Seeing a Jack's Mannequin quote on the PostSecret website makes me feel like I'm in on the secret. Even if I'm not.

It was moments like this, when a good song pumped through overly expensive speakers, when the gentle caress of two glasses of wine had loosened the vice grip of self-consciousness, when the whole world stood poised to topple over itself again, that he relished.

That's exactly how it felt, too -- that he was perched on the thin edge of a flat world that stood on its end, like a coin that has just avoided falling on either heads or tails. Oceans poured downward, but no one noticed except him. He stared over the precipice, where the horizon should have been across but instead was down. One tiny movement could send the entire flat earth one way or the other. And he, perched upon the edge as he was, had a very profound control over which direction that would be.

He felt the breath of the past upon the nape of his neck and turned around to look at it. It stood, a mirror image of himself, in a weaker, sadder posture. He and his past regarded one another quietly, calmly. He remembered when he was in the past and could see this strangely quieter, strangely happier, strangely calmer version of himself beckoning for him to continue to swim, even in the dark. But he did not remember giving his future advice in the form of one word, which he was astonished to hear now: "Remember."

He nodded, and turned away from his past, whose breath vanished like the last breeze of autumn. He gazed down. The world wobbled, and yet he stood still.

But as the advice of his past echoed in his mind, "Remember," "remember," "remember," he found he could not bear the stillness any longer, and he lurched himself forward, sending his entire existence into a tumbling, astonishingly beautiful chaos that filled the emptiness beyond and within.

As the world he knew dissolved into a vortex of of water, rock, and love, he opened his mouth, took a breath, and found himself singing. Singing out loud.

Had an audition this morning for Prather Entertainment Group, which controls three different dinner theatres, one in Florida, one in Arizona, and one in Pennsylvania. Between the three theatres, they were casting 12 -- that's right, TWELVE -- different shows, each incredibly different in style and content. Since one of the shows was Rent, and we only got a measly 16 bars of song to showcase what we can do, and since I'm very much a Mark Cohen type, I sang my standard pop song, "Drive" by Incubus.

It went well. After singing my song, they handed "What You Own" to me, one of Mark's songs, and told me to sing it. I did. I went back to the holding room, where they said they would announce if they needed me for anything further.

While there, a couple of friends that were at the audition with me joked about my last job, playing Berger in HAIR, since to me and everyone else it seemed so out-of-type for me. They laughed and said "Yeah, they're probably going to hire you as Roger." I laughed, too.

Then they came into the holding room and announced I was to come back for a callback tomorrow, singing "One Song Glory," which is, of course, Roger's big song.

...

So. Apparently everything I've ever thought about my type is not exactly accurate.

Oh well! It's a callback, and I love callbacks. Hooray!

After tomorrow, I'm going to a Carnival Cruise Line audition on Thursday. I'll let you all know how that goes when it comes.

I love being back in New York. I really, really do.

I know you don't care, but I just must share my relief with the world.

Just a moment ago, I extracted from my ear the biggest little ball of earwax I have ever seen. This ear has been non-painfully irritating me for months, and I think may have just cleared the problem.

Hooray!

I went to watch Star Trek this evening, a showing that was still somehow in theaters. Those of you following me on twitter know that there was a peculiarly large turnout for a movie that's been out since the beginning of May. I suppose when I put it that way, it doesn't seem like that long... but I digress.

Not that there's much to digress from: merely fragments of thoughts that occurred to me as I was on my way back to my apartment from the movie theatre in Times Square. But they are fragments I am compelled to write down nonetheless.

Firstly, I met someone today who discovered I had been here for a little over a month. He decided to bestow his wisdom to me, having lived in the city for a long time himself. He said, "The thing that's vital about New York is that you've got to get out once in a while. I hear there's a beach opening on Governor's Island, that should be a great way -- a ferry ride and suddenly it doesn't feel like you're in the city anymore! But yeah, you just gotta make sure you get out."

After that conversation, this advice was not sitting right with me; something just didn't seem correct. Then after the movie, it occurred to me that that sentiment was, at best... half-right. It's not exactly the appropriate approach. It's not necessarily vital to go someplace else; rather, it's finding the peace within oneself to be able to manage the constant flux outside the window. Really, it's not getting out that saves you. It's getting in. Finding the places in the city that show you what the city really is, rather than fleeing the city because you only associate it with work, or Times Square, or your daily grind. The free kayaking, for example? Not "out of the city." That's part of the city.

And this thought began to broaden, too. Isn't it strange that us twenty-somethings always seem to be searching for "the right place" for us? We've bought into this idea, hook, line, and sinker, that we must go somewhere to find happiness. That there is a "place" for us. And while I certainly agree that some places are easier than others in facilitating that happiness on an individual basis, I suspect I need to rethink how much environment hinders or helps one's ability to be content.

Later I began thinking about how good of a mood I was in after the movie, and how something had been kind of...turned on in my brain, and how it vaguely reminded me of those nights, years ago, at Caribou Coffee.

Now, I came to a decision some time ago that I needed to quit living in a world dictated by some past happiness. After all, it takes a touch more effort to remember the agony I was in back in those days than it does to remember the silly, fun nights of passion-green tea smoothies and Lite White Berry (Raspberry, please) espresso beverages and doing the next day's coffee board for a free drink.

But I figure it doesn't hurt to try and understand why those moments seemed so damn happy.

I thought, "maybe I need a coffee house, as an adult. Maybe having a place to go to, where you almost always ran into someone you know, is important. Maybe drinking caffeine and sharing or creating new ideas with one another is preferable to drinking alcohol and obliterating new ideas for fun or comfort."

See, back in those days, I felt like an artist. Not a creative craftsman with loads of baggage as to what things "should be." I was an artist who questioned the world, observed it, and shared what he saw. And I did so in the company of others who did the same.

And somehow, I just don't think Starbucks can cut it.

Fragments. Maybe Hair will open my mind a bit. The latch has gotten rusty -- it's not as easy to feel so open these days.

Well, technically this is contrary to the format requested of me, chronologically speaking, because I've already been to the audition, but I auditioned for Royal Caribbean today.

They had me sing three songs. The first two I was prepared to do, of course, as they had requested an up-tempo and ballad. I chose a pop ballad and a classic musical theatre up-tempo, since the audition notice said that singers would be required to sing pop, rock, jazz, and musical theatre. However, the minute I set down my music for the classic musical theatre song, "She Loves Me," the accompanist said: "I can tell you already they don't want to hear that. Pick something else."

I paused, but only briefly, and flipped the page over to the pop song. I sang it. My voice cracked -- somewhat but not terribly noticeably -- on the first note.

They smiled, and said, "Well. Let's see 'She Loves Me'!" That's right, the classic musical theatre song. Okay, fine. I sang that. My voice cracked -- somewhat but not terribly noticeably -- on the last note.

They smiled again and said, "Do you have anything that shows a much different side of you? Something a lot more pop?" Never mind that I'd just sang a pop ballad, I hurriedly ran over to the accompanist and flipped through my book until I got to "Drive," the Incubus song that I'd used at my horrible Rent audition exactly one week ago.

I sang through the song slightly faster than normal. My voice cracked -- horribly and terribly noticeably -- pretty much throughout the entire chorus.

I stood there after I finished, a kind of pathetic smile on my face.

"Okay, Joel. So, callbacks are tomorrow at 2, and come prepared to dance. First we'll teach you some music and then a dance combo. Can you be there?"

...

I mean, I'm not gonna say no. And I didn't say no. But I just wanted to grab her by the shoulders and say: "DIDN'T YOU JUST HEAR ME SING? AND YOU'RE CALLING ME BACK??" I guess I over-rehearsed last night, and then didn't get any sleep afterwards. So my voice is in pitiful shape. And yet, somehow, I've gotten a callback. Okay, universe. Thanks. But please don't come collecting on me for this favor.

Audition for a North Carolina-based production of Hair in about 2 1/2 hours. There are 23 of us that submitted headshots/resumes and got appointments today -- all of us are going in for Claude, essentially the main character. Fun!

I chose a monologue (they wanted a monologue!!) from my favorite play, Burn This by Lanford Wilson. And I'm going to ATTEMPT to sing the end of "How Glory Goes" from Floyd Collins. However, knowing that Adam Guettel music is infamously difficult to play, I have a backup: a cheesy pop ballad. But I really wanna sing "How Glory Goes." I mean, it's basically Floyd singing as he dies -- one of the few musical theatre songs that manages to do this without being hokey in the slightest -- and it's a song I know I can act the hell out of. Stylistically it may be inappropriate, but thematically it's perfect. In my humble opinion. The backup song is only slightly more stylistically appropriate, but thematically completely wrong.

No coffee today. Learned my lesson from the Rent audition. Ok, ok, so I got some iced tea instead. But I've eaten a nice meal to go along with it, so hopefully the caffeine doesn't destroy my composure again.

Need to finish marking up music for maximum chance of success...

**UPDATE**

After marking "How Glory Goes" and being appalled by the festival of highlights when I was done, I think it's safe to say I'll now be singing "Coming Home," the cheesy pop ballad. The title of the song is not meant to be ironic. I promise.

I think that I may finally be figuring out at least a "working draft" of sorts in reference to the way that I handle New York City.

It's somewhat peculiar -- I haven't been overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion and creativity that characterized my trip here in March of 2008, the trip that basically informed me that yes, New York was where I wanted to live. Instead of being handed emotive epiphanies, I've been wrangling some control from fate and placing it -- at least a tiny bit -- in my own uncertain grasp.

At first, my approach to the city was entirely social. Catch up with old friends, make new friends, go out, have lunch, meet up, hang out. Attached to this was this new confidence in my ability to attract guys: this was a new but exciting ability I never expected to possess. All of this was fun, thrilling, and entertaining. It was also empty and expensive.

In the last few days, as I suspected would happen, I began to get "bored." I'm still terrified to go to my first audition on Wednesday, but nonetheless I need to just go and jumpstart my motivation. So I buckled down today as I described earlier and tried to get myself in a better prepared place. I called my father and asked him to send me my music.

Somewhere between this idea of working and auditioning and this somewhat insane social life I've been pursuing is my way of approaching the city. Once I find that perfect spot between the two endpoints of "work" and "play," I can work on growing upward from that, hopefully introducing self-creativity.

It's the subtle suggestion of pattern, again: I sense it at times, usually while I'm in transit, whether I'm walking or on the subway. I notice its flicker here and there, and I snap to attention -- but the feeling always fades quickly, and doubts often take its place.

In the meantime, I feel that perhaps I need to sleep.

Finally getting down to the grind, something I should've done a week ago.

I have purchased a subscription to Backstage, have been scouring the online listings and marking each one that might be at least partially relevant to me, and entering each into iCal, happily aware they will sync to my phone so I can keep those audition times with me at all times.

Yesterday, went to Zak's to steal some music as well as get some second opinions on my updated resume. Today will be all about Kinkos. I will become Kinkos' best friend. I will be spending a lot of money on copies in the near future, at least until I can get my book.

kubulai, this is entry partially for you -- I promised you I'd leave little blogettes informing the world what I was auditioning for. I just haven't organized myself enough for that just yet. :-)

I can finally feel the caffeine of this evening's coffee shop exploits wearing off. I'm relieved, because I was too restless for words. I just wanted to talk to somebody, anybody really, but that's the caffeine talking. Too much. Too much. Words, notes, ideas flitting through my exhausted brain at three hundred miles per hour, or more like 300mph, because that's all the words, notes, ideas were, abbreviated symbols for something more complete and comprehensible. Welcome to the Age of the Acronym; too much information, too much exformation, in and out, breathing and heartbeat faster, synapses racing to keep up with frantic electric impulses, eyes flitting back and forth across pages, across pixels, across parcels of data, neatly wrapped, sparsely trimmed. Couldn't calm down, couldn't relax, couldn't force myself to breathe deeply and just... let... go.

( *pop* )



Time for a bath, some happy thoughts, and bed.

These days I can't help but feel I'm on the brink of something massive.

"Well duh, Joel," you might say, "You're moving to New York. You're essentially starting real life (for real, this time). Of course you're on the brink of something big."

That may be part of it, but that's not entirely what I mean. It's like... I'll be boiling eggs to eat for breakfast, and as I'm sitting there watching the water, random thoughts flit through my head that somehow seem more significant than normal. I'm watching bubbles churn the surface of the water, and I'm having a near-emotional response to whatever happens to cross my mind.

And it always slips away before I can grab it by the neck and say "What ARE you?" If I even try to reach out and discern what's at the core of all that diversity of feeling, it vanishes, with only the smokey remnants of sense memory left behind to leave me wondering.


I experienced one extremely powerful moment when I was on the ship. I had done one show of The Golden Mickeys, had eaten in the mess, and was walking down the I-95 back to the theatre, when all of a sudden, like an electric current passing through my body, I knew with absolute certainty that something important, something very deeply important, was happening. I came back to the dressing room hyper-alert, watching everything for even the slightest hint of that tremendousness I knew was occurring. I saw little, and let my mind wander from that strange, still-electric feeling to the mundane yet intensive activity of the show.

That night was the night that AJ disappeared. I'm curious as to whether or not it was that exact moment that his new connection was forged. Either way, I'm unsure as to why I received such a strong warning for what turned out to be such a paltry event. My only guesses are that perhaps there was a stronger bond there than either of us realized, that it was just a fluke, or that the true meaning of that strange moment has yet to manifest itself. I doubt the first guess, I half disbelieve the second, and I half believe the last. I just don't want to think that such strong, vivid experiences are merely an accident of hormonal timing. Call me crazy, but I used to be able to vaguely predict things when I was younger. I trust my intuition.


So I guess what I'm sitting here doing is precisely what makes it impossible to achieve. Like finding the exact position of an electron... the closer you get, the more likely it is to disappear. As I sit here and try to pinpoint what I'm truly experiencing, it evaporates in a quantum blur of uncertainty.

One sensation is pushing through the murk with clarity, though, and that is exhaustion. I'm going to attempt only eight hours of sleep tonight. Here's hoping.

Denny Martin Flinn is a name I came to know during my Musical Theatre History course, a required class for the completion of my degree. He wrote the required textbook for the course: Musical!: A Grand Tour.

I hated this book.

For one thing, its tagline was "The Rise, Glory, and Fall of an American Institution"... an attitude he adhered to throughout the text. According to Denny Martin Flinn, the peak of the American Musical as an art form was none other than West Side Story, and that everything after it was just not quite as good. He cites Annie in particular as the "beginning of the end."

Obviously as a singing actor I have a problem with someone who suggests that musical theatre is dead.


ANYWAYS, I discovered two things about Denny Martin Flinn this morning, one that makes sense and one that completely threw me off.

1.) Denny Martin Flinn (I refuse to call him by anything other than all three names) started as a dancer. Considering his less-than-thrilled opinion of any show that wasn't a dance festival, this is unsurprising.

2.) Denny Martin Flinn coauthored the screenplay for Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country.

...

WHAT???

Oh, I give up. This world just doesn't make any sense.

Debate has occurred in anthropological circles concerning whether Homo sapiens, early in its development, destroyed/out-resourced Homo neanderthalensis, or whether they actually interbred, unifying into the modern human we see today. Though Neanderthals certainly exhibit features distinct from modern humans, it's theorized by a minority of archaeologists that they weren't so radically different as to prevent cross-breeding.

Cut to me, reading Wikipedia for fun, and stumbling upon an article about the Sons of God as mentioned in Genesis. Often interpreted as Angels, these beings took wives from the "daughters of men" and had children with them. So beings distinguishable from "people" are capable of interbreeding with them. Theoretically, the offspring of these unions were giants ("And there were giants in those days," etc etc). Of course, God's not cool with this (among other things) and the Flood results.

So. People that aren't people. Giants that come from the union of "not-people" and "people." Isn't this hybrid vigor, folks? Is, encoded within Genesis, some kind of racial memory of the two almost separate species coming together? Or do I just have way too much time on my hands?

You decide.

So I did the interview meme -- basically I asked kathymac to interview me after she was interviewed by someone else.

So if you're interested, leave a comment saying "Interview me!" and I'll ask you five questions to post and answer on your LJ.


1. You've been living on a boat for months. Is it as awesome now as you anticipated it being when you started? Why/why not?

Yes and no. First off, I was excited about the job but there was a tone I picked up from past Disney employees that lent me some caution -- I knew it wouldn't all be rainbows and kittens and happy. I don't have to remind you of all the emotional difficulties I've endured whilst I've been on this ship. I have felt ruined, and I have felt like I've ruined others. I've felt absolutely certain of myself and absolutely unlike myself. People trade cliques on here faster than they did in high school, and it can be excruciatingly lonely to someone like me who enjoys the reliability of a stable, solid friendship.

That aside, the work is difficult. I have come close, several times, to feeling like I was going to pass out inside my costume in Toy Story. At times (particularly around the holidays) the audiences were unforgiving and unresponsive. Guests can be nasty when you tell them that Mickey has to go, and even though you get that only a few times a week, if that, it can begin to wear on your sense of self-worth. There is an unfortunate attitude on cruise ships, mostly harboured by American tourists, that because they've paid thousands of dollars to be on a cruise, they get to treat the employees as somehow less than human.

All this having been said, there is so much awesomeness to offset these negatives. Firstly, in regard to the personal/emotional problems: I have learned so much about myself and about relationships that I find it hard to envision learning much more. Of course, I will always surprise myself, but I have at the very least discovered the key to being in a relationship (we'll come back to that in #4). I think I can detect, nowadays, when I have strayed beyond the behavior that falls in line with "being myself." That's important. Incredibly. Secondly, in regard to the work itself -- yes, the guest can be trying but they can also be incredible. A little Asian boy sat in the front row the other night when we did Toy Story -- dressed to the T like Woody. Hat, jeans, belt buckle, cowprint vest -- you name it, he had it. And I got to see his face (out of the corner of my eye) throughout the entire show. His eyes were just lit up the entire time, and he jumped out of his seat (clutching his Buzz Lightyear action figure) at the end of the show to applaud us. And, as far as greeting for characters goes, a woman was on last cruise who gave valentines to all the characters with notes on them saying: "Thank you for all you do, you don't know what it means to people." You can't help falling in love with the work when things like that happen.

2. What's the best thing about not being in college anymore? What's the worst?

The best thing, easily, is having the time to be fully employed, and therefore, having a relatively stable means of paying the bills. I can't count the number of times I had to overdraw my bank account just to pay rent. It's not fun, and that I don't worry about money (at the moment) is so incredible that I don't know how to express it.

The worst is having just left a place that finally -- just finally -- became a kind of home. I knew people and places to go to that made me happy. I knew I could just sorta wander around campus aimlessly and that would make me feel...well, slightly more at peace. There is something so peculiarly reassuring about a college campus that you begin to miss when you're away from it -- perhaps it's the sense of order, structure, layout; it implies there's a meaning to everything you're doing. Perhaps that's what I miss the most: feeling like there's a meaning to everything. Granted, that was a feeling that was even stronger in high school for me and it did fade a bit in college, but it was still there.

3. If you were his chief advisor, what would you encourage Obama to put at the top of his priorities?

Pretty much what he has put at the top of his priorities: curbing the effects of this economic downturn. I think it's insane that my mother, a woman ridiculously overqualified for the position she currently inhabits, just narrowly missed a massive layoff at her company, and, just in case, is preparing for NOT missing the layoffs when they come again in six months. Furthermore, I don't want the industry that I'm working in to be in the shape it's in now when I finish working for Disney, whenever that may be. Tied to this is the availability of a college education to Americans. The fact that middle-class Americans can get little to no assistance in going to college is appalling. Not every middle-class American father or mother was able to save a college fund. My parents were doing quite well when I applied for college and as a result I got only the option for unsubsidized federal loans. No grants. No subsidizing. The only scholarship I received was a $1000 achievement scholarship from Georgia Thespians and my yearly scholarship from the Musical Theatre Department. But my parents were not always so financially capable -- in fact, it was about the time of my birth that they finally stopped being in abject poverty. There were four siblings ahead of me. They had neither the time nor the money to finance my college education. The point of all this blabbering is that without a college education, or without an adjustment in attitude as to what "real work" is, Americans will be underqualified to work, will not innovate, and will therefore be stuck in an economic rut that will adversely affect the rest of the world. Silly. ALSO tied into this is foreign relations. So on and so on.

4. Have you made any exciting new discoveries lately? They can be superficial (new music/books/etc) or not-so-superficial.

I referenced a discovery in #1 that I believe I've mentioned to you previously. That discovery is that, above everything, I believe in honesty. This has been a hard lesson to learn. But essentially, it is key to all relationships, romantic or otherwise, and withholding honesty will do nothing but diminish or destroy such relationships. As I am a person that likes interacting with people, I have a feeling that this discovery is going to hold a great deal of weight in my future. Particularly in the romantic world, where, already, the effects of having applied this discovery are wonderful and reassuring.

On a less profound level, I'm in love with Kate Nash. I don't know if she's on iTunes or not, but she rocks.

5. If you were suddenly given unlimited funds, what would be the first thing you spent it on? What thing in the future would you save for?

First of all, I'd eradicate my student debt. Secondly, I'd purchase an apartment for myself in New York. Nothing fancy, but just something I (or potentially I and someone else) could live in. Third, I'd buy a really freakin nice meal for everyone who's ever spotted me when in financial trouble. Fourth, I'd set up a scholarship fund for students wanting to pursue musical theatre. It'd be talent-based, with a potential essay component. And it would be university-independent, but heavily promoted at high school functions like International Thespian Festival.

The thing in the future I'd save it for...hmm. I don't know. A college fund for my children, I suppose. LOL...sense a recurring theme here?

That's about it, I think!

The world is literal, the literal world, a literal word to describe a literal world -- and yet the word is abstract and as it describes the world, the world itself becomes abstract. The world becomes the word and the word changes the world. And suddenly I remember that I once described only sensations in my journal, or at least mostly sensations. The events themselves occurred, but it was not they that were critical. It was the core reaction, the gut sensation, the thoughts and perceptions that I needed to express. And yet I have changed, describing events to mind-numbing detail -- a kind of justification for the feelings I have, perhaps because I have subconsciously decided those feelings need justification. And yet they don't. I feel what I feel because I am human. I react how I react because I am living, experiencing the Great Human Experience. My past informs my present and future. Those feelings are real, and valid. And they must be described. I must leave an account. I must destroy my mortality, somehow, because I do not fear death, and it may claim me sooner than it might claim others. And so what will be my legacy?

A fan is on. Rotating blades force air forward. It collides with a hanging shirt, which collides with my face. Over, and over, and over, cool air and cotton brush against my forehead, my hair. I feel it and attempt to decipher it. Perhaps it is meaningless, but there is meaning even in that interpretation. I do know how it makes me feel: like I am careless for standing in the way of its limited and oscillatory path. Back and forth the fan pivots. Up and down the shirt responds. But I -- I just sit there. I do not respond. I feel only the light, irritating brush of fabric against skin and cannot find it in my willpower to move.

And yet, finally, I do move. I reach over and flip the switch. Off the fan goes. The motion stills itself. Blades slow. Air falters. Shirt hangs. And there I sit. Motionless, again. In my own world. The noise is gone, at last, and I can hear the music without increased volume. Suddenly I remember this place. I cannot recall exactly what brought me here before, but I know that I have, prior to this arrival, spent time here. What is this place?

I remember...

The space behind my palms...

A swirling violet vortex...

The Pleiades star cluster...

The River Liffey...

An empty car with a gift of IBC Cream Soda that was never given...

A submerged ruin haunted by the ghost of love and a sad, simple melody.

Yes, that one. And all of the others, too. It's the same place. A place that's sad, and distant, and ever-present. It's the underwater ruin of a temple or great laboratory where, for whatever reason, I have come to reside. Not the whole of me; not my life's experiences, not my spinning thoughts nor my cold logic, not the body that feels and eats and sees. No, this is the center of me, the quiet spark of blue-white light that can escape neither water nor ruin, and so instead it does all it can to illuminate both. This is the place where I pour out all the light I, that hidden blue-white spark, can muster.

I will light the way.

I will show anyone else that cares to wander this deep the place that I inhabit.

So if you see a distant flash of blue-white, take a look. It is, in the end, for you.





I miss writing things, incomprehensible as they may be.