For Anyone Who's Ever Had a Mother

Go to www.myspace.com/passingstrange and listen to the song "Love Like That" (it's the first one in the player).

This is a snippet of Stew's original version, which appeared on his album Something Deeper Than These Changes. It's different from the version in the show, but it's beautiful. Haunting really, if, like me, you're only regrets in life involve things you've said or done to hurt your mother. But--and this is the song's brilliance--it's also healing. Lets you know that, no matter how bad you think you could've been, your mother's love is strong enough to shift continents.

The original version of "Love Like That" is available on iTunes, in case you're interested. A bowl of roses and a CD with only this song sounds like the perfect Mother's Day gift to me.

Unexpected Play

When I was living in Austin, I wrote the first scenes for countless plays that never got finished. For reasons I won't elaborate on here, I wasn't ready to move forward with what I'd started.

Last night, I broke through a barrier with my writing. The barrier was more like the Great Wall, ten feet in front of my face, but I never noticed it. Or at least I didn't consider the vast expanse on the other side, so I never thought about what it was keeping me from seeing.

I wrote perhaps the most personal thing I've ever written last night. Well, really it was this morning, because I was too focused to sleep. That gave birth to my previous blog posting, which, in turn, opened the door to a whole new level of self-discovery.

Today, I organized the files on my computer. In doing so, I uncovered the seeds of a great play by combining the scenes scattered across my hard drive. It's amazing to me that for the past four years, without meaning to, I have been writing a piece darker and more beautiful than anything I've ever done. Trust the muse. Her methods are unknowable, but she always leads you to the fountain of fulfillment.

Since moving to Boston, I've met two people in whose paths I believe the stars have placed me. The first is Marisa Iocco, one of Boston's most celebrated chefs. The day after my plane landed last September, I interviewed for a job with Marisa. The meeting, a profoundly synergetic connection that promised great things. Today I understand why we came together. She is a life force, the possessor of a reiki touch that warms my soul and fuels my mind. I cannot wait to show you what we are working on.

The other person--and this should be no surprise to regular readers of this blog--is Sonia Carrion. Forget the fact that, before we met in Boston, she once lived in the same apartment that I did in Austin. Forget the fact that we share an unconscious vision for something greater than ourselves. It's the times when we're apart that make this more special than anything I've ever known. In the separation, I feel her rooting me on as though she were standing next to me waving pompoms and doing jump splits. It's magic, and it's going to blow you all away. That's not boastful, just an acknowledgment of the pure potential offered by such a real, challenging, nonjudgmental collaboration.

What a thrill this move to Boston has turned out to be. I'm satisfied in ways too precious for words. Thank you universe, thank you muse, for letting me understand that everything happens exactly the way it's supposed to.

You Can't Force It

Sometimes the muse is with you. And sometimes she's vacationing on a tropical island, allowing sun-bronzed locals to feed her fruit and massage her sides. Meanwhile you're weathering a Boston blizzard, and the only way to escape the 39-inch gift that's accumulating on your doorstep is a plastic shovel you bought for $2.99 and never expected to use in May.

The hardest part of writing is allowing the words to come, because the mind is an automatic editor and interrupts the flow of the real. Revisions are important, though, and the best writers are the ones who first create chaos and then clean up the mess.

There is no rush.
There is no rush.
No rush.

Little kids are a great mirror for adults, a chance to reflect on the simple joys of splashing your hands in water or picking a flower from a tree. Moment to moment they live, undaunted by the whats-to-comes and how'd-this-happens. Not a perfect outlook, but definitely peaceful.

Today, I spent an unexpected eight hours at Jill and Larry's house. Jill's dad, George, is my dad's little brother. They're separated by two years, but George, who's approaching 60, looks younger than my father, who died when he was 52, ever did in my lifetime.

Quick story: My dad was diagnosed with lymphoma right around St. Patrick's Day, 2000. For my whole life, our family and George's lived within two blocks of each other. So when I say that George became an even more consistent presence in my house after the diagnosis, I'm talking a move from 60-to-120 rather than 0-to-60.

Anyway, George went with my mom and dad to a particular oncologist appointment. The doctor needed to discuss something sensitive with my father, so he asked him if he wanted to excuse his wife and son so that they could speak privately. My mother--a Miss Massachusetts contestant back in the day, always more beautiful than her age suggested--said she thought it was hysterical until she realized that the doctor was implying George was also her son. Any way you chop it, I'm still laughing.

My favorite picture of my dad and George was taken at some party we hosted at the American Legion across the street from Forest Hills station in Jamaica Plain. My dad--a classic boomer dad, all stoic and controlled veneer--was never one to express his affection physically. My brothers and I kissed the top of his head every night before bed, but short of that, I can only remember a handful of times that I ever hugged the man. Or saw him and my mom really kiss.

... Anyway, the picture. My dad is looking at the camera, and George is kissing his cheek. Devilish, genuine in its display of brotherly love. In that moment, my dad's eyes projected layers of joy and comfort that rarely surfaced in moving life.

I think about my brothers a lot. The way we were with each other growing up. The very different men we have become. The most mundane aspects of childhood foreshadow the rest of the journey. Twenty years ago, Joey was the persuasive showman, I was the emotional volcano, and Sean was the passive clown. Same could be said of each of us today, although we've refined the prototypes.

Back to my visit with Jill and Larry. Jill is less than a decade older than me. She coached my little league team when I was probably 10--the Royals, I believe, and we were terrible. I recall winning maybe one game, but that could be a bit of revisionist history. Point is, back then, the thought of Jill being a mom or the two of us being friends would've seemed impossible. Not that we weren't close, just that to me she was always more of a grown-up, if not an adult, than a peer. But now, Jill--the mother of three boys under the age of five--is as kindred a spirit as one can find in family.

A blessing to watch Jill and Larry's boys interact with one another, forming the bonds that will carry them through their grandkids and beyond. At one point, the oldest son did something to upset the middle son. Jill, full-on mom mode, talked to them about how important it is to be nice to your brothers. And before the older one could muster a sorry, the younger one wrapped his arms around his brother and forgot about whatever bothered him in the first place. Sometimes the best solutions are the simplest. Knowing that instinctively is the major advantage that little kids have over adults.

Yesterday, my older brother Joey's son turned one. I know I'm repeating myself when I say this, but it's so hard to imagine Joey--the guy who slept above me on the top bunk for half of my life--as a father.

My brother Joey is one of the most charismatic people I'll ever know. He looks exactly like me, only with red hair, straight teeth and thirty pounds of muscle (give or take). A personality that leaves a mark on everyone he encounters. He's the guy who could get a nun to do body shots of transubstantiated wine, were he a drinker and had the desire. Point being, Joey is a leader in this life.

In the days when my brothers and I shared a bedroom on Knoll Street, we assumed different roles. Joey, the harlequin, the joker who quietly ran the show. Sean, my younger brother by 14 months, his sidekick. But like Silent Bob to Jay, Sean was always the smartest, quietest O'Malley boy. And then me, textbook middle child, conflicted with desires for attention and independence.

At family parties, like the one where the picture of my dad and Uncle George was taken, I transformed into a double-dare addict. Most of my stunts involved ingesting odd combinations of condiments for pay. Once I ate a serving-spoon piled inches high with mayonnaise; another time I drank a bottled mixture of every salad dressing in my mother's fridge. With the latter experience, I learned that treating dressing like water is a fine way to turn your bum into an uncorked bucket of oil. The toilet became my best friend for about 48 hours. But hey, I made 20 bucks and felt momentarily butch before my über-jock brothers.

I struggled throughout adolescence to assimilate to this vague notion of masculinity that hinged on overwhelming neediness. Needing to be heard, validated, supported, respected, feared, powerful, understood.

I've learned/am learning that it's impossible for people to understand you when you're betraying your character. How can others comprehend or embrace what you're promoting if it's the very thing with which you are the least familiar? Feeling misunderstood--I'm not saying always, but often--is a sign that you need to start projecting more truth and hearing, really listening to, your initial guiding voice.

Right now, I'm euphoric in my gratitude to the roots that feed this tree. The same roots that sprouted from a dime-sized seed a handful of years ago will keep it alive until the time comes to fall over and rejoin the earth.

Without my brothers, I don't know that I could interact comfortably with other men today. They taught me how to fight, to take a beating, to know when to back down, to listen to others, to respond to myself. They also taught me how to forgive and move forward. Watching Jill and Larry's sons--four and two years old--patch up a problem in two seconds made me turn around and wave to the chances my brothers and I have given one another.

Back to Jill and Larry for a moment. What a treat for me--two great people I get to call family. You gotta understand, if you don't already know, that I have a fantastically huge extended family. Irish Catholics from the old country, and you know how they felt about birth control. I love all my cousins, but sometimes it's difficult to connect with people when you see them once, maybe twice a year. So many us only get together when we're wearing our family face--the face that hides our worries or shortcomings or weaknesses from other generations, even if the only thing separating the moment from truth is a squinting smile and hug.

Jill and Larry live in the real. Talking to them, together and separately, is encouraging because they bring what they've got and encourage me to do the same. Conversations flow into memories that inform the thing that's most important to me, my writing. They inspire, challenge, feel, collaborate, teach. No hesitation. So easy. And necessary.

A blessed day with beautiful people. I'm left incapable of not writing prose. This hasn't happened in a while. Feels good to revisit the foundation, tend to the roots. Tree's got a lot more growing to do. What a feckin sweet watering can is family.

Passing Strange Posts, So You Can Read What All the Fuss Is About

I realize that I have written more about Passing Strange over the past six months than pretty much anything else. I cannot possibly stress how powerful this show is. Go see it. On Broadway, at the Belasco Theater. Priceless really, but you can get tickets for $100 or way less.

Today, Rosie O'Donnell posted the lyrics to Love Like That. It's a love song to mothers. Lose my shit when I hear it. When I saw the show off-Broadway, I was shaking after it ended. Strong, beautiful, tragic, sad, joyous stuff right there. Enough to touch anyone who's ever had or lost a mother.

Here, in total, are the posts I've written.

6 May 2008
5 May 2008
18 April 2008
30 March 2008
27 March 2008
26 March 2008
25 March 2008
29 February 2008
20 February 2008
19 February 2008
15 February 2008
13 February 2008
8 February 2008
3 February 2008
31 January 2008
30 January 2008
20 January 2008
28 December 2007
26 December 2007
8 December 2007
16 November 2007

Another Take on Rev. Wright

This from Bill Moyers.

You know, I really wanted to avoid the Rev. Wright nonsense. Because that's what it is--nonsense... it makes no sense in a world where the most devastating terrorist attack on American soil in more than half a century lingers in a cloud of secrecy, a world where elections can be stolen rather than won, a world where genocides go unchecked while the mightiest military hijacks oil supplies. But I digress.

Listen to Mr. Moyers words. Then see how you feel about Rev. Wright.

Nice Work, Michelle

My great friend Michelle just posted a beautiful blog. Check it out when you get a chance.

Jelly Much?

I'm going to see the New Kids on the Block in September at the Banknorth Garden!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm excited for a number of reasons, not least of which is the fact that Cover Girl is my numero uno karaoke song.

Who Cares about Michigan and Florida?

I do. And, as an Obama supporter, I realize that puts my candidate's shot at the nomination in jeopardy. But really, this is a democracy, and all the voters' voices deserve to be heard.

Regardless of what I feel, it doesn't look like either state is going to be seated at the convention, which--at least according to those silly people who make their living punditing--spells disaster for the Clinton campaign.

I just want Obama to take it without any controversy. We need a decisive victor, especially in light of the unhealed wounds from the 2000 election. I believe he is the man to set this train on a better track. I hope he is also the man who can persuade Sen. Clinton to join the team in the number two position.

Responses and Updates

Two great comments from two great people. First, my beloved aunt--more open, honest, compassionate, passionate, creative than most people I know--takes on the Rev. Wright situation, responding to what I wrote a few days ago:

You say he has some valid ideas, maybe, maybe not. But it is the way in which he voices them. It is not expressing, nor using the moment, nor speaking to us as Martin Luther King, John Kennedy and Barack, his was a shrill, a turn-off. No matter how many times the media repeated it, I tuned out, dropped out (60's word's). He should have some class, and walk away. But the ignorant never do.

This is a great example of how anger gets in the way of productive discussion. Rev. Wright's words, however valid based on his experiences, are lost on so many people because of his arguably venomous tone. I agree that the man is more divisive than unitive. But when I try to put myself into his shoes, I can't help feeling for his anger. It's a weakness, to be sure. But I can't judge that. I've been there. Maybe I'll be there again some day. I hope not, because it's much easier to let go and move forward. But really, that's just not possible for everyone. Especially when your formative years were spent in a society that constantly degraded you because of the way you look.

Another comment, from a great friend. A soul mate, really, who inspires me in ways I never expected. Thanks for the good words. But the only problem is that she doesn't realize that our dreams are different. Not bigger, not smaller. Both great, and both greatly needed.

Now, onto the updates. Indulge my queenish inclinations, for a moment. The Broadway in Boston season was announced yesterday, and my beloved Beantown is getting some h-o-t shows in the 2008-09 season. Here's a look:

• A Chorus Line at the Opera House, Sep 11 - Oct 5, 2008
• Brigadoon (pre-Broadway tryout) at the Colonial Theater, Oct 14 - Nov 9, 2008
• Legally Blonde at the Opera House, Oct 28 - Nov 9, 2008
• Nice Work If You Can Get It (pre-Broadway, starring Harry Connick Jr.) at the Colonial, Dec 16, 2008 - Jan 11, 2009
• Frost/Nixon at the Colonial, Jan 27 - Feb 8, 2009
• Dirty Dancing at the Opera House, Feb 7 - March 15, 2009
• A Bronx Tale (Chazz Palminteri's one-man show) at the Colonial, March 31 - April 11, 2009
• Spring Awakening at the Colonial, April 28 - May 24, 2009

In other Broadway news, the cast of Passing Strange will perform on the view on May 12. So set your VCRs or Tivos or whatever you have to do to make sure you don't miss this!!! In the meantime, you can read a great feature about the show and its creators in this month's International Musician.

Sonia Speaks

Following is a piece, a piece of the real, by my great friend Sonia Carrion.

Chow-this has been a mess a mixture
Of explosions--all colliding to meet at
One place--time--state of mind
Boston--settling into my prime

This has been a mess
This livin ain't the same
Feeling crazier than I have ever been
Feeling more in love with sin all the time

Chow--this has been a mess
A mixture of explosion
Chow--who wants to settle me down now?
Who wants to fuck me raw
Who knows what it means?
Chow--a mixture of juices
Where did you come from?
Do you know who I am?
Known you lifetimes before
Any of this
Before we were brought here
Six months ago
Who knows what it means?
Chow--to do this raw
To mix it up
Stir it up
And stew in it.
Bathe in it.
Bathe me in it--chow
Bathe in it.
This living ain't the same
It is all different
It is all gone
My world back home
But I wrote chow before I ever left
I was already here in my mind with you.

Chow--secrets
Coming out
Our progression has been amazing
Our attraction has haunted me
Still slowing
Rolling--down the hill--
Into this bliss--
Something that I have been missing for hours--
In the 12 universes I have lived through.

Chow--this is a mess
This livin ain't the same
Never has been
But will be...

Chow--down and out nowhere
But here--this livin ain't the same
Something is different
Life has sunken in
Finally
Feel like I am living
Chow--this has been a mess
This livin ain't the same
Pinch my veins
To hold my blood back
It will spill all over you
If you don't watch it
Something tells me I
Should not be writing this
But my heart won't stop
Chow--this has been a mess
This livin ain't the same
Finally
So--when you go back
Remember to tell me hi
And sit with me
My lap is welcoming
And feels nice--warm
But show me no love
Don't tease me--just say hi
So all this chow is
Chow--this has been a mess
Getting better
Getting there
Getting somewhere?

Chow--take it all in
But don't wear on the arteries
Keep yourself pumping
Stay on the line--source feed
Life is only there when you want it
Life is only there when you take it.
Feel it.
Consciousness is a lie.
It is life that is truth.
Who to talk to now?
Hate is the opposite of love.
Indifference means nothing to me.
Don't you try to wrestle with my mind.
It is not there--
It is in the clouds always.
And that is where it stays--
With my heart--
Never wants to come down.
Never wants to come down.
Never.
Chow...
This livin ain't the same.

Emerging from Darkness

From time to time
I go crazy
Think the worst
Can't see the light
When dwelling in the darkness

For the most part
I keep it on the inside
But to people I trust
The shift is as noticeable
As Barbara Walters' face lift(s?)

And then
Just as suddenly as the darkness overpowers
The light shines in
And restores clarity
And hope
And a need to atone

The past few weeks
More destructive than I realized as they were passing
Bad choices
Mixed with bad company
Mixed with bad feelings

Glass is fragile
Can only handle so much pressure
Before it breaks
Or shatters
A break is easier to fix
Than a shatter
But anything's possible
If you've got enough time
And patience

Time is married to emotion
Both pass
And there's nothing you or I can do to stop it
The only thing we can do
Is observe
And enjoy the ride

More now than ever
I know what I want
And what I've given up
Time to get it back
And bring the light I'm basking in
To the darkness that I've spread

Passing Strange Converts One More

This from Rosie O'Donnell's blog:

PASSING STRANGE

a new musical on broadway
my god i loved it
i dont have the words
to explain its brilliance

art 4 real
by stew and his crew
made me cry
wish and wonder

u must see this show
this man - his life
he moved me
heart and soul

i fell in love with him
his vision and voice
spirit and song
poetry in motion

there r no accidents
timing
truth
spingle