Now I have to do the thing where I am irksomely vague, but I recently received some really disappointing theater news: something was going to happen, and now it is not happening. Your friend, Vague.  But the odd thing was: I didn’t rage or cry. I just sort of: accepted. It felt like that moment when you’ve known someone for a long time, and you’ve started to get why they do what they do, and they piss you off, and you don’t get mad at them because you love them and understand them, even though they’ve being a (lovable)  A hole.

See somewhere between the Lorimer L stop and LA, I have kind of given up on theater. Not playwriting, but theater. Not like as an art, or as a form of expression, but as a career. I no longer long to have some dumb New York times feature on me in the theater section in which I’m drinking Green Tea at a cafe in Cobble Hill and talking about my childhood and running my fingers ‘nervously through my locks.’ I no longer expect large productions or accolades. Instead, theater has shifted further from my ego and closer to well, to my heart. It’s now back to where it first was: how I sort through my feelings and fears. Plays are again good excuses to act like children in rehearsal rooms and blast music and build cues and sometimes make people feel understood; it is no longer mercenary in any way shape or form, which I gotta say: feels pretty great.