Blog Posts - Spoke by Coleman

On Writing

6/1/2015

By now I've used up every possible excuse for not writing. It's simply to time to give up, pick up a keyboard and go to work.

My most recent excuse is that my 3 year old Surface PC died, and I do my "best" writing in bed with my mini-computer, or at the doghouse with same. Well, now I have a new Lenovo mini-computer (much better than that frigging Surface, which is shit, in spite of what the ads say) - and I've downloaded all the software I need and got it all set up.

So what am I waiting for?

Nothing.

This is Monday. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow I start a regimen of writing every morning, first thing when I wake up.

We'll see if it works. It did before. It might again.

On Being in the Doghouse

5/23/2015

By choice, I am spending part of each day in the doghouse, and once a week, or so, I try to sleep there as well.

My doghouse is located deep in our woods, almost a half mile from our house. It is perched on a trail carved by deer and hangs over a spring fed creek.

Yesterday, as I sat on the wooden slatted bench under the covered porch, an elegant form circled twice over my head before landing in a branch about ten feet from me and at eye level. A great blue heron. I sat motionless for several minutes while it preened its feathers, then it majestically spread its wings and floated off down the stream.

The doghouse is a technology-free zone. It was built without electricity and that is how it stands. Inside, there is a sleeping loft, a small table and two chairs, and a small pot bellied stove. There are huge windows on three sides.

All day and night the creek gurgles loudly as the water rushes over the stones. In the day, a thousand birds chirp. In the evening, a thousand frogs croak. At night, I snore.

On ending things ...

5/14/2015

Everything ends.

Life itself. A flower. A moment. A heartbeat. They all have an end.

This weekend ends the run of my three month association with a fine, fine crew of artists who collaborated on Death of a Salesman. And I admit no small element of distress. When one is embraced in a luxurious blanket of creativity by a cadre of artists who are universally generous and talented and kind, well, it's just not the sort of thing you want to end.

There's only one thing to do. Well - two things, actually. First, enjoy the hell out of this last weekend. Second, hope that around some unforeseen corner there might lie another opportunity as rich and fulfilling as this one has been.

Thanks Matt, Chris, Ned, Paula, Jaimie, Jordan, Chris, Joshua, Joe, Jo, Katie.

Thanks.

On contemplating suicide

5/4/2015

Spoiler alert: I am not going to kill myself.

But as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, every night I have to crawl into that dark hole. I have to take the time before the lights dim, to commit to the idea that I, Willy Loman, am going to kill myself.

I've always intellectually understood suicide. I've experienced it as a family member and friend of others who have committed suicide. But it's never been part of my DNA. I'm in favor of assisted suicide for the terminally ill (that makes sense to me, (rather than a prolonged and pointless suffering). But personally - I really, really like breathing and all that comes with it. The laughter, the tears, the pain, the pleasure.

Death of a Salesman is a three hour play. I need at least two hours before the performance to prepare, and at least two hours after to decompress. That adds up to seven hours every performance night that I am wallowing in contemplation of my (Willy's) suicide.

Ultimately even Willy is only able to make the commitment by lying to himself - by convincing himself that his death will benefit his favored son. Every night, Willy walks resolutely off to his own demise, simultaneously pleased and disturbed, proud and afraid of the decision he has made.

From the first line of the first scene, Willy is considering his own death. That colors the delivery and shape of every word Willy speaks, every event and person he dredges up from his imagination and memory, every reaction he has to what happens around and to him.

I guess I'm not making this sound like a 'fun' performance to attend - and fun is not really what we are aiming at. And yet - there is an exhilaration that comes from exploring so intimately the darkest thoughts of this iconic American stage character. And my fellow actors are so good - they push and push and push back at me (at Willy). Every night they make me see a line, a word, a scene in a different light.

It's a hell of an experience.

On working with people who are better than you

4/29/2015

If you are lucky, you get to work with people who are better than you.

It's intimidating, sure. It can even be a bit depressing, to think (or know) that you aren't quite up to their remarkable standards. But it's only when you work with people better than you, that you get the opportunity to really stretch yourself. To push way beyond boundaries you didn't even know you had.

That's what working on Death of a Salesman has been like to me. In particular, Jamie England and Jordan Peterson. Jesus Christ, these animals can act. I've learned so much from them, and each night they challenge me to dig deeper.

I'm still digging. They're still challenging. We've three weeks to go.

On Hitting the Wall

4/22/2015

Marathoners have a name for it: HITTING THE WALL.

I hadn't experienced it, having only run 5k or 10k races before. But sure enough, somewhere around mile 18, I hit my wall. my legs were still somehow going forward but my body had collapsed inwards. I couldn't get any air. There wasn't any strength in my muscles. Nothing was working.

But then mile 19 came anyway. And then 20. 21. 22 ... And the wall had disappeared.

Our Monday night rehearsal was my Willy Loman wall. I couldn't explain it. My energy reserves were empty. My mind was Swiss cheese. I felt terrible.

But then there was Tuesday night. Just like mile 20. And everything was fine.

Actors hit walls too, apparently - especially when running a marathon like Death of a Salesman.

We're going to be okay. We're crossing that damn finish line, with our arms raised and our eyes wide open. And if you are there to cheer us on, you won't be disappointed.

On approaching the finish line ...

4/18/2015

I used to run. Anyone who knew me in my youth would have been surprised. Hell, I was surprised. But in my thirties (and forties) I discovered running. I started with a 2 mile run, and within a year, I did my first marathon.

There's something about the knowledge that the finish line is coming up that is somehow better than the finish line itself. There's that anticipation of completion. There's the knowledge that all the hours and days and weeks of preparation were for something. There's the certainty of a personal success, as measured by, well ... crossing the damned finish line.

So. Willy Loman. Here we come. I'm not at the finish line yet. But I'm getting closer. Line by line. Scene by scene. Act by Act.

April 24. The finish line. Or ... is it the starting line? After all - this show runs for four weeks.

On the anniversary of my first wedding

3/30/2015

I fell in love with Susan Cantrell. On April 1, 1972, we married, and a year later, we had out son, Jordan Gilchrist.

I am angry at her for dying almost a year ago. She should be here still. As she lay dying, she said she had accomplished and done everything she ever wanted to do. Maybe. But the rest of us wanted more of her. One more day. One more year. One more decade. One more laugh. One more story. One more visit. One more phone call. One more letter. One more book.

Our marriage only lasted three years, but our love for each other lasted a lifetime. For Susan, that was another 39 years. My love for her still burns and always will.

On Acting

3/25/2015

My new friend Christopher Wolter, who is directing me in Death of a Salesman, says that theatre came into existence because of the existence of the audience, not the actor. We all act, Christopher says. It's a bunch of people crammed into a common space watching someone act that makes it theatre.

Maybe.

At any rate, I act. Last night's rehearsal was my personal version of crack. There's a particularly intense and difficult scene in the middle of Act 2 between Willy and his sons. I had worked hard to get my lines down, because it's impossible to lend any strength to the scene with a script in your hand. And it paid off. Some time it does. We blocked the scene and then ran it several times.

Everyone knows of the phenomena called runners' high. Well, I had actors' high. The adrenalin was pumping. The endorphins were off the chart. Nailed it. Well. Not quite. Opening night is still a month away, which makes it even sweeter. There's more work to do on this scene yet, and a whole bunch more on all the other scenes.

Seriously, I love acting.

On the importance of doing things

3/14/2015

This past fall and winter I fell into a rut. It was an unusual experience for me, and not particularly pleasant. I found ways to peek my head out of the rut a bit, but all in all, I wasn't operating at top form, and some days it seemed I wasn't operating at all. I didn't have anything to do.

Yes - it's up to me to figure out just what it is I have to do, and then to do it. I've never had a problem discovering or inventing projects. But for a while, this past year, projects didn't present themselves and I found it more difficult to invent them.

Now I'm in deep in rehearsals for the hardest role of my life. I doing something. Something big.

And it feels good. My mind feels good. My body feels good. I laugh more. I dream more. I eat less. I'm hiking my trails more miles as I memorize my lines, hour after hour after hour.

Willy Loman dies. When he can't be a salesman any longer, he simply dies.

That's not my story. Never will be.