursuing a year full of arts-related activities during my senior year. As shows inevitably closed, I had plenty to look forward to for my next projects (band contests, graduation, college, a trip to Europe, etc.) with no real reason to look back on the productions as hallmarks of my high school career.

Upon switching to theatre full-time in college, the feeling was more of the same. I had five good years of participating in shows to look forward to, and only rarely did a production have the full feelings of cast unity and excellence that are the signifiers of high quality artistic work. Furthermore, burdened by the high pressures of college, the closing of a show marked what would be a much-appreciated opening in my schedule, crammed full between working at the Cookie Jar and More, 15 to 18 hours of (mostly) intensive course-work, a social life predicated by involvement with the resident social theatre fraternity, and friendships and relationships that deserved a full amount of time.

And then, during my super-senior year (layman's term for a 5th year of college), a funny thing happened.

It wasn't until after finishing the first show of that year, Burning Patience, that I noticed an intense feeling in the days after closing. It struck me swiftly, almost all at once, as I walked into my apartment following strike. A pit in my stomach seemed to drop open as my body flooded with adrenaline. It was hard for me to describe at the time, and the closest I can come to compare it to is the feeling after you've followed your favorite sports team through a grueling playoffs only to witness it come to an unsatisfactory end short of winning a championship just as you've finished running a marathon while listening to a life-changing CD. All while sitting in the delivery room waiting for news of a child being born. Those feelings washed over me, dropping me right down into my chair in my living room, where I sat in silence for nearly half-an-hour, staring at nothing, my head emptied of thoughts and feelings.

I was fortunate enough to be in the busiest stretch of my burgeoning theatrical career, and so I jumped into a new project almost immediately. This caused the feeling to fade relatively quickly, but it soon popped up again with the finish of each performance, coming after The Importance of Being Earnest, Working, Blackbird, and Mother Courage. It didn't matter my involvement with the projects, ranging from acting to singing to directing to even running the light board during the last two weeks of the show. It was always the same feeling of loss, exhaustion, and depression, every time, followed by sinking into my living room chair wondering where the time had gone.

It feels trite to call it post-partum depression, but at this point in my life, that's all I can describe it as. For the sake of brevity (and the fact that I will never ever know what it's like to truly deliver a child), I've come to call this feeling "the post-show blues".

It happened to an extreme level following the conclusion of my internship at the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey, though that was also increased by concerns about my mother's health. (It's easier to put things in perspective when dealing with serious illnesses, things that turn out to be life or death. Oh, you might think, what's the point of worrying about not putzing around in the black-box all day when my mother is worrying about how to pay for her chemotherapy?) The same thing happened following the conclusion of my first professional show as an actor, Night of the Iguana in Cincinnati, even though it was the most grueling process I've ever been through as an actor. (Much of which was because, you know, it was my first professional show, and one that really brought me down to size on where I stood as an actor, something that in hindsight I needed desperately at that moment.) After a brief layoff (more on layoffs in a minute), I did Midsummer Night's Dream with Free Shakespeare!, a process that led to a long grueling summer marked by half-hour drives almost daily to everywhere I had to be. And I still missed it after the fact.

And now we come to the present day, where I've just finished directing As You Like It. And the post-show blues are striking again.

For a frame of reference, let me just say that this is not something I desire, nor need, any pity or sympathy for. It's the nature of the business to come to the end of a job, and I've accepted/embraced this many times in my fledgling career. Frankly, an abundance of statements like "Cheer up!" or "Aw, you poor thing" feels a little patronizing after a while, and it really doesn't do anything to lift my mood. In addition, much of it is chemical, as I tend to slip into brief depressive slips for no reason as it is. This is one of the few times that I can put a cause to the effect. I've figured out my own ways to deal with depression in my life; either embracing my introverted tendencies helps sometimes, as does seeking out friends in my own time. I'm a big boy now. I can handle the smaller problems in my life.

Now that that's out of the way, let me talk a little about what happens to me after a show closes.

There's first a moment of relief. Whew, that's over. Thought that show was going to drag on FOREVER.

It's quickly followed by a jolt of shock, like a bolt of lightning scoring a direct hit on my spine. Wait a minute. The show's over. What the hell happens now? Depending on how successful I've been at finding work/opportunities to showcase my craft, this can range from moving on to the next show to something along the lines of "Holy shit, I'm unemployed all over again!" Most people in theatre/film/performing arts go through several periods of unemployment in their lifetimes. It's a common factor. The running joke is that Actor's Equity seeks to make sure that no more than 80% of their members are unemployed at any given time. The actual number is a lot smaller than that, but you get the idea.

Once the shock has set in, it's quickly followed by panic. (You might note a resemblance to the five stages of grieving here; it's not un-similar) Holy shit, I'm unemployed. I need to find a new play NOW, or else I'm that guy who says "I'm an actor" with nothing to back it up! Fuck-nuggets!

There's a tendency I've noticed in myself to linger after the show with cast members, be it in the theatre space itself or at the official/unofficial party afterwards. One might call this the denial phase, but I'm more fond of calling it "embracing the moment". I find a greater sense of awareness that after spending so much of my time with a certain group of people for so long on so personal and revealing a task that the working relationship between the artists has (if you're doing it right, and that is just my opinion-not-a-fact) evolved into a makeshift sort of family. Unfortunately, this doesn't set in for me until the very last fucking night. Consequently, there's only so much time for the hugging and the gift-giving and the laughing before this collective of people departs. Which will happen. And once they do, it sinks in that this select group of people will never be in the same room/space/bar at one time ever again. It's lost to history.

Alas, when the time comes, it arrives like a hammer blow. Everyone starts to leave, sensing that the party is over, the curtain has come down, or it's last call and, while you don't have to go home, you can't stay here. One last round of hugs and promises to keep in touch and then it's into the car. The drive home is a time for silence, reflection, and appreciation of what doing something like theatre means to you. And I don't mean questions like "Why do I do theatre" but more so "Wow, there's really nothing else I would have rather done this summer" or maybe "I just got to experience something that I didn't think I'd be getting for at least five years: the chance to get paid for directing a show" or even "So many people don't want this to end...they don't even know 1/10th of how I feel!" Questions like that, mostly founded in nostalgia and irrationality that make perfect sense given the time and circumstances.

And then comes the pit in the stomach, the black hole in my soul, the melodramatic post-show blues.

I find that my energy is lessened, through either exhaustion or a self-induced sense of despondency. The day after closing, I tend to sleep in until a semi-ridiculous hour (barring returning to my day job...which I didn't), eating junk food, staying up far later than I should, and going about what work I need to do rather lethargically. This lasts for around 24 hours, and is followed by a refocusing of efforts on things that are important, but don't really relate to my career (again, unless I'm in a show immediately following, in which case REHEARSAL REHEARSAL REHEARSAL) such as checking the status for my day job, cleaning my room/apartment/house, or taking a trip somewhere as a reward for months of playing around in the park. (This is how it might look to outsiders, but the truth is that theatre takes up a lot of time and energy and I don't always make time for "me-time" during the rehearsal process or while running the show. That's to be expected, though; how often do you 9 to 5er's actually take a vacation?) This process lasts longer, with an interminable end date. Eventually, though, it wears off as I come to a realization that I have to make every single time:

I'm depressed because I'm no longer doing what I love on a daily basis, and want to do it again.

I don't know why it works like that, but that's something that I emotionally and mentally have to understand with the passing of each show. Once I come to that understanding, my choices are simple: wallow in misery or get out there and look for the next opportunity, be it acting, writing, taking classes, or simply attending a friend's show.

And once I get to that point, I'm fine. I might have to listen to a lot of Tom Waits before I get there, and may or may not eat an entire cheese pizza, but I get there. And then it's time to start the whole thing over again, beginning with that first audition.

And if that's the exchange I have to make for getting to tell stories that nobody else can tell, for getting to start conversations, to change the way people see the world, to move people, to violate people, to shake them to their core, then it seems a small price to pay.

Because I love doing theatre.

And that's how I know that I don't need your pity. Because there's nothing to pity. I'm doing what I love.

Boo-yah.

An Erstwhile Summer: Reminescing About Life in Dayton

More often than not, I'm happiest about money when I'm not only able to balance my checking account at the end of each month, with all of my (granted, minute) bills paid, but with enough left over to kick back at the end of a hard day's work with friends at a local bar, enjoy a few beverages, and then depart safely for home with a moderately filled tank of gas.

This summer seems to have been stretching my ability to do all of that while balancing my back accounts. Not so much because of my income, which is understandably lessened, but more so because of my desire to hang out at the Trolley Stop in downtown Dayton with my growing litany of friends and acquaintances that I've made during my summer stay here.

Last night, at a going-away party for my dear friend Chris Shea (also my boss, technically, though only for one more week), someone remarked that a mutual friend of ours probably met me at Trolley because "[I'm] always there." I will state right off the back that this is one of those things that might sound like a derogatory statement, but is something I chose to take as a compliment. The arts scene in Dayton, while relatively small compared to the confines of the Windy City, is vibrant and strong, and more often than not localized in the free-styling Oregon District on 5th Street. As the featured director of the summer offering of a (very) popular theatre company, I felt at the start of the summer that it would behoove me to make a strong impression in the artistic community of Dayton, if for nothing else than to "Spread the Words" (the company's motto) about As You Like It. In addition, it's always nice to make new friends, and the opportunity to forge new relationships in my second home away from home (Chicago-strong, although I'll get to that in a second) is too good to pass up.

Especially when there's beer involved.

I didn't count on making quite so many friends and acquaintances this summer as I ended up doing, something that greatly surprised me. My prior experience with Free Shakespeare! was exciting, though my social circle from that summer barely extended beyond my cast mates and a few other individuals on the fringes of the company. This year, it's become impossible for me to walk into, say, Trolley Stop, without recognizing multiple people loitering in the bar area or on the patio.

(A brief side note here: The Patio at Trolley Stop is my favorite bar setting in the world, hands down. I've been to English pubs, a Mexican cantina, numerous bars in Chicago (including places like Hopleaf, which are amazing), New York City, and all across the country. Nowhere has the same relaxed atmosphere that the patio of Trolley does. The drinks are nothing that you can't get anywhere else, but nothing tastes quite so good as a pint of Bell's Oberon, downed on a breezy summer evening under an umbrella, the small rock fountain trickling gently against the mason-wrought façade, electric Christmas lights trickling down the walls like currents of light. There's a convivial sense of comradeship that happens on this patio, and more often than not, you're not alone in this setting; what makes this patio work is that it's still enjoyable even if you are drinking alone, waiting for friends to show up. No other bar has provided the same sense of relaxation as that which I've felt at Trolley. I realize that this is an ode to a bar that serves cheap beer and cheaper eats, but I'm allowed to wax poetic on whatever I want. Sue me. Coming up next, an ode to bacon. Take that,  motha-fuckas!)

Needless to say, the opportunity to jump back into the theatre world - as a paid director, no less! - has been incredible. To be able to pinpoint and carry out my artistic vision, as represented by an incredibly talented cast, has rejuvenated my artistic sensibilities that were being dogged down by a mixture of life's demands, fate, and happenstance. I'm proud of the work that I've done, of the growth that the cast has shown, and by the audience's response to it (which has been overwhelmingly favorable).

Alas, all good things must come to an end...the show ends this Sunday at 7:00 Eastern Standard Time, and with it, my time in Dayton (for the summer, but I'll get to that, too) draws to a close, as the Windy City beckons. Already, I'm turning my attentions towards the fall, with submissions for companies wheeling around again. I've long wanted to take classes to improve my array of talents (lesser though they may be) and am looking strongly at early registration for Second City improv classes, with the hope being to broaden my ability to work quickly and confidently on my feet with world class training. In addition, I have a writing project that I've been rolling around in my brain for the last several months that I'm hoping to start penning around September/October, once I'm back in the swing of things in the city. Look for more information on that in about two month's time. I'll drop a hint that it's a break from the Atlantea series that I've already been working on, though my budding fantasy series remains dear to my heart. Expect good things!

And now, I would like to disclose a brief comment about my future plans, which have been slightly....well, turbulent, for the last month or so. Given that Chris Shea is moving to Seattle, and taking the Free Shakespeare! brand with him (rightfully so, that baby's a GOLD MINE, Shea! You hold onto that shit!), there is an opening for Shakespeare in Dayton. More to the point, it is an opening that hundreds (literally, hundreds) of people are asking to be filled by professional artists in the area. I can't say too much at this time, but I will say that while I'm moving back to Chicago for the foreseeable future (with somewhat broader plans beyond that), I'm somewhat involved with creating a home for freelancing artists such as myself to create work in Dayton and still be compensated for their efforts. Every stop I've made on my bizarre journey of a life has told me of the importance of keeping your artistic options open and numerous, and this new-fangled endeavor (if there is one! *wave of mystery washes over all) would be such a chance to bring outside artists (like me!) to Dayton.

If that wasn't redundant/confusing/irrelevant, then know this: if I've learned nothing else this summer, it's that I'm good at what I do, that I like to be good at what I do, and I'd like to keep doing good work when I can do it.

As You Like It closes this Sunday at the Antioch College Amphitheatre in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Bring your friends and Spread the Words!

Mummies and Snakes: Days One and Two of an Erstwhile Residency

I set out from Chicago on May the 26th, ready for a summer filled with theatre, writing, and semi-laborious farm work. The plan for the three months in which I am living in Ohio is to direct the Free Shakespeare! summer tour of "As You Like It", my first directing gig since the Lionface Winter One Acts of 2011, and my first full-length show since college. (let alone my professional debut...did I mention I'm getting paid?!) I'm greatly looking forward to the challenge of working on a touring company, getting to know the cast, and playing around with the text of one of Shakespeare's most beloved comedies.

But in the meantime...

My other goals mostly pertain to finally sitting down and getting some writing churned out, away from the rigors, pressures, and distractions of city life (a.k.a., paying rent and hustling tables at the seafood restaurant of my employ). Not that I haven't been writing/working since I finished up the first draft of the second Atlantea book in February; I simply feel that a few months in quiet solitude in the country (when I'm not directing) ought to lead to a new found lease on creative output. Case in point, over the next three months, I plan on working on:

• two new plays, including my long-promised full-length take on Hunter S. Thompson
• the second draft of Vol. II of the Atlantea Chronicles
• a new book, a comedic mystery in the vein of Christopher Moore

I'm not sure how successful I'll be at getting ALL of that done (between daily farm chores and devoting myself to the necessities that come with directing, ample free time doesn't seem like it'll be in high demand), but I know from past experience that writing a play (while a time-consuming process) takes about 1/4th of the time required to churn out a 450+ page fantasy novel. In addition, I've gotten much work done on the first play already, and hopefully will be looking to set up a reading of it sometime in early July, before "As You Like It" jumps into crunch-time/tech week. In addition, having moved further along with my writing, the second draft of Atlantea should flow a lot more quickly than did the first draft. Case in point, writing it took almost half the time that it took to write the first draft. If I edit/revise two chapters a day, I'm hopeful to get that banged out by the time AYLI wraps up in mid-August, if not sooner.

The Hunter play greatly excites me, for several reasons. I've already found great success with two shorter versions of what I'm envisioning, though both were in college environments. With that being said, a funny joke is a funny joke, and the writings of the good Doctor naturally lent themselves towards the frenetic, slightly absurdist staging with which I decided to write the play. I'm a huge fan of Thompson's work, and have been working to get my hands on nearly everything he ever wrote, so as to better immerse myself in a world that might pour out this play in the way that I can see it in my head. To that end, towards the end of August, I'll be vacationing in Denver, and plan on making a pilgrimage to Aspen, where he once ran for sheriff, while working on the first draft of the play.

As I continue to hash through the ideas that I've orchestrated in my head, I'll be finished with the play by September/October and looking to submit it to the Cincy Fringe Festival (going on now!) and trying to get this behemoth staged for a mass audience. If this goes according to my (slightly imagined and very feverish) plan, "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!" will be staged next June of 2014 in a small theatre space in Cincinnati at one of the largest and most well-attended fringe fests in the country.

Until then, I probably should write the damn thing.

Segway! I've been busy the last two days!

Yesterday, I arrived in Cincinnati, where several of my oldest friends and I attended an evening concert of a funk-R&B band called Here Come the Mummies. Based out of Memphis, TN, (or Egypt...) the core concept behind the band is that they play sizzling funk with marvelously unsubtle innuendos...while dressed as mummies.

The above hooligan is my favorite member of the band (as of yesterday), Java Mummy. Playing percussion, he's somewhat off to the side, if he were to stick with the formal staging. However, this rampaging bundle of energy leaps and bounds all across the stage, sometimes taking lead vocals, sometimes disappearing and coming back in a gorilla suit on a tricycle. If bands voted on the NBA Award for 6th Man of the Year, Java Mummy would be an annual threat to take home the trophy every year. No contest.

Today, I set to work out on the farm (because I've got to make SOME money this summer, and also it gets boring around here during the day, so it makes more sense to keep busy by being useful than to play MahJong Titans all of the damn time). My chores included building a chicken pen, clearing brush, and gathering eggs. While these might sound relatively simple, let me just state that I've already got three blisters on my hands, and am not entirely sure when I'll ever be clean again. Oh, and I found a snake!

So that's me. Living the dream on this random "three month artistic residency" of mine. Stay tuned for more updates as I work on these projects, churn out some Shakespeare, and see the world.

Leaving a Mark: An Erstwhile Search for Meaning

It's been a while since I've updated here, mostly because I've found my annual bout with seasonal depression catching up to me swiftly, hastened by some things that I'll discuss a little bit further down. But first, a brief foray into a discussion on meaning.

Several months ago, a friend of mine shared a post on Facebook. (Much of my time during the last month or so has been spent trolling the good ol' news feed reading articles about finding yourself, exploring your life options, ways to be happy, ways to combat depression, etc. I find that, while briefly informative, these snippets of articles and columns are about as fulfilling as....well, sitting around all day browsing through Facebook. This has necessitated several changes in my life, but again, more on that later.) This post was an exposition on Victor Frankl's seminal book Man's Search for Meaning, centering around how it's easy to become happy, but happiness is fleeting without a central context of meaning within our lives. For example, much of the idea around vacations providing happiness is centered in the anticipation leading up to going on a trip; we're happier just thinking about the idea of traveling and exploring somewhere new, or simply getting away from it all. Once we're on that vacation, however, the enthusiasm and anticipation are spent, resulting in an experience that may or may not live up to the high hopes and expectations of the trip. And then you return home, and it's as though nothing ever happened. (This is why I take mental health  breaks as opposed to vacations; a trip back to Bowling Green to spend time with friends or to Dayton for auditions is as much a necessary part of keeping me sane as it is a social excursion) The only way to true happiness, the article states, is by finding fulfilling work or practices that provide a specter of meaning to your life.

As an artist, this resonates strongly for me, though I'm sure anyone between the ages of 22 and 32 would find similar implications. (Let alone everyone 32 and older, but because this is a discussion on the search for meaning as a twenty-something, I'll selfishly choose to focus on my own problems and personal quest for meaning. You're welcome.) I long ago decided that the only path for me in life was a path of creativity, giving back to society through art, literature, and other means of personal expression that are best implicated when shared. Hence this blog, The Addison Recorder, the Atlantean Chronicles, and my upcoming work with Free Shakespeare! this summer. The only times where I've felt truly content with myself is when I can take a look at my labors and see a tangible accomplishment, a record that states "I was here, I did this" and lasts.

Working with theatre, a temporal artistic medium, does have its shortcomings - low pay, an abrupt ending to proceedings once a show closes, a fear that while you're producing great work, the only people that are regarding your spectacle are like-minded associates and friends who would be there for you even if the piece you're working on is an outright turd - but the lasting resonance provided by quality theatre is beyond sustaining for me. I still remember the standing ovations given to my shorter piece "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!", the random strangers coming up to me in the cafeteria at the Student Union telling me about how "Harm's Way" was possibly the coolest piece of theatre they had ever seen, and citizens of Dayton stopping me in the streets to compliment my work in A Midsummer Night's Dream (my brief flirtation with celebrity). Those moments, while fleeting, self-aggrandizing, and entirely buoyed by being in the exact right place at the exact right time, remind me that I had done something, and that something I had done had affected other people enough to move them to greater desires. Whether simply entertaining them for an afternoon or changing their conceptions of what art can be, I had done something.

Thus, this creative rut I've entered into for the past year or so has been a trifle...well...depressing.

I don't want to suggest that I regret my choices in moving to Chicago. I knew there would be a bit of a dry spell wherein I adjusted to living on my own, supporting myself, interjecting myself into a massive, at-times-overwhelming, artistic community in a strange strange world, but I didn't nearly expect any of the turmoil that has rocked my world. I've always thought of life as a trajectory that I could control, where one project would lead to something bigger and better simply by applying grit, talent, and determination. (Most everyone my age feels the same way, which is why there's a wealth of articles out there about twentysomethings dealing with the discovery that life isn't laid out for you, and after college there are many years of self-discovery ahead of you, and all the trials and tribulations that come with it are a shared experience. That's why twentysomethings like bars so much.) The auditions I've been on here have been (to this point) mostly fruitless, fueled by my lack of familiarity with the world out here, as well as the fact that of my overall theatrical package, auditions are my weakest link.

Which, considering that they're somewhat required in order to make it as an actor, is rather unfortunate.

As I struggled to adapt to living on my own, I also had my expectations of attending graduate school in the back of my mind. I've chronicled my thoughts, dreams, and desires regarding that particular aspect of my life in entries prior, so I won't spend much time rehashing them here. I will say, though, that it remains my ambition to one day enter a graduate program and further my career as best as I can through higher education.

But, as we all discover quite often, plans change. Life has an uncanny ability to throw wrenches into the best laid plans of mice and men.

For much of winter, I awaited responses from all of the graduate programs I applied to. My first response, from the University of Idaho's Creative Writing Program, admitted me. This may have led me to generate a sense of false expectations with regards to my admission to other programs, false expectations that were mercilessly crushed one after another as the rejection letters and emails started pouring in.

When Illinois State contacted me requesting an interview for the second slot in their directing program, it came as a breath of fresh air. Interviewing with the faculty reminded me of my love for creating theatre, something that had been lost to me in the doldrums of the winter months in Chicago. I wasn't certain of my admission to the program, but I did feel strongly that I had put forth the best example of myself, communicating my passions and desires as an artist, and representing exactly who I was in the minds of the faculty.

Which was true. The email they sent me a week later indicated that they all strongly felt that I was an articulate, intelligent artist with the capacity for clear, creative thought.

Unfortunately, I'm also 26, a stranger in a strange land, and with a resume that, while strong, does not convey the same experiences that an older candidate would have accrued by now.

Rejection is a harsh word, and one that is not applicable to my situation; they went with a candidate that had more experience and they felt was at a better stage to enter their MFA program. However, my mind immediately jumped to that feeling of being turned down for a job after making it through to the final round.

It was at this point that any creative output I had for the time being dropped off the face of a cliff, to say the least.

Auditions for Free Shakespeare! were a pleasant reminder that I am not in a dark place; I have a wonderful project on the horizon, I will get to work with an immensely talented cast all summer long and a mind-blowing creative team, and (however small) I will be getting paid for my labors, a professional validation in my mind. The work itself is what provides meaning, however, and that's far more important to me.

With that being said, when you're down, you're down for a bit. And I relapsed into seasonal depression. (Not helped by the fact that it's April and as I sit here writing this piece, it's 40 degrees outside. What the shit, Chicago. What the shit.)

On my recent trip home, however, as I reached my lowest point sitting in my bedroom one night, I came to a realization that smacks of both obviousness and a sense of obliviousness to other problems in the world, as well as a slight tinge of self-actualization: I was neither beaten nor defeated.

I was not beaten in the sense that I did go through with applying to graduate school. Not getting in sucks, to be sure, but it's not because of a lack of qualifications. (Well, it is, but only experience; everything else is there.) I had not been reduced to a whimpering cur on the ground, nor was I told to stay away. I was not beaten.

I was not defeated because I have years and years ahead of me in which to ply my trade. Everything happens for a reason, and perhaps getting rejected by the graduate programs of my choice was the kick needed to shake me out of my self-inflicted doldrums. Maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed to shake up my life, re-actualize my dreams, and to go forth and prove to myself that I am, in fact, an artist.

(This is a slightly self-aware post, for those who hadn't caught on by now. As before, if that bothers you, I'd best leave now.)

The next day, I sold my car, my beloved Vera who has traveled tens of thousands of miles across this country, ferrying me to and fro. I don't need her at this point in my life, with the luxury that is the CTA right outside my doorway. (Well, luxury might be too strong a word...) With the proceeds, I did two things: I purchased a new laptop, a LONG overdue measure necessary to continuing my work as a writer, let along to live and work in a mostly virtual world of audition postings, job offers, and e-correspondance; I then opened a savings account, a long overdue goal that can be my fallback during the tougher times. I then resubscribed to American Theatre Magazine, another long overdue measure that will hopefully breath more life into my chosen pursuits, if only by living vicariously through artists across the nation.

And then I began the process of submitting my head shots and resumes to theatres around Chicago. This is a practice that I started to fall out of in the months following my mother's death, as well as the turbulent months that constituted my return to Chicago, where I began to piece together how to sustain myself on my own for the first time in my life, and further delayed by my application to graduate school.

It was then that I discovered that my seeking out graduate programs, while intending to advance my career, was actually hindering it slightly. I became obsessed with preparing myself for the application process, to the point of shoving aside nearly everything else in my life. (Except for Book 2 of the Atlantea Chronicles, which I intend to start revisions on sometime in May. But even that was only a temporary distraction.) I had even foregone auditioning, something that I promised myself I would throw myself into following my return to Chicago.

Well, given my history, I know this might be a premature statement, but no longer. As of this writing, we begin rehearsals for As You Like It in June; I have an audition with a prominent Chicago theatre next week (my first equity theatre audition); I am changing my daily routine so that the audition boards are the first thing I look at when I wake up in the morning; I am rehashing monologues and seeking out new material; I am networking at every available opportunity so as to boost my presence within the theatrical communities of Chicago; and I am resolving to take better care of myself.

In addition to my theatrical pursuits, I am starting work on a new novel, apart from the world of Atlantea. I'm beginning to stretch out tendrils into the realm of self-publishing, a market that I at first disregarded because of personal stigmas but which I am now seeing the possibilities within; I am continually revising the Atlantean Chronicles as they are written, with an eye towards first e-publishing and then later putting forth tangible copies for distribution.

Personally, I've begun to lift out of seasonal depression as spring begins to (finally) rear its head. I've made a point not to mope around my apartment, seeking out friends and good times. I've broken away from my chronic fear of new things, exploring the great city of which I am privileged to reside in, and I've changed some of the ways I think about how I work, how I view other people, and what I can do to improve my surroundings and well-being. The personal shift is something that's really started to become noticeable to me: I just feel better about life, about myself, and about my situation. And that's a good thing. And it's starting to lead to newer and better things as well. (More on that in the future, possibly)

If I can pull a simple summary out of the last few months of my life, it's that I've resumed my own personal quest for meaning. By doing that, regardless of what artistic output I'm actually generating, I feel better about life, the universe, and everything. Granted, I expect this to change and flow as the months pile up, particularly if things continue to lead to dead ends on the artistic side, but this time around, I cannot fault myself for not trying. I will try. I will try damn hard.

To quote Serenity, "no power in the 'Verse can stop me." Meaningful words.

With Profound Thanks: An Erstwhile Afternoon with Dave Eggers

People from back home in the general vicinity of Waynesville, OH have often asked me what the best thing about living in Chicago is. I'm usually torn about what I should tell them; the abundance of artistic and creative happenings that is so completely overwhelming that the only way to take it all in is to have millions of dollars, copious amounts of free time, and unlimited evenings (i.e. holy crap it's impossible); the wide variety of food and culinary delights of all manner of ethnic types and cultures; the skyline and the sights that make Chicago uniquely its own (for example, the giant monument to baseball resting less than a hundred feet from my doorstep); the crazy stories and happenings that can only exist on public transit that every native has after only two weeks of living in the city. (For an example of the latter, please read the prior blog post.)

After a year and a half of city living, I can safely say that what I love best about living in Chicago is the opportunity to take part in being in just the right place at just the right time. Granted, this can happen anywhere in the world. To boil down my meaning, let me explain one of my basic philosophies of life. I am a firm believer that as long as one applies themselves to their passions and desires, everything that is supposed to happen in life tends to work out exactly the way its supposed to. This results in experiences that live beyond the moment of their occurrence, lifetime lessons that resonate long into the future, and transcendental epiphanies that help shape the course of one's future.

I typically follow up with deep-dish pizza, because people like tangible things that they can relate to. And I love deep-dish pizza.

Living in Chicago, however, has provided me with countless opportunities that have not only reaffirmed my choices in life, but have also pushed me to continue expanding what it is that I'm doing with my life, forcing me to truly examine why I'm doing what I'm doing at this point in time. It's forced me to truly identify what it means to be independent, and how to fill my days. It's also showed me, directly and indirectly, exactly what are the things that matter in my life.

Which brings me to Unabridged Books.

Last Saturday (February the 2nd, or Groundhog's Day for the fans of Bill Murray), I ventured out my door at about 12:30 in the afternoon to walk the six blocks from my apartment to Unabridged Books, an indie bookstore not far from the Belmont Red Line station. It was snowing rather heavily at the time, as Chicago winds its way through an unusually schizophrenic winter season, and my passage along the streets was slightly more adventuresome than I had been anticipating. I could have taken the Red Line, thus increasing the ease of my trip at the expense of standing around waiting for a train on Saturday for an additional ten to twenty minutes. On this day, however, I had resolved to brave the elements, pulling on my reserves of countrified endurance that can only come from marching a mile into a frozen cow pasture to convince an unruly bovine that "there's fresh hay in the barn, so PLEASE GET OUT OF THE SNOW", in order to make it to Unabridged Books with plenty of time to spare.

Dave Eggers was going to be there, at 2:00 pm, for a book signing.

I'll start by stating that prior to this day, I was a big fan of Eggers' work. A modern writer, a product (one might say) of Generation X, world traveler, and philanthropist, Eggers' first claim to fame was as the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, a post-modern memoir recounting the death of both of his parents from cancer and his subsequent struggles to raise his much younger brother in San Francisco. At times hilarious, at times heart-rending, the book dives between fiction and non-fiction like a surfboard through choppy waters, pushing the boundaries of what can be considered memoir as well as how we can reconstruct our pasts to suit our own purposes while dealing with our own grief.

Needless to say, in the months following my mother's death from breast cancer, I turned to many familiar forms of comfort in my collection of books, music, and movies, looking for personal relief in ways that supplemented the support I was already receiving from multiple friends. I found that in the days immediately following the news that it was impossible to read; reading was something that my mother and I shared a deep passion for. Many is the night when I was living at home when I would come home from work, plop down on the couch opposite from her, and read my own book, spending time with her in a way far more meaningful than if we were to play board games or go out for dinner. Consequently, reading with an empty space on the opposite couch seemed hollow, if not downright impossible.

The first thing I actually attempted to read in the days following her passing was HWOSG, cracking it open in the days after her memorial service. Falling into its pages, I was able to relate to passages that before had seemed threatening, looming over my future like towering monoliths, reminding me of the inevitable. Now, they proved far more comforting than I had anticipated them to be, and I lived in that book for several days, reading and rereading it endlessly. In a two months' span of time, I read the book a total of three times, and it's always held a place of high honor on my shelf. I've also branched into Eggers' other works, though I have yet to read what many consider to be his masterpiece, Zeitoun, or his latest work, A Hologram for the King.

In short, I went to the book signing with quite a lot of additional baggage, in addition to the copies of his books that I now carried in my messenger bag.

Reaching Unabridged Books after a brisk ten minute walk, I sloughed off my trappings and approached the desk. The woman working there kindly offered to check my bag, which I gratefully accepted; standing in line for an hour and a half is only made worse by the amount of literal baggage you carry with you. In my case, I had a layer of winter clothing, my bag with all of my notebooks, journals, and other required reading materials, and my three Eggers' tomes. After a brief conversation regarding how my current attempt at a handlebar mustache resembles the one that Errol Flynn's stunt double wore, I began poking my nose about the store.

The signing table was set up at the back, and I was relieved to find that at the exact moment of my entry into the store, only two people were in line. This is no small feat; in Chicago, if there's an event on a grand scale happening, people are willing to brave the elements and wait in line for anywhere up to four hours. Trust me on this; I went to an advance screening of The Artist last December, arrived two hours before, and found that there were already upwards of thirty people in line.

Anyway, I seized a quick opportunity to pick up a copy of How We Are Hungry, a collection of short stories by Eggers. It always feels of the utmost importance to support small bookstores, new and used, whenever I enter; it's an unwritten rule I have. Having been through a bookstore closing, I am convinced that the only way to ensure the survival of smaller stores is by making sure that I financially compensate such places whenever I walk through their doors. While this may or may not guarantee the fiscal survival of indie bookstores, it does make for a surplus of books on my shelves, as well as a slightly lessened wallet when it comes time to shopping for things such as, you know, food.

Sacrifices.

Planting myself in line, I looked at my cell phone and discovered that, as it was only 1:00 pm, I had an hour to kill. Had I been anywhere but a bookstore, this might have been unbearable. Fortunately, I was in a bookstore. This wasn't waiting for an author to sign my books, this was a chance for pleasure reading! Arriving early worked to my advantage as not only would I get my books signed quickly, but I could browse through books that I didn't have at home!

Picking up the nearest book next to me, I read the first couple of essays in Patton Oswalt's Zombie Spaceship Wasteland. Expecting humorous anecdotes and quirky observations, I was immediately struck by his relating a story of growing up in suburban Virginia. Reading quickly, I found that at a young age, Oswalt felt bogged down by the trappings of a quiet life, surrounded by burnouts and unambitious twenty-somethings at the movie theater where he worked as an usher. Again and again, he related the observation that getting out when he did was the best thing that he could have ever done in his life.

It might just be my willingness to relate to anyone and anything I discover on printed pages, but I could only feel empathy as I read through his essay. I knew those people! I left some of those people behind myself! WE ARE BROTHERS, PATTON OSWALT AND I!

I try not to read too many memoirs of current popular actors and comedians; they tend to bring out the worst in me.

As time passed by, the line grew and grew. Soon, it wrapped around the upper level of the bookstore, extending down into the basement travel section. I could only feel an intense sense of relief that I had arrived when I did. The only book signing I had been to prior to Mr. Eggers was when Sean Astin visited Springfield, OH to sign copies of his autobiography. This coming in the wake of the Oscar domination of Return of the King, it was quite a popular event. After his lecture, there was just enough time for me and my family to drive home, give me the car, start driving back alone, get pulled over and receive a ticket for speeding, arrive back in Springfield (almost an hour away, mind you), get in line, and wait a further hour to get Mr. Astin's signature on my edition of Lord of the Rings. By this time, Sean Astin resembled something of a zombie, mindlessly signing books as they were placed in front of them, with a horribly forced smile for the crowd.

It was my resolution not to be the guy waiting three hours in line for a mindless scribble.

2:00 rolled around, and Dave Eggers was nowhere to be seen. At 2:05, the crowd began to exchange worried looks. Would he show? Was he late? What if there was a horribly tragic car accident? What if he decided "Screw these peeps, Ima get myself to O'Hare and fly to MEX-EE-COOOO!"? (That last one might be a stretch of the imagination, but I swear, the face on the girl behind me appeared as if she was pondering that exact possibility. It's a very distinct look; you can't miss it.) At 2:10, the owner of the store informed us that Eggers had just left his prior book signing, and was traveling to the store as quickly as he could, prompting a sigh of relief from the small horde of fans in the store.

At 2:17, I looked towards the doorway, not visible from my spot in line, crouched behind a shelf filled with coffee table art books. I could see the entry way, however, featuring a tack board covered with announcements and fliers. I could tell when the door had opened, as a breeze ruffled the fliers ominously. In the back of my mind, a deep voice, probably James Earl Jones' circa Field of Dreams, seemed to say "A great man has arrived."

And then Dave Eggers walked into the store.

A short man (people are always shorter than I imagined them to be, a byproduct of being a tall man myself), his hair was long and shaggy, exactly as I imagined it to be. He wore a blue University of Illinois hooded sweatshirt that looked as though he'd had it since the early 90's; I mean, this thing was filthy. Maybe not that filthy, but bear with me. That part of my brain that identifies with my heroes immediately suggested that he looked much the way that I do on a Saturday morning. You know, like a normal guy.

One of these days, I'll get over my obnoxious case of hero worship.

"Sorry I'm late," he gushed, walking towards the owner. He then turned to take in the line, all watching him with rapt interest. "Sorry everybody!" he said, flinching only slightly.

He was swiftly escorted to the signing table, where he sat down with a hand to his forehead. "Can I get you anything to drink?" asked a helpful employee. "Water? Coffee? Anything - "

"Asprin," said Dave Eggers, looking directly at the employee. "Asprin, please." As the employee ran off to get asprin, I deduced two possible reasons for his needing pain-killers: 1) that signing books for three hours twice a day would give anyone a headache; 2) he had a hangover after hanging out with lifelong friends the night before. (As Mr. Eggers is a consummate professional, in the middle of a long signing tour, and didn't appear otherwise hungover, the latter is most likely just a fantasy scenario in my mind. But hey, you never know.)

Without further ado, the signing began.

The first man in line held several hardcover copies of all of his books. Dave took one look at the pile, said "Hello" and started signing.

"You ever come in here before?" he said, punctuating his signing with forceful stabs of his black Sharpie marker.

"Uh, no," stammered the guy. His hardcover editions, all published by McSweeney's (Eggers' own publishing house), suggested that he only ventured out occasionally, acquiring books as they came. No doubt a devoted fan, he flinched beneath the uninterested face of the writer before him.

"Well," said Dave Eggers, "You should!" He finished signing, shook the man's head, and bid him out the door.

The next guy had only a few books, but told Dave that he was there for his girlfriend. "You're a good boyfriend," said Eggers, signing the books to Sheena after inquiring about the spelling of the name. Already, he seemed cordial and relaxed, quite impressive given that he'd probably be signing somewhere in the vicinity of one thousand to two thousand books today.

Finally, it was my turn.

I approached hesitantly, conscious of my lower moral standing in comparison with a writer that I've followed for years.

Before he even asked my name, he looked at me and said: "Nice mustache!"

Dave Eggers likes my mustache! I died a little bit inside, smiling the awkward smile of the imbecilic, and muttering "Thanks".

"Do you wax it?"

I immediately realized that my tongue was incapable of forming human speech. (Dave Eggers likes my mustache, you guys!) "Uh, no, it's infant - it's uh, infan - it's still in its infancy."

Dave Eggers now thinks I'm a moron.

He asked my name and began signing his books. Before he could get beyond the writing of my name, I looked at him and said "I just want to let you know that, uh, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is what helped me get through my mom's death a year ago. Almost exclusively."

And then he stopped.

And then he looked at me. "I'm sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?"

This was not what I expected. In my relations with celebrities of any standing, such encounters are usually tight and formal, sticking to a finely tuned script. (This would be somewhat proven by rather formulaic inscriptions on the other books I had brought: "Stay Hungry." "I Hope You See the World." "Keep Listening." For him to actively ask about my state of being completely rattled me. I almost didn't know what to do beyond bolt for the door.

"Uh, well, you know," I said. How can I possibly relate to him? I lost my mother, sure, but he lost both of his parents at the same time from horrible diseases and then had to take care of a young boy without any prior warning! We're on completely different levels. "It's been a long year," I said finally. "Not the easiest time." He nodded at this, setting aside HWOSG and moving on to the other books before he had finished signing that one. "I guess - just trying to move on, you know."

"Well, you don't," he said, looking down at his books. "I'm still getting over everything that happened in my life, and it never leaves you, you know? It never goes away. It's always there.

"And that's okay."

I have no words.

"What you can do is: write about it." He finished signing my other three books, though HWOSG still sat to the side, awaiting his Sharpie. "You know, anecdotes, memories, things that only you remember. I'm losing a little bit more everyday, and it hurts, man. But you've just got to take what you can, and know that it never leaves you. But that's okay."

I'm almost in tears. I'm sure he said more, but just hearing those words come from someone I've always admired moved me in a way that I've only felt a few times before. It opened up new wounds, it bared my soul wide open, and shook the foundations of the store. There were no other people in line, waiting to get their books signed; it was only me and Dave Eggers. And he felt the same way.

"Wow," I said finally. "Thanks. She - I know she only wanted the best for me and my brother." He nodded, pulling HWOSG back to sign. "Breast cancer." He grunted, feeling the pain. "Twelve years. But she never quit. She was still teaching two days before she died." Saying that last part might feel almost rote to others by now, but I'm constantly amazed by the idea that my mother, in the middle of dying, still had it in her to teach at two separate colleges; that's why it never feels scripted to let others know that.

"She sounds like a true warrior, then," said Dave Eggers.

Now I actually did feel tears coursing down my cheek.

"Remember," he said, finishing whatever he was writing in HWOSG as he slid it back to me. "Memories fade. The pain doesn't, though. That's why it's so important to remember the things that matter. Keep writing, keep doing whatever it takes to hold on to those. I wish I'd written down a hundred things that are lost, now. But do that, and you'll stay strong."

We shook hands. "Thank you," I said.

"Take care, man."

As I walked away, I looked back at him. The next person in line was already moving up eagerly. "Good luck, man."

He laughed, understanding my sympathies and consciously aware of the long hours awaiting him. "Thanks."

I stepped over to the desk, retrieved my bags, and thanked the lady working at the desk, clutching my books tightly to my chest. Bundling myself up, I stepped out the door and make the quick walk to the Red Line, bound for downtown where I had to work that evening. (I had to meet Dave Eggers in my server's uniform. I am a tool.) I hadn't opened the books yet, waiting to sit down so that the paperbacks wouldn't be marred by the snow. Finally, I fought my way onto the train, taking a seat at the rear of the car. Pulling out my stack of Eggers' work, I began riffling through the pages to see what was written.

How We Are Hungry: Stay Hungry.

You Shall Know Our Velocity!: I Hope You See the World.

What is the What: Keep Listening.

Each punctuated by his sprawling signature. Often repeated, broken down to easy words for a mass audience, I wasn't bothered by their casualness. (They had my name at the top, man!) Dave Eggers had a long day ahead of him; just the fact that he bothered to write anything was impressive.

And then  I opened A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.

Travis,

With profound thanks.
Be well.
STAY STRONG.

Dave Eggers

I understand that he must have a conversation similar to mine every ten minutes of his book signings; he's a popular author. I realize that the above inscription might be what he writes in every copy of the book; it's his life story, of course he'll be profoundly thankful to people for reading it. I also realize that he might say the same thing to everyone he meets, at lectures, in interviews, and in casual street encounters.

But none of that matters.

It was exactly what I needed to hear at the exact right moment.

And really, that's all that matters to me.

HWOSG sits on my coffee table now, not far from reach. I'm working through a pile of reading at the moment, but it is in that pile now, forcibly inserted by these recent events. In my head, I'm working through exactly how to implement the suggestions that Dave passed on to me. I could write a biography of my mother's life; I could continue to write stories about growing up; I'm working on a full-length play about how we deal with grief, with cancer, and with living. A hundred different ideas have passed through my mind, as I work from a garden apartment near Wrigley Field.

It'll be a year ago a week from Sunday.

In that time, I've gone through three drafts of my first book, completed the second draft of the sequel, written a dozen short stories, two short plays, and agreed to direct my first full length show since graduating college. All of it knowing that my mom is watching.

Now I know that, truthfully or not, Dave Eggers is rooting for me as well.

And that's more than I could ever ask for.

(Sidenote #1: A catch-up on where The Atlantean Chronicles stands. As of now, the first draft of Book II is completed, and my small army of readers are pouring over it, discovering new ways to tell me about how much I suck. In the meantime, I've resolved to self-publish Book I: Defenders of Avondale. I'm in contact with an artist friend of mine who's willing to provide a cover, and going over my options. What I can safely say is that it will be available in e-book format on Smashwords.com, most likely for a price of $5.00, with whatever I make from that being used to buy a new laptop that isn't cracked, ten years old, and slower than molasses. If you have a tablet/e-reader/Kindle/iPad, you'll be able to read it. If not, let me know, and I'll figure something out. In addition, I've decided that to further honor my mother, 10% of the proceeds from the sales of the book will be donated to the National Wildlife Federation. So that's ANOTHER reason you should get an e-reader! Stay tuned for more information.)

Once and Future Freedoms: An Open Letter to a Woman Encountered on the CTA Red Line

Dear Madam,

I will be honest: you're probably not a reader of this online blog. I am aware that my readership is somewhat limited in scope and nature, and that it is absolutely unreasonable of me to expect a complete stranger to take an interest in my writings. This is especially certain given that I have no means of ever reaching you, contacting you, or even guaranteeing that our paths will cross once again (though the last is out of my control, as the ease and accessibility of public transit in this town is coupled with a certain unpredictability of contact). I will continue to be honest when I say that, quite frankly, I couldn't care less if we were to never see each other again; I cannot be certain that this will disappoint you, but given the nature of our interaction, I am led to believe that you could also care less.

I must frame the context of our interaction by telling the story of what happened on this afternoon on the CTA Red Line, this afternoon being the coldest day of the young 2013. In the interest of painting an unbiased portrayal of events, I will first give an observer's description of what occurred, followed by my respective thoughts and opinions. (You might feel that this afternoon was fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of your life's history, and this may well be the case, but as far as I am concerned, I have a certain duty to post a commentary on what transpired on our subway car.)

I had just gotten off work from my busy restaurant located in the heart of downtown Chicago (although busy might be a liberal overuse of the word at this time of year; scraping by doesn't fully do justice to the state of my financial well-being during the first months of the year). The train I elected to board for my trip home, as one might expect at 4:00 in the afternoon, was fairly crowded, with several passengers being required to stand and utilize the steel handrails while riding. I was lucky enough to board at the Lake station, by which point enough passengers had disembarked that I was able to procure a seat in the crowded car. This is especially useful to me, as I enjoy reading while traveling; I get most of my reading for pleasure done during my utilization of public transit. My particular experience on this run of the Red Line was uneventful for the first leg of my run (Lake to Grand/State), which allowed me to catch up in my book of choice. (Chuck Klosterman's Killing Yourself to Live, in case you were wondering, although I don't believe that particular detail is necessary to the moral of the story. I just like sharing a good book title when I'm reading it. Then again, after relating what transpired this afternoon, I get the feeling that you don't read much.)

You boarded the train at Grand/State. I barely noticed the location of the stop, with your appearance bringing me out of my private world enough to notice where in Chicago we were at the time. To be honest, I often get so enraptured in my own bubble of reading pleasure when I ride public transit, I have a tendency to miss my stop and continue on down the line, forcing myself to disembark several blocks away from my final destination. (If I were tweeting every inane detail of my life, this would have to be hash-tagged '#firstworldproblems'. Fortunately, this is not Twitter.) What did happen was that you managed to puncture my focus and solitude, as well as the relative tranquility of every other passenger in the car, when you chose to declare at maximum volume the following phrase:

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."

Riding the Red Line leads me to experience a great many scenarios that the average reader of this blog might never get to see in their everyday life. The communal nature of the Red Line, as well as the relative economic cost of public transit in Chicago, ensures that a certain air of eccentricity is maintained in the train cars. For example, the other day, I was riding along when the train stopped at Chicago/State to allow passengers to board/disembark. While stopped, a man (who I can only believe is homeless, though the relative cleanliness of his shoes and well-shaven face gives me pause when making such a declaration) stood up from his seat in the middle of the car, walked to the open doors, and flung a bag of empty cans onto the boarding platform before returning to his seat. When the train remained stopped for 'technical difficulties', he repeated the action with a bag filled with paper garbage. Having now thrown two bags of refuse from the car, he smartly saluted his created monument to disposable waste before returning to his seat. I should point out that nobody said anything to the man regarding his discarded luggage, nor did anyone even raise an eyebrow at his peculiar actions. (Apart from one girl sitting across from me, who shared a look with me that could only read "What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?" I answered back with a shrug, which produced a giggle from her before we both returned to our reading of choice, mine being the aforementioned title and hers being George R.R. Martin's A Storm of Swords. There is a small part of me that remains convinced that this was the love of my life, whom I shall never again encounter. I could write stories about how many people in Chicago I know bemoan their lost "CTA crushes".)

I bring up this story in order to point out that users of the CTA are a hard crowd to rattle, no matter how extreme the actions of its occupants.

Which makes the following story all the more interesting, from where I was sitting.

As I mentioned before, your declarative statement snapped me from the private reverie of my reading material, gathering the attentions of every other rider in the car. The particular tone of voice that you used (with such wonderful projection! my actor's heart says) is one that your average Chicago citizen would associate with sexual assault, attempted theft, or being set on fire. As we (I'm including the other passengers in my car in this usage of the possessive pronoun "we" from hereon in) looked in your general direction with alarm and concern for your well-being, we were treated to watch you storm your way from one end of the train to the other, taking a seat at the far end of the car. From your state of dress, it was possible to discern the following: a) you are not homeless; b) you are a white, middle-age woman with long blonde hair and the wherewithal to have acquired a white fur coat; c) you were either dressed for casual shopping downtown or for a light luncheon in the city (I'm inclined toward the former due to your holding a shopping bag from Macy's); and d) you were not intoxicated, though that again could be a misjudgment on my part.

As you took your seat at the end of the car, you glared back towards your original boarding spot with a look of pure vitriol in your eyes, the kind of look reserved for someone who has made a highly inappropriate pass at you in a crowded bar. While still spitting venom from your eyes towards the opposite end of the car, you made the second of five statements I overheard from you in the train car this afternoon, with this one being delivered with a volume equal to (or slightly less than) your first statement:

"Fucking foreigners."

At this point, every eye in the car, which until then had been trained on you, shot back towards the open car door to observe the offending party in your domestic encounter. I expected to see a large and imposing male, or perhaps a group of mischievous teenagers (of which there are many on the Red Line). Instead, what I observed were two girls of Asian descent, staring in your general direction with a mixture of hurt, confusion, and (mostly) intense disbelief at what had just transpired.

The train departed from the station, moving into the tunnel. What happened next was what struck me so profoundly; every eye in the car, including and especially those of us who had until this point been reading and keeping quietly to ourselves, was drawn back to you. Granted, this might have been out of a fear that you would suddenly burst into flames, pull out an Uzi, and scream bloody murder as you defended your fervent nationalist pride. Given the looks of loathing and disgust for you and your state of being that many of us seemed to share, I highly doubt this. What I know is that two white patrons of the CTA apparently struck up a conversation with you. I cannot say that I heard what they were saying, or that I heard every word of your next two phrases, but from the nature of your statements and the events that transpired afterwards, I can only imagine that their inquiries consisted of something in the nature of "What the fuck is your problem, lady?" Your responses that I was able to overhear are printed as follows:

"What, I need to see a psychiatrist?"

"I'm not a pedophile!"

(In the grand scheme of things, Statement #4 might be irrelevant to the entirety of the scenario, but it is my journalistic intent to portray the happenings of this afternoon as accurately as I am able to report them.)

By this point, the focus of every rider in the car was locked on you. You stood up and swayed in the back door of the car, holding onto the rails for support as you turned your head away from making eye contact with anyone else in the train. You remained this way until the train reached its next destination, the Chicago/State stop. Again, this is one entire stretch of track where the eyes of every rider in the car were on you. The sheer probability of this ever happening on public transit is typically reserved for instances involving fire, murder, or one of those crazy flash mobs that I hear about happening from time to time. When the doors opened ("on the right") at Chicago/State, you left from your precarious perch in the safety door and walked towards the nearest exit. As you did this, you uttered the last of your statements for the benefit of the entire car to hear, which I now reprint with 100% accuracy:

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know I should be afraid of free speech!"

You then disembarked, walking towards the nearest staircase to reach the street. As I covered before, it is unlikely that our paths will ever cross again, and as far as I'm concerned, good riddance.

The 'offending parties' remained standing, exchanging a confused snapshot of conversation with a seated patron, probably somewhere along the lines of "what the hell just happened?". They did nothing to suggest any malevolence, and I'm pretty sure that at no point in their afternoon did they bear any ill will to you or to your person. There IS A CHANCE that you were referencing someone behind them, although I doubt this because they were the only ones who seemed to make any eye contact with you prior to your outburst, as well as the fact that the train car behind them was empty. (2 + 2 = Racism?)

The moral to my story is that this transpired on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

You may have had cause to say the things that you said. You may have a history that led you to shout with such hatred the things that you shouted. I don't feel like there's anything that anyone could have done to you short of physical assault that would warrant such an outburst, however, and I find it exceedingly unlikely that those girls in any way deserved the vile hatred you spewed. What I can say is that, for once, I am glad that you were able to perceive the general mood of your surroundings. I am glad that everyone on the train, regardless of background, recognized what you did and reacted with displeasure. Not violence, or a countering epithet that would have led to verbal warfare, but rather a silent protest against your actions regarding fellow patrons of the CTA.

You are right when you suggest that you should not be afraid of "free speech." You had every right to say what you did. However, you must also remember that we (the other people on the train with you, including those "foreigners" you seemed to loathe so much) have an equal right to freedom of speech, and to respond to your statements with thoughts and words of our own. That's an American value, but even more so, it is a universal value. Dr. King pointed that out several times in his life. (or at least, I think he did. If you can prove otherwise, please let me know: travis.cook.j@gmail.com)

It's good that you recognized our disapproval of your actions, and it's especially wonderful that this disapproval was a universal feeling. I'm proud to have been in a place where such a counter to prejudice could take place. In the grand scheme of things, this is a relatively small and inconsequential matter, but for one afternoon, a crowd full of strangers were able to unite against hate without resorting to angry words, violent action, or forcing a confrontation where one would possibly be warranted. (Those two patrons who tried to talk to you non-withstanding.) What you felt wasn't an outcry against what you said; it was a judgment on what you did and what it represents, which is purely blind bigotry. It was made in the eyes of your fellow man, and carried out with a subtle shift of the atmosphere of the train car that required no mass demonstration and resulting in nothing more than you feeling as though you had to leave the train car. It wasn't your speech being threatened; it was your worldview, which came crashing down around you like a broken glass house, shattered by the stones that you cast.

We've come a long way over the years in terms of how we relate to one another, and there is surely much work to be done. This was especially proven to me by the fact that your actions seemed to be of second-nature to you. However, as an aesthetic background to the daily actions of the Red Line (and to modern American society), you were decidedly out of line.

You shouldn't be afraid of freedom of speech. But you also need to realize that we are not afraid of it, either.

Yours truly,

Travis J. Cook, fellow patron of the CTA

P.S. Next time, take a cab.

P.P.S. Although you should know that cabs are usually driven by minorities in this city. Wouldn't want you to be trapped in a small car with someone you actively despise. I bet your driver would have a lot more to say about the subject at hand.