Journal: NYC July 13, 2008 – Day 3

July 13^th

Sunday

 9:27a

Catching the train! “Hurry-up and wait”—welcome to NYC. The train, into the city, comes, within seconds, as I run up and down the stairs, in my flip-flops, crossing the tracks. I catch my breath on the platform. The whistle blows. I enter as the doors open.

Last night, leaving Molly Wee’s, was a bit humorous. I grasped the directions, from the barmaid Laura Ann, to go down 34^th to Park Ave to find Grand Central Station. After finishing my fourth pint, I left and entered the teeming streets in the full sun.

I snaked my way down the sidewalk between the scaffolding and strangers. What dawned on me was NYC is a ‘melting-pot’ of every: race, sex, creed, color, attitude, defect, walk, voice, smell in one place. I’ve heard about a ‘melting-pot,’ but until you walk, with and next to living people, it’s unfathomable.

Everyone I saw was an example of every type of stereotype. There was no one the same. What life! A concrete jungle of wild strange people swarming on 34^th & Park Ave.  – all the way down 34^th, from Madison to Grand Central Station.

When I stepped on the corner of 34^th & 5^th Ave., I asked for directions, and realized I needed to go to 42^nd St. Then I knew the beers filled my bladder, but it had leaked-out of my memory. So, with my bladder ready to explode and walking up 5^th Ave, I had to act.  I walked by an open-door Catholic Church, The Church of Our Savior. I stepped inside, took off my hat & glasses, opened the tall wooden door.

What I found was a holy relic. It was cool, dark and the priest was at stage right proclaiming his sermon. I quickly tried to spot an exit for a bathroom. I began to scout. I bumped into one of the office workers: a small, black, devout woman in a red blouse and glasses, to find the men’s room. We went around the congregation and through a side door. Once inside, she immediately proclaimed, “What’s dis?!” On the door was a temporary sign ‘back in a few minutes.’ The bathroom was through this locked door! Disgusted, we turned around. The door opened and a bulky black security guard stood out. She gave him a few choice words. He quickly directed me to, “down the hall and to your left.”

I arrived to my pew and began to listen…dry and garbled; something with being intoxicated. The topics were of will power, us and logic. What a combination of philosophy, theology and drunkenness in one place under God.

Well, I was bored lasting through Mass, no matter how stirring or dead-pan; but, this time, I had to exit my pew. Well, the forces-at-be were not going to let me go so quickly.

Immediately, I was asked to help take collections. Mind you, I’ve attended many Masses and I’ve not been subject to participate. Now, out of randomness, or an act-of-God, I was to go up the aisle, slightly buzzed in my flip-flops, for two offerings. Two?! I stepped out of my pew, as solemn and sober as I could; my mental state being one and my physical being another.

After finishing my second round of collecting green bills and checks, I sat down and made my Eucharist. I felt yesterday’s experience @ HB was ‘meant-to-be.’ Lastly, since I was sitting in the last pew, I held the big wooden door for Father George to exit and greet. I extended my hand, hoping he wouldn’t smell by breath, to thank him for the Mass. He grabbed my hand with vigor.  He looked me square, into my eyes, and said, “Have I seen you before?” “ Yes,” I replied, “I was just at the alter.” He grinned, and asked me to return. A nice ending to a misadventure.

Forty minutes later, I proceeded down 5^th Ave., to Grand Central Station.  Inside, I got my round trip ticket. I went upstairs for a drink. I had fifteen minutes with my Bombay blue gin & tonic. Happiness.

3:31p

With that story passed, I can now describe my morning up to this point. (Writing a journal is fun, but keeping up with the tenses of past & present is taxing.)

The train was smooth. I arrived in GCS and began to scout for a city map. Where was I?  Where do I want to go? What line, or lines, on the subway do I take? These are very basic questions if you live in the city and know the lines; but, I‘m learning like some kind of thirty-nine year old babe-in-the-woods.

I jumped on a line, and immediately realized I was going downtown, or was it uptown? All I knew was the streets were going up in numbers and I wanted them lower.  I got off, and connected to the E (blue)line to the Village. I arrived ‘uptown’ at 10:30am.

I stepped up the stairs at HB. I was forty minutes early.  I waited at the window-seat on the second floor. Carolyn stopped, and we talked about the class. She teaches scene study and character classes. I told her my travels from Maine, and that I planned on moving down in October. She was impressed.

The second day of “Bath” was exhausting. I’ve been able to find an inner voice and began to read the text. After about an hour or more of exercises, we finally got to reading. Each person received one line, hand-selected, and to began working vowels & consonants until they came out naturally… A line from Cryano! My favorite.

3:35p

A late lunch at the Bus Stop Café. My experience in NYC, the Village, will be right where it started. I’m sitting outside admiring the scenery. I know I’ll be back in two weeks for another class. This weekend has been quite eventful. Maybe it’s the novelty; maybe it’s my desire to be here.

I’m ordering another sandwich-to-go. The bus trip will be long and dry. This’ll be my eatable token, of the Village, for my ride back.

9:38p

Sitting on a bus bench at South Station Boston. A whirlwind of a trip! My eyes are heavy. I’ve enough energy to get my last thoughts down before they vanish.

One of the last moments of NY was when I got on the E train to Port Authority on 42^nd St. I was told it was the A train, but realized, after missing one train, that only the E was running. The time was 4:20. I couldn’t afford to re-think any other options, but to get to my bus on time. I jumped on the next E, prayed, and believed it would take me on the same line, too. It did. Relief.

4:30. I walked the long corridor from the subway to the bus terminal.  My last destination. Not bad, I thought.  I was approached by a friendly black man asking if I needed help to find my terminal. I knew he wasn’t an official employee, but a hand-out looking for a hand-out. He was courteous, as a guide. He delivered the way and asked for a donation. I gave him five bucks. He turned around and walked back, to his corner, for another ‘paid’ instruction.

I only waited five minutes for the Boston line. I boarded the bus back to Portland. This time, I was ironically struck: not who I sat next to but who sat next to me: a young Indian man and a fair woman incessantly talking.

Here were two people that didn’t understand the meaning of breathing, nor restraint. (Maybe it’s better they’re in the audience because ‘acting’ would be too much for their frontal lobes.) I found out, after hearing their conversation for two hours, they’re Harvard grads. The two of them were on the isle seats leaning over chit-chatting, while another passenger and I were trapped. Perfect torture! And, my legs were aching, again. No room.

On our pit-stop in Connecticut, I approached the lady and the Indian man and asked if we could switch seats. No problem. Good. They can talk together and I can relax, or so I thought.

I met a new travel friend, Corey, an English teacher. She’s from Boston visiting one of her girlfriends in the Hamptons. She mentioned her lack of interest being in the Compliance dept. at Fidelity for the last five years before her career switch. How interesting to sit next to a stranger that had some common interests, too, when I used to work in finance. Well, we talked and talked until an older man, in the front row of the bus, stood-up and walked to my seat. He announced, in a loud voice, he was tired of hearing me talk about my acting career, and if I could lower my voice! What? Me? I was incensed. I shook it off, and did lower my volume. How ironic! We’ve only been chatting for twenty minutes in a normal hushed tone, not the two people still talking without pause, and I’m the one heckled on the bus! That moment capped the weekend.

Ps. About three minutes later a young female passenger came over to me, on her way to the bathroom, and told me the old man had some ‘issues.’ Why is it that the mentally unstable ones need to express their criticism to actors?

10:10p

On the bus back to Portland. It’s not Greyhound. The seats are more comfortable. As I step up, I’m questioned by the bus driver. My ticket isn’t valid. I tell her I bought my ticket at the Portland bus terminal. She snaps, “Next time, buy your ticket at our station.” Now, I understand what the Greyhound dispatch lady meant, when she told me my ticket was valid, even switching carriers, no matter what they try to tell you.  What a racket. Shut-up and get me home.

Next time, I’ll use the Fung Wah bus out of Boston to NYC for twenty-bucks. Another adventure.

Journal: NYC Saturday July 12, 2008 – Day 2

July 12

Saturday

5:20a

NYC. Got on the A train heading uptown to the Village. I’d already, in my waking hour, gotten ‘lost in NY.’ I took some advice from some of the night denizen-types to go downtown instead of uptown. As they say, you need to get lost first to find NYC – initiation. Now, my stop is @ 14^th St. and 8^th Ave.

5:48a

Sittin’ in an open, tall, yellow window-seat at the Bus Stop Café on 8^th Ave & Hudson. I’m the first patron. And, with my steaming coffee, the sunrise lights the cool roof tops – a balance: the flowers know the sun is coming below down on Abingdon market. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

7:10a

Finished breakfast: eggs benedict with salmon, home fries laced with onion & green peppers, sliced fresh strawberries in a sundae dish, water and bottomless coffee by Anna, my Hispanic waitress. Delicious!

The soft music plays and the sun begins to warm the teeming streets: orange taxis, chained bicycles to street signs, lethargic hissing-n-whining buses, like white painted elephants with wheels, single early-risers parading along the winding sidewalks with leashed dogs, or more. The farmer’s market stands, across the street, by size and color, from wooden baskets of vegetables to tested tables surrounding the park, for their audience, on the corner of 8^th and Hudson.

How picturesque. From where I sit, a painted self-portrait of the Café. To my left, I view, hear & smell my first NYC Saturday morning in the summer.

I can’t help noticing the petunias protecting me, in their window box, from the harsh city streets; their two-tone garden, of dark and light violets, resonate a softness and easiness that makes dimples into smiles.

7:31a

The sun is just about to break, like an egg, from the tops of buildings holding back the horizon.  The Café comes to life; each table with its own appetite and agenda.  Ah! I see the first rays of sun: stripes of light turn the red brick, across Bethune St., from shadows to living color. It won’t be long before I’ll be wearing shades.

If first impressions make a lasting memory, then I’m molded into New York with warm benevolence. I’ll take it.  Like any delicious breakfast, the rest of the day will follow. I feel accepted.

10:51a

HB Studio Office. A possible set-back after introducing myself and requesting to sign-up for the Shakespeare voice – Bath classes. I hear, “ the class is full;” not only at capacity, but over-booked with 22! (How can my favorite number be the bane of my efforts?) At first, I’m told, “ too bad, sorry.” I stand firm. I explain I called earlier to register! On the phone, in Maine, I was told to, ” just come down.”  I’m at deaf ears.

I sit down.  Katrina, an older actress/teacher, takes the time to fully explain the courses @ HB and how to fully explore the vast curriculums. No matter, my energy to attend this class is at a boiling-point. Like a fresh breeze, Jim Boerlin, acting teacher, walks in. I say hello. Also, another staff member goes down and preps one of the directors for the class, as an edge for me as a stand-in. If this is meant-to-be, I’d better fight. Not only do I feel this travel down to NYC might be in vain; but, if there’s a one-in-a-million chance I am taking it. I love this suspense!

Now, I’m sitting in the staff kitchen waiting until 11:30 to determine my fate. Like the weather, you never know until it happens. Most importantly, everyone turned a negative situation to a stronger positive one; I feel my odds are increasing by the minute. We’ll see…

4p

Lunch was delicious @ Molly Wee’s Irish bar on 8^th in Chelsea. It’s next to the Garden. I strolled from HB down 8^th Ave. until my stomach and my attitude needed a new adjustment. I dropped in and sat-up to the mahogany bar and cooled down.

Oh! The mystery was solved @ HB. Yes, I did get into the class I came down for!  (Plus, made a nice connection with the teachers.) The voice class was monumental. I was able to focus on breathing and speaking from my center (diaphragm) and really feel the vowels & consonants as an actor.

We first practiced loosening-up ourselves; and then, we delved into the unknown. (What a fun and intrepid place beyond being normal.) The light turned-on for me when Ann, one of my teachers, held my head and centered me on the floor concentrating on breathing in letting-go.  From then on, Ann centered my breathing and vocal intonations.

The second part of the class was an exercise of announcing and pronouncing vowels & consonants with a haiku. Finding the origins of the sounds in the words, and the breathing “meanings” gave me purpose to reading classic literature. (This will be good timing practicing w/Bill with the Tom monologues of Tennessee Williams.) By the end of the three hours, I realized the importance of strong stomach muscles, and to practice utilizing my diaphragm. What a natural tool! Now, at my disposal I’m grateful to begin re-learning what God gave me. I look forward to tomorrow’s class.

I’m getting good vibes in NYC.

Journal: NYC Friday July 11, 2008

July 11, 2008

Friday

9:30p

Left Portland. Heading south on 295 to Boston. It seems the driver has his young teenage daughter riding with him to their own private destination. I’m in the second row on the right taking-up two seats. Across the isle, is a middle-aged married woman, mumbling and fingering her bus ticket papers, with her reading glasses propped-up on her head to read again on this shaky bus.

I board the Greyhound bus. I don’t make eye-contact with the other strangers picking their seat by the unspoken lot of first-come-first-possess. My hope is, by closing my eyes and looking asleep, I wouldn’t get sat next to. The bus starts to rumble. I’m victorious, at least at this leg of the trip.

The bus is quiet. Only the light above me, and two others, down the dark cabin, are signs of being awake. Since I don’t notice a special driving light above the driver, other than his wheezing-cough or two, I’ll assume he’s nocturnal and he can master his way safely to our next stop.

11:09p

South Station Boston. Last night and today’s work-out, pushing the lime spreader all over Falmouth, Maine, is starting to give my legs a growing uneasiness. As much as I wanted  to sleep, I was only able to sink into a half hour on the bus. Agony at best in seats which don’t allow leg room, nor a pillow.

I sit here inside the station watching the myriad of shifting-people walking across me – to my left, to my right -stepping at their own beat and rhythm. Tonight there is no bias. Each person has their own identity: pace, hair color, waistline, height, shoe size, shirt design, pant lengths, pitch in voice, hair style, travel bags, etc.  I’m noticing all of the faces. How a quick glance at a stranger’s features summarize their existence.

What’s my curious attraction to identify the human race? What’re the nuances from each creature in order to form a character? I can only believe in being a sponge and squeeze out a new type of blood when called upon to act and write.

Getting a “bit o’ luck” reading Irish poetry

Preface: I’ve just downloaded pictures from last night’s poetry reading. Those are from my second  reading ‘edventure!’ (Stay tuned) But, let’s start from the beginning.

Once upon a …Sunday…last month

… at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Mystic, CT, I sat, curbside, with my two kids screamin’ and getting overly-excited from all of the “green” Irishness “floating” around us. ( I was in the spirit with a few beers and a shot of Irish vodka. (Yeah, Irish vodka… I didn’t know there was such a thing.) The parade marched-on by our feet.  All of the kids got excited, to chase candy and to wave at everyone, as if we were all in the parade. Then, I was drunken-struck: “Why don’t I go down to Hanafins and read Irish poetry?”

The thought wouldn’t slip from my mind, even though I was a bit slippery during the parade. By Monday morning, I convinced myself to go to the Irish pub, after work, and ask. All day I had the jitters. I was confident to ask, but terrified at the prospect of them saying “yes.” At 5:30, after work, I took the New London exit, off 95 North, and went downtown New London. I parked on State Street, in front of the pub, and walked in with my poems.

I saw Diarmuid, or “D”, the owner, at the far end of the bar, as he was talking to some of his cronies. I quickly glanced at him and he asked, “Hey, brotha…what’s going on?”

“Do you have any poetry-readings here?”

“Poetry?”

“Irish poetry. You’re the only Irish pub in town, and I would like to read some great poets like: (Dylan)Thomas, (William Butler)Yeats, (Robert)Burns, (Robert Louis)Stevenson and (Eugene)O’Neill.”

“Yeah, sure. Go ask Jimmy over there by the door and see.” Immediately, I grinned and nodded, in thanks, and walked in stride over to Jimmy.  We talked for about five minutes with Catherine, the manager and D’s wife; and, we agreed I would come back the following Sunday, from four to six, and read with their Irish jam-band. When I walked-out the front door, I let out: “I did it!”  Back in my truck, I screamed and whooped all the way home, across the Thames River, to my apartment in Groton.

I rushed home, got the dogs and went up to Groton Heights. I let them run wild in the park, as my elation soared with the wind and open night. I stood on top overlooking New London, high above, in the old revolutionary Fort Griswold, as the American flag flied, vigilantly, above, next to me. I prayed. The clear, eternal, strength of my Scotch/Irish heritage, and these writers, steeled my confidence in the cutting wind: “I believe!” This was, now, my moment to soldier-on and make this dream real. I trusted my intuition 100%. This acknowledgment was very humbling.  I kept thinking, “All I’m doing is reading their poetry, not my own; but, I must learn ‘from the masters’ and feel their spirits burn within my spirit when I read them.” I was an apprentice. I took the responsibility and commitment, head-on.

On the following Sunday, I was ready.  I walked in the bar. I could’ve had a bracer, but I decided to stand sober and feel my own vulnerability. Up to then, I read every night: poems, poems and poems. Every single one I read out loud. I had to find the essence, and know the poem working in me. If it didn’t, I would pass on it. I didn’t count how many. I timed each one.  And, I timed the whole set: I had over an hour’s worth. The best feeling was when I read them all together — I became lost and slipped-away to another time. That’s when I knew I had connected, in my soul, within my treasure-cavity, to these timeless writers.

Sunday 3:35pm: I walked inside Hanafins and ordered a hot water with a slice of lemon. I wanted to make sure my throat was ready, and to naturally calm my adrenalin. I asked the bartender when the owner was going to arrive, and when the band would be setting-up to play.

“What band?” the bartender questioned. I was trying to hold back my stupefied reaction.

“I spoke to D, Catherine and Jimmy last week and they said I could…I could read today.”

“Okay. I’ll text and call.” I waited patiently, at the bar, trying to register my destiny. A few minutes later the bartender said “I left them a message, but the band isn’t going to play because the guitarist is out of town.” I was alone, undecided and dejected.

Sunday 6:00pm: Until then, I got acquainted with the patrons and the other associates of the bar. I felt easier and more daring. “So why leave? I’ll stick around and see what becomes of the night.” I played three games of darts, and won two. A “bit ‘o ‘luck’” was coming on.

Sunday 6:35pm: My time came. D arrived with Catherine, and he smiled and said, “Go for it!” He went up to the stage, turned on the stage lights and gave me the thumbs-up. I had no microphone and no band.

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The crowd was thick. The chattering and conversations were a cacophony of voices and laughter. I stood on stage and faced my audience. Time began to slow-down and shift, as I spoke. “Hello. I’m Ed Patterson… and I going to read some Irish poetry.“ I needed to deliver my first poem with a punch, and give it top-billing at the same time. “My first poem is ‘John Barleycorn: A Ballad,’ by Robert Burns.” As I pulled up the poem to read, the house began to grow silent. After the first few quatrains, the tone dropped, only a few voices from the back were heard, as I kept reading and falling into the poem with my steady voice. By the end, on the last quatrain, I raised my glass, as it says in the poem:

Then let us toast John Barlyecorn

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne’re fail in old Scotland.

Like Celtic lore, I felt thunder and flashes of lightning coursing through my veins. The applause broke my reverie…I lifted my head: I had arrived. I was welcome. I was home.

I read all of the poems without a break. Once, or twice, a couple of ladies came by and said it was nice to hear poetry again. A calm sense of stewardship came over me, as if an Irish flag waved above my head, next to my family’s “Patterson” coat-of-arms. Mostly, I had introduced these great, immortal, spirits, here, at Hanafins. New London is Eugene O’Neill’s home (Irish)town, and this is the only Irish pub in New London. Up to now, there hadn’t been poetry read to express his writings at Hanafins, nor these other passionate thoughts of: William Butler Yeats, Robert Louis Stevenson, Robert Burns and Dylan Thomas. The timing was right. I was invited back!

Epilogue: As I walked off the stage, I was congratulated with handshakes, “good job” and applause. Was this my initiation? My intuition led me on this rites-of-passage, and I survived. Like stepping out of dream, I said ‘good by ’til next time’ to everyone. When I walked outside, I felt the sky opening-up with spring rain. The storm had passed through me, and now I was being cleansed by the heavens.

Disclaimer: For the record, I do not compare, as an equal, to these writers. I serve their art as a means to learn my own. I’m very grateful to be enlightened by them. I feel blessed to know I can bring their words justice to the ears and minds of others. This journey will never be forgotten. I’m Scotch/Irish, and I’m proud of my heritage.