On February 18, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs. My hands were tingling from breaking the fall. My knee hurt and my left shoulder was killing me. Sleep. Self-loathing. Urgent care. PT. I am about to become a superhero.
Last week, we trekked out to Santa Fe, got caught in a storm, had a white Christmas, saw the luminarias and did Ten Thousand Waves under a full moon. Nell discovered snowboarding. I got a CMU School of Drama hoodie. Santa put a bottle of wine in my stocking. Sam got me 2 Woodstock vintage vinyl’s (I am listening right now). And we got through Christmas quietly, with all its triggers. Sam & I even made it through the last 90 minutes of a 15-hour car ride (barely). I am truly blessed. I got a lot done this year. I traveled to Spain. I finished my documentary. I took it to festivals in San Antonio, Ft Lauderdale and Vail. I even got a little trophy. I worked on Barbie reshoots before the strike. Still, a pile of shit happened this year. We were not in a direct line of fire, but we felt the pangs, as well as our special powers.
My 2023 began with both Nell and Sam prepping me for an audition. I haven’t done one in like a million years. I was trying to learn the lines in the cafeteria at Mountain High, wet and freezing and stuck in Frankenstein monster ski boots. I almost missed the audition slot, trying to jam in a ski trip the same day, predicting that it wouldn’t matter; I would not get cast. I might even be swallowed up through a crack in the living room floor on zoom. I was wrong on both counts. I was cast in something that I didn’t have to produce or direct or write myself. The role was a cleaning lady named Cassandra that, like her mythological inspiration, predicts disaster at every turn, especial climate ones, but nobody listens to her warnings. In film production we assume impending doom every Thursday when paychecks are supposed to materialize. I am chastised at work for running around saying “Nobody listens!” But they truly don’t. Nobody fxcking listens. Still, it’s amazingly hard to just be yourself in a role, even when the role is fitting — cleaning up everyone’s shit and saying we’re all doomed. Ultimately, this play, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike (by Christopher Durang), worked out really well, took me on a 6-month creative journey, renewed me, and lead me to so many new friends. A family really. Our little production later had a re-staging in a bigger space and two extensions. I even got some nice reviews. At the end of the run, Nell came into our cast for seven shows, and we got to work together. Nice big finish to that experience. And there was more drama to come.
I never thought much of my theatre experience at SF State. I didn’t fit in, no feeling of community, never had a situation where anyone was dying to work with me. But somehow, all these years later, that shifted. Inadvertently, Vanya & Sonia & Masha & Spike brought me to the attention of two SFSU alums and an old castmate from Encore Theatre days who together produce a theatre festival in Frazier Park. I ended my summer with a second play (Midsummer Night’s Dream), opening another world of old faces (literally we’re all old now), writers, actors, musicians and comedians who all have San Francisco in common. I found camaraderie this year and am truly grateful for the friends who wrangle us and bring us together creatively and socially. (Paul Codiga!)
And wouldn’t that be just enough for a one pager? But strikes, Lahaina, algae blooms, wars and so many losses abounded. Sea lions are being attacked by coyotes. Out my window here it’s greener than ever. The rains came finally, but for all the wrong reasons. Does Cassandra have it right? During a performance of Vanya & Sonia & Masha & Spike all the toilets backed up between Act 1 and Act 2. The next day the backstage toilet went too. It stays as such for 3 weeks.
I went to Oahu three times this year. Each trip I intended to stop and say hello or drop off a letter to my friend Kazuto (WW2 vet from the famed 100th Battalion) who had been my pen pal since the 1990s. And though I was visiting my nephew Kraig just 2 blocks away, I didn’t stop. Later I read Kazuto passed away Aug. 30. He was 99. Eight weeks ago, my friends lost their 24-yr old daughter in a car crash. Her father, Gabriel, was Dennis’ friend, who came to the hospital and spoke at his memorial. He and his wife, Pilar, got a call from the coroner in the middle of the night. They thought it was a prank. I don’t know how anyone survives such a thing. I lost another friend, my co-worker of 14 years. I said to his widow let me know if there was anything I could do. Two weeks later she asked me to fold his clothes into boxes. Such an intimate task, but an honor too. My new best friend is a 4-year-old boy named Julian who lost his mom. Sam, Nell and I took him on vacation with us to Catalina. He’s a bright bulb who has seen some stuff you can’t unsee. And we adore him.
We found ourselves in the middle of several situations like this, called upon to say or do the right thing. It held a mirror before us. I observed our progress in the faces of others. It’s there. I wouldn’t have gotten through this year if it wasn’t. So, we got to pay it back a bit this year, all the love that came my way a few years ago. The community of people that step forward, that fortify and strengthen you, when you have made an investment in those people. Those communities.
Pilar said to me “we didn’t know (what this felt like).” “Nobody knows what to say to us” and “things just keep moving.” I wanted to hug her. I know exactly what she’s feeling. How I wanted to stop the world turning. I want to tell her and Gabriel, and Julian and his dad, all of them, that they don’t know what they are doing yet. They won’t for a long time. It’s like this process. You can’t rush it. There’s no magic bullet. Yeah, everyone keeps moving. That the world keeps turning is the thing that eventually gets you through it. Babies get born. New people come into your life. Old friends you haven’t talked to in ages come to call. Your children graduate. You and your stepchildren and grandkids become closer.
Saturday, Feb 18, 8:47 am. Text from Kraig on Oahu: “Please call me ASAP. Please” That was the last call I wanted to make. I was sure it was about his mom, my cousin Leslie, like a sister to me, and like a guardian angel to everyone she loves. But Kraig’s call was about his older brother: my nephew Keith. A car crash. Keith was 29. That evening I had too much to drink, and my hands stung at the base of the staircase.
Keith and I had been close. Dennis and I held his little hands getting in the water in Hanauma Bay. He took care of our kids in summer. We rode in a helicopter over a volcano. I had spoken to the Dean of New Mexico State University on his behalf. He trusted me. He loved Dennis. He saw us accidentally kill our hamster and laughed at us when Dennis tried to give it CPR. We loved Keith. He also didn’t listen. Like at all. We grew apart. I offered tough love. I continued to worry. I remember helping him with left turns. I told his mother he should move out. He didn’t trust me after that.
Nell came to Oahu for spring break. She was the first boots on the ground. Then I showed up with my bad arm. In April Sam met me there, and brought his guitar, and we sang a duet, Blackbird, at the service. We watched a line of boys in their 20s say goodbye to their brother, their childhood friend, beautiful Kaneohe Bay behind us all, Leslie wailing throughout. In July we three came again, with our friend Oshy. We had all forged relationships with Leslie and Eddie –once separated, then back together, then divorced, back together, now grieving hard. With their granddaughter, Kora, we dug a hole at the beach and played chase in the yard.
We can be superheroes, just showing up and being in a room. The kids think I try to say too much at times like these. Always trying to find the right words. Nothing even needs to be said. Be in attendance. We can stumble through Christmas, us 3, and we can muddle through some difficult shit with others. It’s highly imperfect, of course. But I am putting it on my new resume under Special Skills: Bereavement Superhero 2023.
I met a playwright-actor fellow at the theatre festival in Frasier Park where he was passing out scripts, living in his van, and making a play for me. Later the van showed up in LA. I let Van Man in, as I can see he is suffering from a loss too. He mentioned he has some Special Skills like plumbing, which I filed away for the end of the world. Just a few days ago, we are all settled down to a nice glass of winter’s eve when Nell says she heard something gurgling while she was in the shower. It seemed to be coming from the toilet. And hour later I heard it too. And then it happened. 2023 literally ended in a shit show. I kid you not. Did you know that a playwright-plumber is also a superhero? Art, a plunger, and patience with ourselves will get us through, Cassandra. A crash pad at the bottom of the stairs for those dark February nights.
Love you all. Please take care in 2024. Be safe. Fix your rain gutters because the floods are coming. Make your art. Write. Travel. And cherish each and every day.
2023 Awards: Best Documentary Ninety Minutes Later //Best Instagram Videos Sam Fujikawa//Best Last Minute Replacement in a Play (twice!) Nell Murphy // Best Line from a Performance “Beware of Hootie Pie” (Cassandra)//Animal Totem Award Hootie Owls of Mt Washington -they are singing right now// Best Friend and Newcomer Julian Anderson (Talent Night at Catalina Camp mascot; Midsummer Nights Dream (fairy) // Best Film of the Year Dashcam video by Peter Jacobs of our road trip to Vancouver. (I busted a gut. Thanks old friend.) Best New Work in Development: Kazuto Story–Letters from an Unlikely Friendship
P-Nut gallery notes.... 