–Confessions of a theatrical interloper.

My humblest apologies for the lateness of this post. I haven’t written in some time due to a variety of situations. New job, new routes to learn, new synapses firing, and a fickle laptop that as of this writing has gone to Heaven. Praise Buddha for workplace PC’s. I’d also like to preface this story by saying it’s not my desire to name names and bury any hatchets in particular. Its generally not my way. However, I simply feel, as a writer and an observant human, that some stories must be told.

Its September in Las Vegas. The citizens of the city of Sin breathe a sigh of relief as temps drop to a positively chilling 99 degrees, as we wait with baited breath for pumpkin spice anything to ease our taste buds after the scourge of another summer. Contrary to popular belief, this city does have some modicum of culture. One of which is our Super Summer Theater. Located in Spring Mountain Ranch, 45 minutes away from the hub of the city, it’s a great place to take a date, sip some wine, nibble hummus and crackers and spread on fold out chairs watching any number of productions from local theater acts. Last night was one such night. I attended a production of “Noises off”.

The play within a play, is a farcical situation comedy of errors about a motely theater company putting on a production of a bawdy British comedy. If one was to take a drink every time the word “sardines” is mentioned, they’d have alcohol poisoning before the 2nd act. One of my closest friends was in a lead role. I must say, its always a surreal feeling being friends with an actor. The curtain parting, the lights dimming and you see people donning skins that aren’t their own. No longer the people you know and encompassing a variety of situations, from humor to wit to farce to horror and all of the above. Watching everyone on stage engaged in all sorts of farce and frolic, dashing here and rampaging there, I realized how much work goes into theater acting.

Hitting marks, turning this way, then quickly turning that way, then back again. Running here and there, grab this prop, then that one, engage with this actor and that actor and hope to god that that person doesn’t drop his or her line, in which case the whole thing topples like a house of cards, assuming of course, your casemates aren’t there to pick up the pieces. I’ve definently done a few plays in my time, and it’s simultaneously liberating, jarring, restrictive, tense and arduous all at once. It’s a mixed bag I have to say. Lengthy rehearsals are easily one of the most boring situations person can be placed in. The director gives their command. Then the actor does it. Then the director changes his mind. Or does marking. From every fathomable angle. Before you know it, its damn near midnight, you have work the next day, eyes are bloodshot, and you know your cast mates lines better than they do. But hey, art, right?

Like I said before, I’ve dipped my toe in the theatrical pool more than a few times. Id like to share that story. A few years back, after the local poetry scene dissolved into a deluge of PC culture and poorly masked virtue signaling instead of white-hot passion, I lingered in my apartment feeling agitated, disenchanted and left out. I wasn’t one of the cool kids.

It seemed that the noisiest among us had won the day. I still felt the need to exercise a creative impulse. So what if it wasn’t at a poetic mic? I saw an ad for an upcoming play, “Marie Antoinette” put on by the Majestic Repertory Theater. I didn’t know these guys from Adam, but it was a topic I could relate to. Being a student of history and admitted Francophile, I auditioned for the role of Marie’s lover, Axel Von Freson. Nervous as though I was, if it was worth doing it was worth at least trying. Failing all else, it would make for an interesting story. The day of the audition arrived. I had it in mind to do the monologue from “The Libertine” with Johnny Depp, as the unapologetic Count of Rochester proudly proclaiming his sexual prose with a heated defiance. However, I couldn’t internalize the thing to save my life, so I ended up using an old spoken word piece from the poetry days instead. I just lied and said it was from a play. I’m a fatalist and felt if it was meant to be- it would. I met the director; an unassuming man, somewhat cordial, heavyset man named Troy, and did my piece. Then I was given a call back date a few days later. Standing outside I saw the other potential actors gather. They all seemed to know one another. Then me. The interloper.

We were all herded into the theater and assigned a partner. It was interminable. I had no idea about queu s or blocking. In poetry you create your own ambiance by way of your words and cause a ripple that the audience either gauges or just watches by way of verbal hula-hoops. In theater, you have to follow someone else and it not always easy. We were all called up in rows. I felt like I was a slave on the auction block or some prize piece of meat being sized up by a discerning john for the weekend. Fairly dehumanizing, but art, right? You could smell the flop sweat. “This row step back- Troy bellowed. “Everyone else go home”.

That was it. Anticlimatic. I felt down but at least I tried. I snuck into the place around the corner for a consolation coffee and wondered why the hell I even bothered. Two weeks later, I was at my job and got an email. “Chris, I’d like to offer you the role of Fersen in Marie Antoinette. If you accept, please reply- Troy Heard.” Had I not been in a small cubicle, I would have lept up and down in sheer joy. It was the last thing I expected. I got the part! I hastily accepted and proceeded to tell everyone in shouting distance for the next two weeks. I think I even told the waitress at Macaroni Grill. Forget modesty.

Since I lived around the corner, I was the first to the read through. This was going to be a big production, all the bells and whistles, a seasoned cast (everyone there has a list of credentials longer then my forearm) as well as a former costumer for Cirque de Solie. A big deal in Vegas Town. Initially, I felt welcomed into this new fold. We gave our read through, discussed the script, exchanged watered down jokes, sipped bottled waters and handed out the rehearsal schedule. Walking out of the theater after, I talked to one of the other actors, a decidedly nuanced and characteristically lethargic actor named Richie about the script.

I was eager to break bread and get to know these people, since the next two and a half months of my life would be revolving, pay free mind you, around them. I peppered him with inquiries, asking what he thought of the script, what sort of productions he’d done, testing the waters. His response was decidedly lackluster and he approached the forthcoming play with all the enthusiasm of a root canal. Nobody seemed alive with the passion of storytelling to be honest. Maybe it was just me. My character was supposed to be heartthrob, respectively. My costume was a strange hybrid of Don Juan meets Lost Boys, meets club going euro trash. Some sort of trench coat mafia style leather jacket that only a young Kiefer Southerland could have pulled off, striped slim pants, leather boots (of which I had to subsidize from my own pocket) a shiny Gucci style woven, all topped off with a huge red bow worthy of a Rankin Bass Christmas character.

I nearly ruined my hair by straightening it nightly and thickened my eyebrows Rudolph Valentino style with some Mac eyeliner I bummed from my mother. I liked the script. I enjoyed my look, and the solid character I was privileged to play. He lived a storied life, his affair with Queen Marie but a blip on the radar. But eventually his charms ran out and he became the victim of political intrigue and ended up beaten to death by a mob in Sweden in his 40’s.

Oh, Politics.

As rehearsal waned on however, I began to feel more and more like the odd duck in the room. A feeling only helped by Troy’s more and more obvious disdain for me not being one of his lemmings. Troy favored the other actors blatantly and this became more and more obvious as time went by. I began to dread going to rehearsal after a few weeks. He called me out at the drop of a dime. “I know you used to be a poet Chris but Fersen isn’t a poet- get it together!” One night after giving what I felt was a great monologue in front of all the cast he roared, “its obvious you haven’t done this have you?” Other conflicts arose with my cast mate Josh. I can say in all honesty, this guy was one of the most thoroughly unpleasant, petty people I’ve dealt with in my life. He was crude, vindictive and went out of his way to make me feel unwelcome, talking about me behind my back to Richie, and not exactly inconspicuously.

I heard every word. Little things after a while added up. “You want too much to be liked, Chris”, Troy said. Had I been the person I normally was, I would have told him, “No I just want simple respect”. I should have said something but I wanted the role so bad. I lived in fear that I would be recast and all the sleepless night and lengthy rehearsals would be for nothing. The whole thing tapped into my lifelong fears of rejection. I knew too well what it was like to be the last picked for a sport. I knew too much of how it was to not even have the Dungeons and Dragons nerds want to talk to you. To be the last in the pecking order.

To be ostracized- for simply existing. Josh, Troy Richie. They manifested themselves as my childhood antagonists come alive. The schoolyard bullies. Only I was in my thirties. In a full time job. With bills to pay, a passport, published works- life accomplishments. This wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. It always astounds me how we feel we’ve elevated ourselves to a higher, stronger mind and have become more seasoned by life, something happens we meet that person who knows just the right words to cut us down and in no time flat we become vulnerable, isolated children again- in the fetal position wanting for our mothers.

“It will be worth it”. I told myself. “It will be worth it- and it’s all in my head I love this. I want this”. I had to say something. I reluctantly called Troy to the side one day. My gut told me it was a fools errand, but I was teetering on not doing the role. As it was, I wasn’t getting a check and it wasn’t exactly benefiting my frame of mind. You could call it overthink, but for better or worse, I’m a feeler- Troy was a see-er. A natural inborn conflict of personality from which he was the nucleus. I breathed, tried to relax but got waylaid by bouts of panic attacks. He turned the corner and met me in the dressing room. I realized there was something very unsettling about him. His face was brooding, and lacking anything in the way of emotional intelligence.

He had an oafish, hostile, immeasurably dark quality about him that was powerfully off-putting, coupled with a childish, petulant aspect. Like the lumbering, overgrown schoolyard bully who stomped on sand castles, pushed kids in the mud and flew into hissy fits just for kicks and attention. Now, he bullied the passionate and aspiring into subservience- beating them down and building them up into a contorted version of what he alone deemed artistically acceptable- and those around him just went with it- because they knew he held the purse strings to what may or may not be their big break. I think in his heart, Troy knew that I was aware what kind of person he was- and for this he singled me out for his vitriol and abuse.

Unsurprisingly, the talk went no where, with Troy brushing my concerns and doubts off and saying ” get out of your head- because you think to much”. That may have been true- because at that moment, all I was thinking was how I saw him for exactly what he was.

The two months were interminable. I arose at 3. Caught a bus at 430. Got to work at 630. Left at 2. Home. Food. Shower. Hair straightened. Brows thickened. Base applied. At the theater by 5pm. Navigate the minefield of Troy and the others.

Home. Collapse. Repeat. This I did 4 days a week. For free. As the rehearsals dragged on, people got surlier. Huddling in corners together while I sat on the opposite side, exchanging secret, inside jokes with a sod off arrogance that sickened me. I wanted so bad to tell them all to fuck off. I could have. It would be so simple. Two words and out the door. End of play. But I wouldn’t. I wanted this too bad. I strived too much and not everyone was so horrible. The few that were though- Jesus. Opening night arrived. I paced nervously in my “Trenchcoat Don Juan “ensemble. Pacing nervously. The press would be there. Local news. Reviewers. Even typing this, I channel my anxiety that night. I counted down the seconds till my scene. Boom. There it was.

The light was blinding. I saw all the people there. Loads of them. They stood in silhouette like arcane judges. Watching. Seeing. I can say in all modesty that I never flubbed a line, nor missed a mark. Fear is a hell of a motivator- and I was terrified. I channeled the solider spirit of Fersen to see me through. I hoped I would do him well. At the end of the third act and the final scene, Axel appears from a screen of smoke like something out of a Ridley Scott fever dream and comforts Marie in her last minutes alive as she lay in the unbecoming squalor of a prison cell. Her once elegant hair crudely hacked off, her family gone and those she loved either sent into exile or abandoning her. After some consolation and a tragic dance together with Fersen, the man she truly loved, Marie is placed on the guillotine , basket at the ready, as I re appear this time in the guise of the executioner, a black sheet over my head, containing the empathy of devil while the blade is lowered and the room flashes blood red. End scene.

So, as I took the stage every night, all the cast would hold hands and we would take our bow. However, I stood next to Josh who would refuse to hold my hand for the bow. Just to get that last jab in for the night, I suppose, like a petulant dog marking its territory, while staring you in the face. This happened every night. It seemed wrong to me. I wanted so much to ask him what his issue was? I’m not in your clique, I get it, but he had no desire to tell me. It was so petty, especially at the end of the show when we should all be at our zenith.

One thing I felt particularly put off by was Richie’s snobbishness in regards to seeing the audience after. I asked him if he would go out and say hi to the assembled. “I don’t give a fuck about that shit, man- I’ve done my work, fuck those people”.

My jaw hit the concrete floor. Really? These people bought the tickets, paid money (28 per person, a heady fee for local theater if I do say so myself) and supported you-and you’re ultimately here because of them. I couldn’t for the life of me wrap my head around such off handed arrogance.

The play went on. Teeth gritted, Sweat dripping, pacing commencing. One whole month. Many glasses of wine were consumed. During my half hour between arriving home every day from work and my trudge around the corner to the theater, I’d lay on the floor of my apartment and wonder why I was doing this at all. I mean, I put myself in this situation. Nothing was forced upon me. Ultimately, it fell upon my feet. I wanted a new creative experience and I got one.

Why wasn’t I happy? Maybe it was me. Maybe I was just reflecting my insecurities, my inherent imposter syndrome, on my perceived aggressors. Id like to say that I truly loved the play, and was proud to be a part of it, I just wasn’t happy and I had brought this on myself. King Midas Syndrome, I call it. Wanting for something you think you want, only to discover it comes with a burden basket you can hardly believe and never thought of prior. The last night of the play seemed a long time coming. I remember it distinctly. I was a matinee show. I sat backstage and gazed into the mirror, noting the changing around me. Marie Antoinette was already yesterday’s news. Troy, always one to aspire to the cool kid’s club and virtue signal at any cost, chose the socially charged Animal Farm by George Orwell and the avante garde garb backstage reflected this change. The whole thing was very ugly to me and seemed to encapsulate my feelings about this show ending. The juxtaposition of color and beauty of Marie and the grotesque caricature of humanity that was Animal Farm. I looked in the mirror, my costume hanging behind me, already losing its luster.

I wasn’t without some gratitude though. I had seen all of my friends and family come to support me, and for this I was grateful. I was grateful for our lead, for she truly shined and deserved the role. Grateful for the crowds that came every night. Some who I didn’t yet know, but soon would. Five minutes. Places. We went out. “When I rule the world”, blasting into the theater. Harpsichords fluttering. Guitars rocking. Teacups clanking. Screams echoing. Hands slapping faces. Hands parting away one last time. Blades dascending. Red lighting. We took our final bow. It was done. As we all headed behind the curtain, I took one last glimpse at the theater, knowing, good or bad, I’d made it to this moment.

 Two friends had come to see me, and I look forward to seeing them after. I also received a message from my friend and champion, Tonya. I would be giving a reading from a book I had published earlier in the year the next day. I was elated. From one project right into another. I wiped my face, slapped on a v -neck and jeans, did a quick once over and bolted. Apparently, the bar is popular with the local theater crowd, and after some time the rest of the cast slipped in, hanging in their corners like high school cafeteria. I sat, with the shield of my friends and enjoyed a shot on the house- a nice perk.

However, Josh lumbered in and  wasn’t done. He looked me over and said smugly “you know Chris, we generally help take down the set after the last show”, with the inbred smugness I’d endured over the last two months and had come to utterly despise. I grit my teeth and stared him straight in the eye, thinking how easily one well placed kick could knock him off his barstool and right onto the floor. It would be appropriate. He was used to being on bar floors anyway. “Great to know”, I retorted, defying him. He turned his back to me.

I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I bid my friends goodbye, and walked home briskly. “it’s done”, I told myself. “it’s finally fucking done”. I hitched a ride to the coffee house the next day, a charming place on the outskirts of town. It was my element. Espresso and Perrier. Shelves chocked with old tomes of all sorts. The lingering miasma of both conversations and caffeine, all to the tune of twenties jazz and rustling newspapers.

I brought a hefty stack of my books, ample change and my card. I was ready for business. The other writers gathered. An impressive litany of wordsmiths with years of training and experience behind them. One woman had written an account about a journey to Beethoven’s home, another about the struggles of going blind yet still perusing words. My editor and friend Isabelle, a beautiful soul from Marseilles, came and supported me as well as an acquaintance from Seattle. I was announced, and called up. I stood at the mic, the smell of coffee brewing in the background, all eyes on me, book in hand, telling a story, words I had written, hewn from years of experience and observation. I knew this feeling. The very one that once felt boring. I noted, as I read, how strong my voice felt. The joy in my heart. I looked at the crowd. All people, old and young, rapt.

I was happy. Signing my books and shaking hands- was joyous. I realized then, it was a perfect “Pilgrim’s Progress” moment. I had looked within myself, found emptiness and discontent, sought something new and exciting and had an experience Only to arrive at a point I once felt tired of. Instead of feeling upset, I felt rewarded. Good or bad, it emboldened me, and gave me a story to tell. When it was over, I took a picture with the other authors filled with genuine joy. Full circle. A friend of mine has always said “what we really need in this world is never that hard to find”. That’s what I took from this journey.

Perhaps, if the Wizard of Oz has taught me anything, its that we sometimes need to go on a bit of a sojourn to appreciate what is standing in front of us all along. Emerging again, with a richer appreciation. Of course, I plan to act again, but this was a special story that noted telling- and made me realize my true love is this just that- stories, writing words, and giving them back to the world.

–because hey- art- you know?

I’m in my mid thirties. Can I tell you something? It’s weird to think of. Often, I have what I call “pause moments”. Those, take a look in the bathroom and gaze at yourself naked and imperfect, assessing every parcel to the last iota spells- and it baffles me. I’ve hit what at one time seemed an insurmountable number. I often remember my mom, lecturing me when my grades where subpar in school and saying the following; ” What do you want to see when you’re grown up and looking in the mirror?” Such a statement evokes a load of layers and meaning and some levels of snark. All cynicism aside, I’m not displeased with what I see. I see a slender though healthy individual. I have the deep set smokey eyes of my Latin ancestors, mixed with Cherokee and Aztec to my mothers side, the strong jawline and pronounced features of my Northern Italian brethren on my father’s side. I have my great grandfathers thinning hairline, sadly ( as a receipt on my countertop proudly announcing ” Rogain” gleefully illustrates) as well as the coordination of a daft lemur ( If you were to hold a gun to my head and tell me to cartwheel ,you may as well dig my grave right there.)

Self depreciating ironies and observations aside, I’ve come to a place in my life where I genuinely like myself. It’s not an emotion born of smugness or conceit. I call my flaws and my virtues into order and I assess them one by one- and make peace. There’s alot of have to learn in this life and much I have learned and I’m grateful for that, believe you me.

What’s the point of this musing?

Well I speak of being genuine. Knowing what you are and where you come from. One of my heroes, Jane Fonda, once said “to know where you’re going, you must know where you’ve been”. Truer words were never spoken. One thing I personally see to have, and this may resonate with you as well, is a genuine persona. Someone without pretense,mask veil or otherwise. Now I know in the creative stew in which I used to swim, pretense is tantamount to hustle. You can’t showcase venerability too much when you have an image to cultivate and works to ply. Fully understood. But at what point does and person drop the pretense and simply –be? You don’t need a personalty when this mask you carved out for yourself is the loudest thing in the room-and at the risk of tooting my own horn, I have to say that when you spend alot of time with true individuals, spending time for people who are vainglorious ego shills is unbearable. Let me give you an example. A few years ago, when I was sauntering in and out of the poetic scene, a new host appeared at the resident open mic I frequented. Now I won’t name this guy, though truthfully I don’t think he would notice moreover-care. In any case, I met this him one night and there was something about him I just could not jive with. I felt it instinctively. You know when you’re sick and its a slight tickle in the back of your throat and you just know it’s leading to something?

It was unmistakable . I’m sorry to say, he wasted little time proving me right. As time passed, this person spread more and more of his influence. Nights of meaning and hard truth became filled to overflowing with pseudo wisdom and debased spiritual jargon and part time yogis. I remember standing in the corner watching all this foolishness take place and feeling disappointment. How could so many be so seduced by such obvious facade? I wasn’t buying it and furrowed my brow at those who did, people whose ideas once meant something to me, having been transported by art and song- buying into nonsense, from a snakeoil salesman slathered in patchouli oil and hemp with a shit eating grin. It was maddening. As the weeks went by I saw more and more of my friends heed his pied pipers call and dance under his sway. Suddenly legions of my friends where adapting henna tattoos and telling me about my aura color. Instead of deep personal conversations on passion and dreams or fears and revelations, people began to form “hug circles” and “cuddle puddles”. These monstrosities of superfluous fluff were often accompanied by hippie drum circles carried in the dead of night on our dry lake bed. Kind of a wanna be witches sabbat only instead of rituals and calling the dead, it was DMT and molly infused orgies carried out in borrowed Target tents. These weren’t high spiritual nights. There were drug induced cacophonous keggers of baseless noise. Through all of this, our burlap donning, ever grinning lord of chaos himself carried on while his loaded lemmings wasted into oblivion pounded drums to call the night- or God or Zeus or Satan- depending on what kind of drugs they were wasted on.

Nothing like synthetic devotion. I hated him. I hated how I saw right through him, and nobody else seemed to. All the way down to his oily second hand Birkenstocks. Nothing but a spiritual shyster who hijacked a great scene and mind fucked the gullible- WHY could nobody see this? What is the MATTER with you all?!

Then, something happened.

He just drifted away. Little by little. People spoke less of him, his presence became less obvious and in a year or so’s time, apart from the occasional spotting at an event, he faded. Friends began to tell me of how superficial he was and how he was nothing like he said. I relinquished the urge to say , “I told you so”, and his influence eventually faded from memory and he became a blip on the radar. Now, in retrospect, I seem to have been rather hard on this individual. I mean, there was no need to hate him. I admit, I must have had some envy. Still-where was it rooted? Jealously? That he was finding something I had yet to? That he held sway and people sought to be around him? That he was crafting an identity for himself I sought to manifest? I would say it’s only half true. I feel the backlash truthfully came from people stepping away and seeing how vacant this all was. A sabbatical can be a blessing and I truly encourage them if you aren’t feeling very certain of something, or someone-if of course you have the time.

The final nail I feel with all of this is that transparency eventually became too apparent and it eventually turned folks off. When a person comes to you feeling true anguish, they dont want a long winded overzealous , passively domineering hug. They want a friend. They want to talk. When you’ve had a lousy day at work or a fight with a loved one, you don’t want a “cuddle puddle”, you want to look someone in the eyes and know really and truly you are cared for. You want a smile and security. What this all boils down to, is that facades, like mandalas- fade. And like a lying Pinocchio, they grow and grow until they become blindingly obvious. In the end, I ask you- what’s the point? Survival? Okay. Popularity? Perhaps- though not exactly noble and not at all lasting.

Granted this person I used as an example is long gone , and I don’t follow him on my scant social media. I do wish him well and looking back and knowing what I know know, I should have been a little more understanding that, he like many of us was “seeking himself”, or something to that effect. My ire lay with the fact he dragged so many down with him and in all honesty that’s something I’m still not completely over. I’m a project- laden with flaws-ever changing. We all are. It all comes back to what my mother said to me many moons ago.

“How do you want to see yourself when you’re grown up?”

-and I in turn ask you the same thing, reader.

What’s it going to be? You’re genuine self, an imperfect work in progress, ever changing- or- an egocentric circus act, that, like all performances, loses its crowd and eventually-leaves town?

As of late , Ive been going though a bit of a personal identity crisis. Well, scratch that. Crisis is too dire a word. Broken down on the side of the highway with a dollar in your pocket and an uncharged phone is a crisis. Perhaps shift applies? Okay, we’ll stick with that. See, for several years I saw myself so much a riled up creative. Edgy, angst ridden pseudo romantic. I remember one time breaking into an abandoned hotel and ripping wallpaper off the walls and using it in a collage. See in the trajectory of my life, I’ve had no shortage of rabble rousing. I’ve marched in protests, been kicked out of properties, commiserated with questionable individuals whose ideas were not exactly in my best interests, but back then I was gung ho because I GOT IT.

I went, as many young folks do, through my ” fuck the man” state of existence. However, as the inevitable passage of time would have it- I can’t relate to this person I was anymore. For a long time, I staunchly maintained ideals I swore with every beat of my soul I would never diverge from. Hard core left leaning ideals.

Then, something happened.

I got older.

See, maturation isn’t the bogeyman we think it will be when we’re young. It opens the door to self reflection, which is a beautiful and beneficial thing. You get a chance to stop, assess, breath, look back and either pat yourself on the back or shake your head in utter humiliation. You grow , and hopefully you learn. Trust me when I tell you that having a brutal look in the mirror with a clear and unfettered mind will teach you more then any university.

This leads into what was going to be an earlier post. For a long time I was a devotee of the open mic poetry scene. You would be hard pressed to find someone more passionate then I was in the scene around 2014-2016. I hit them all up, like a verbal buffet, sampling bit by bit and forming a taste I could enjoy. I met many individuals and many persons who I’m still friends with to this day and for that I will never be ungrateful. Its amazing what a low inhibition brought on by cheap wine, a page of a moleskin and a dead end job’s worth of angst can do for a room. This was my ritual and I did it with zeal and zest. I identified strictly as a “poet and spoken word artist”, a term that I now reel at, if not for its obliqueness and sheer pretense. I chose to step away from the scene when I saw it go downhill from my observation. Too much pandering to socialital politics and insipid baseless PC mores rather then fiery freewheeling passion that got me there in the first place, and this I will go into further on another entry. However, what I’m getting at is I began to identity myself so strictly as this wordsmith that I didn’t know what else to be. . I learned something a long time ago at the gym. When you give to much energy to one muscle group, and work only that, the rest of the body will grow weak and ultimately give out on you.

Have you ever gotten so bemired in one aspect of your personality , you don’t know how to operate outside of it? I was so lost in terms and phrases, romanticizing every nuance of life from a corner that I forgot how to live it- and engage with it,the very instincts that brought me to it in the first place- which needless to say, became unhealthy. Rose colored glasses can look sharp and chic, but don’t necessarily help ones vision of the world around them. When we give to much of yourself to one aspect of what we are, all else is neglected and suffers. In my little studio apartment, on the fringes of the strip- I feel a transformation occurring. I don’t know what to tell you is on the other side of this. I’ve joined a gym again. I’m making an effort to build up my body. Not for vanity, but for health and a long life. My mind is more open to voices I would have blissfully and hastily shunned 7 years ago. My personal politics have gotten more moderate leaning as a pose to dyed in the wool liberal I once was. I’m open to the greater conversation. I want to meet people I once disagreed with and demonized, because it can only challenge and enrich me. I don’t feel that the people on the other side are the evil demons I once marked them as anymore.One part of my mind says I’m neglecting my god given gifts. Another, which I know to be the more mature and ultimately right side of my psyche , says that this is part of the ebb and flow. The turn of a page to a new aspect of existence.

What I’m getting to in all of this babbling is this; gifts are beautiful. I personally will always view writing as mys great gift and I relish that and honor it. However, its not all I am. I love this new knowledge. I love the fact that I can embrace new aspects of being . I love that this journey is now before me. Because I have to say, I was looking at some old photos from a protest march from several years back I went to and I saw myself. To be honest folks, I didn’t look very happy.

Shifting.

Embrace it.

I speak from experience.

Ding!

4:26am

Smooth jazz interlude with a coffee house finish seizes me from my noctural state. My mind is a bit fuzzy. I’ve a penchant for red wine and it dosent always bode well for a decent nights rest. Be that as it may, I get up and saunter, more often than not clothes free ( too much info?) and turn on the coffee perk. Another dollar awaits. As the best 8 dollar coffee Trader Joes can produce bubbles to life, and the little Italian perk produces a silky steam. I bask my face in it and it aids in my waking. I pour. I stand. I listen to music. Little tricks to loosen the sandman’s grip .

5:45 clothes on, hair brushed, food packed, I walk to the bus station. My walk takes me through the heart of this part of Las Vegas I call home, less by design, more by sheer absorption and naked loyalty. Few humans are about. Every once in a while, you’ll see a stray street walker-all sequins and sin, as though she lept from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog and in front of Bastille, a popular gay bar with a somewhat contrived Parisian theme. I pass Raw Remedies , an ethnic hair parlor that I seldom see anyone at, save for a once a month open mic I once sporadically frequented-more on that another day. I pass the 18 block, right up from the transit center. It’s here I board the HDX straight into the rather dull berg of Henderson and right to my job’s front door. The sheer convenience is worth the early wake up call, and since I don’t always have cash for a lyft and don’t drive – it’s the best game in town. I don’t ind. This is my time to think. A new revelation with every foot fall, every stride.

Anyway, as I walk the avenues, the sun barely rising in the distance, neon still beaming, I make a sudden realization. I know every inch of this area. Every sector and section contains a memory of sorts. Some good, some mortifying, some exhilarating. All unique. Here surrounded by friends with colored hair and inked limbs, have I screamed and shouted. Nary a foot of this place isnt isnt speckled with some peak experiance of my life. Here, among graffittied alleys and karaoke bars, have I written, walked, danced, tipped dollar Corona  like fine champagne, thought and fretted and all in between. Every inch of this place has been such an intrinsic part of my being for the past few years. I feel safe here. In this strange hybrid place between the higher tawdriness of Las Vegas Blvd and the lesser tawdriness of Downtown, I can walk free.
I am abundantly aware of the stigma placed on Las Vegas. And in complete honesty I can see where it has its truths. However in this little in-between place I feel I can breathe easy. My life punctuated with occasional coffee house visits bars, and a stray overpriced taco.

I know just about all the business owners here. I can saunter past cafe Vesta, where americanos black as sin are a welcome sight and mexican burlap bags are mine for the asking. The theater where I’ve done my duties and preformed night after night. The countless open mic spaces where young wordsmiths and trobadors shout their lungs out. The Arts Factory, a former crematorium made artists loft where I sometimes venture through it on my free days. A dolls house where every twist and turn reveals some new altruistic treasure, punctuated by myrrh lavander oils and patchouli or copious amounts of grass, depending on the time of day.
As the city grows ever forward, I approach this with a mixture of positivity and amused indifference. I hate the fact that Prosperity has come at the price of once great cafes where I would watch my friends grow with every week. The displacement of iconography seemingly tawdry yet still significant. The elimination of grit but it’s hardly a local phenomenon.
The sad truth is often Prosperity comes at the price of character and true color.

This Art District is small and may strike an outsider as subpar, especially coming from a city as grand as New York or LA, Seattle, Portland..etc. One can nitpick all they wish and I can only go off my own experiences. Yet fine things oft come in small packages. When I’m here, walking these streets, past oddity shops, divey bars and walls painted by the hands of men I’ve known, I can’t help but tread with a certain sort of pride. I won’t live here forever. I’ve a long life ahead of me, however, I know that the Art’s District, sketched a permanent home in my psyche.

Hi. How are you? Well I hope. My name is Christopher Alan Cipollini. I’m an Italian guy living in Sin City with a penchant for the past and a happily a pulse on the present. I came here and decided to begin this blog for two reasons. They may resonate with you.

1- I’m a writer already and need to keep in the game. Muscles unused grow weak.

2-I’ve come to a point in my life where Ive found the vapid world of social media ( facebook in particular) grating to say the least. Everyone vomiting memes and not have a true experience, exchanging thoughts, stories, energies- you know- what I signed on for.

Ive come back here to return to my roots. This is not my first foray into online journaling, oh no, far from it. Ive kept several blogs in the past. One lasted for some years but I eventually got disenchanted with the turn my voice was taking so I bid it farewell. The other was a bit more poetic in nature but after some time I felt disenchanted with the writing itself and seemingly pigeonholed my writing into Dickensian style ramblings. Not that that doesn’t have nobility, but, I don’t like to feel confined- especially by myself. I bid it too, farewell.

So here I am, like some online prodigal son, returning to words I don’t even know anybody may see. I’ve a Machivellian style idealsim about written words that facebook notes could never fully satisfy. Other than writing, I can say Im a contemplative individual by nature. I prefer to watch the crowd coyishly from the corner than join in. I enjoy the concert but enjoy a quiet little bar afterward. Mysterious and archaic things captivate me. Stonehenge and ruins. Old magnificent things call my heart. Old times decadent ages, absinthe and alabaster. It’s just my way. Im a bit of a theater geek and love to perform when I can. I ‘ve acted performed poetry, crossed many a stage, and who’s to say- it may happen again.

At this time, however, my mind, and pen has shifted. The stimuli for new faces grows by the day and buffets my head to and fro, hence things like starting this blog and returning to an old friend with a new brain. So that being said, enjoy. Hopefully mind resonates with you in some way, if not, Im perfectly happy to commiserate with myself in semi silence.

Trust me, Im used to it.