Thursday, September 25, 2014

Scab/ Anima/ Sheila Callaghan

I want to tell you something. I want to but I don’t know how. He - my father - he was losing his mind. The last time I saw him alive was Christmas. I was reading in my room after our frozen turkey dinners and they were all watching The Nutcracker in the living room. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and found him standing at the kitchen sink with his back to me. He was on his tiptoes pissing into the sink. I breathed out and he quickly came back down and zipped up, and told me to get the hell out of there and back to bed, and he walked out of the kitchen. 

I stood there for twenty minutes not moving. It was seven-thirty at night. Everyone was still awake. My father was six foot two and over two hundred pounds. The bathroom was closer to the living room then the kitchen. 

How can I ever begin to talk about anything

Scab/ Anima/ Sheila Callaghan

Don’t worry about how the funeral, you know, of my father went. It was all very appropriate, grandmother sang a little tune called “How I Wish God Would Take Me Too” and danced a jig in front of all the dearly-beerlies, and oh man, the cold cut platters, fruit baskets, and condolence cards, and of course….Jesus at every turn. ‘He’s with Jesus now’ ‘We should thank Jesus he felt little pain. ‘Would you like some Jesus with your dinner mam?’

But what really snapped my strap was when the priest handed Artie the flag. No one knew he was going to do that. He whipped it off the casket and folded it up into a neat triangle like a cut sandwich and said, ‘On behalf of the president of the United States I present this flag to you in honor of your fathers service..” It was wild. I felt for a second my dad WAS the president. Assassinated. By his fellow countrymen. Bastard corporate American dream, live it, love it, fuck it in the ass or it will fuck you. Hahaha you think I’m crazy, don’t you?

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Scab/ Anima/ Sheila Callaghan


I’ve been sitting on this couch for hours thinking of your mouth -don’t pull away. Your mouth. Moving. And your hair. Trying to conjure the correct version of you so I could see this all with some sort of precision. But you keep blurring. Even now, your hands. They feel like I could just press a little harder and your bones would crush to dust beneath your skin. But I know they are the same hands as before. I know it. Okay, Christa? I know it, but I still fucking hate you right now.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Mon Ange by Francesca Blanchard


Hello my fantastic followers! 

  I wanted to fill ya’ll in on a really exciting project that currently needs your help to be funded. 

I know I know. Another stupid Indiegogo campaign. 

Hopefully you can give me the next few minutes to talk to you about why this is an important artistic endeavor to fund. 

I love music of any and all kinds. So when my friend, the incredible, Francesca Blanchard started an indiegogo campaign to fund her first full length album I knew I had to donate. Francesca reminds me of a mix of Laura Marling, Joni Mitchell, and God. And she is about to EXPLODE on the music scene. Have a look at her website and music here!

(I’ll also post some music after this) (Annd continue to post monologues, I haven’t forgotten that) 


I have some monologues that I have refrained from putting on the blog, simply because I consider them my favorite pieces and somehow I think if I put them out there they’ll lose magic. I also have a ton of other monologues I need to type up and queue. I get, on an average day, around 100 requests for monologue recommendations, 

So here’s my deal. If you research Francesca and find that you really dig her music and want to donate, than send me an inbox saying you donated and the name that you said you donated under. I’ll confirm that you donated with Francesca and we’ll set up a time when we can talk on the phone/ chat/ inbox whatever so you can explain to me exactly what you want in a monologue. And if you don’t know what you want I can get to know you and then help you figure out monologues perfect for your type, what you’re going out for, and that you love. I will not stop until we find something you love. 

I’ll forward you some of the applicable reserve monologues as well as the digital version of the play that one of your chosen monologues is from. 

All I ask in return, is that you donate to Francesca’s campaign. You can donate any amount but please, if you also want to be eligible for monologue help donate at least $10. 

Here is the indigogo link. Today I’ll post purely Francesca Blanchard music (because I’m annoying) and then tomorrow I promise to resume monologues.

As a price comparison, when I was searching for monologues to audition at colleges with people were charging upwards of $50. None of your money will go to me, it will go to something much more beautiful and worthy! 

All my love friends. 

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Boston University, Thoughts about the BFA Program

Hey guys, 

I’ve been getting a few requests about what my audition experience was like and the BFA program at BU so I figured why not make a post. 

I auditioned for BFA programs my senior year of high school, 2010. I auditioned at: 
Point Park University
Carnegie Mellon University
Boston University
Emerson College
New York University
University of Illinois- Chicago
Depaul University

I additionally had safe schools which I did not apply for a BFA. 

Auditions were pretty the same overall, two monologues contrasting (only BU and CMU required one contemporary and one classical), you go in slate, perform, talk a little, or maybe not at all and leave. 

I was super fortunate and got in to all but two schools. In the end, I choose BU because I liked the idea that studying abroad was mandatory and there seemed to be a really fantastic sense of family there. 

I believe, that if you want to learn how to be an artist,how to generate meaningful work and feel extremely artistically and spiritually fulfilled Boston University is the place for you. 

**warning cheesiness ahead

There were 39 of us admitted to the Freshman year. By our senior year there was 37. BU’s strongest asset is the connections it creates within the class between the professors, the students, and each other. Freshman year they focus on leveling the playing field so everyone is coming to the work with a clean slate. This means that the school doesn’t necessarily become a hyper competitive and toxic place where people fight against one another to see who is best, but use each other and help one another grow. My classmates are some of my best friends, they are my family, my support group, everything really. I know I can turn to them and ask for help and they will open their arms to me and vice versa. With this supportive environment it’s super easy to learn to fail and try and fail and try again and again, because you have such a great group of people who will catch you when you fall. 

**end of cheesiness 

Now, the program! I’ll sum it up as succinctly and best I can, 

Freshman year all students are enrolled in what’s known as Performance Core. The year focuses on basic skills, ensemble building, and you figuring out who you are as a person and how and why you are that way. A lot of introspective work and time. The school knows it’s asking a lot of you emotionally and so there are many health matinees (blocks of time where people talk to you) about physical, emotional and mental health. You’ll take, Voice and Speech, Alexander Technique, Movement, Acting, Drama Lit, Theatre Ensemble, a writing class, and more. Freshman aren’t allowed to perform in shows so every week you have a class called Locals which is the entire class existing and performing in a free safe place for one another. (Freshman year, I dumped a gallon of fake blood on my head….you can literally do anything)

Sophomore year you will have declared your major. Either a BFA in Acting or a BFA in Theatre Arts. Both majors are just different ways to a similar end. The Acting major focuses on acting and has a very set schedule all three years. You sign up for the acting major sophomore year and you know then what classes you’ll be taking senior year. Core acting classes are taken every year including acting, voice and speech, alexander technique, and movement. Acting majors are required to perform in shows every quarter starting the second semester of the Sophomore year and their senior year ends in an acting thesis: a 25-45 minute one person show containing ten different beats. 

The Theatre Arts major allows the student to devise their own way of studying. If you’re interested in acting but also directing you can add lots of directing classes. Other students havve focused on playwrighting, dramaturgy, dance, and even outside theatre studies. Casting is not mandatory and you can also apply to assistant direct a show or take a quarter off to write a play. Acting classes are a tiny bit more geared through physical acting Grotowsky technique and the Theatre Arts thesis is when all Theatre Arts majors create a theatre group and produce, direct, act, or write their own productions. 

For Acting majors the first semester of Junior year is focused on all things classical. Students are trained in armed combat and classes focus on Shakespeare’s text. The second semester the students fly the coup! Usually going to the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art or the Accademia de’ll Arte in Arezzo, Italy; however you can go anywhere, we’ve had people go to India, Australia and Africa even. 

After the junior year students return for senior year. 

Acting majors focus on their thesis the first semester and Theatre Arts focus on it all year with their thesis’ being performed in the last quarter. Senior year also takes a look at the professional world and the students place in it. You’ll take a class with the indomitable Mary V. Buck who will tell you how the world will see you and act as general bad ass adviser. Boston University has a showcase in NY over spring break and Boston later on. Usually, there are a group of students who will also fly to LA for a meet and greet cocktail kind of thing. 

Ok, this is a lot,any questions hit me up. 


Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Hyménée - Nicolas Gogol


Vraiment, c’est bien embarrassant de choisir, s’il n’y en avais qu’un ou deux, mais ils sont quatre! Va donc choisir! Nicanor Ivanitch Anoutchkine n’est pas mal, bien qu’un peu maigre. Ivan Kouzmitch Podkoliossine non plus n’est pas mal. Et à dire vrai Ivan Pavlocitch Omelette n’est pas mal non plus, bien qu’un peu trop gros, c’est un homme imposant. Balthazar Balthazaritch Jévakine a lui aussi des qualités. Ah! comme il est difficile de se décider, je ne sais que faire! Si au-dessus des lèvre de Nicanor Ivanitch on pouvait planter le nez de Ivan Kouzmitch, et si on pouvait prendre un peu de la désinvolture de Balthazar Balthzaritch et ajouter à tout cela l’embonpoint d’Ivan Pavlovitch, alors mon choix serait vite fait. Tandis que maintenant, j’en ai la migraine rien que d’y penser. Je crois que le mieux serait encore de tirer au sort. S’en remettre à la volonté de Dieu; celui qui sortira sera mon mari. Je vais écrire leur nom sur un bout de papier, les plier et ensuite advienne que pourra.  

Monday, April 21, 2014

The Food Chain/ Amanda/ Nicky Silver


SoI was reading my paper when the waiter came over and asked if I was…alone. Well! It was obvious that I was alone! I was sitting there, in a booth, by myself -did he think I thought I had an imaginary friend with me?! I was alone! Did he have to rub it in? Was he trying to be funny? Did he think he was, in some way, better than me? It was in his tone. He said, ‘Are you alone?’ But what he meant to say was,  ’You’re alone. Aren’t you?!’ And I can’t imagine he’s not alone every single day of his miserable , pathetic life! He has terrible skin. And it’s not attractive. Not the way bad skin is attractive on some people. On some men!!! I’ve strayed. The point is this waiter has terrible skin, and greasy hair and his breath stinks of something dead and his face is too entirely close to mine. I want to pick up my butter knife and stab him in his sunken caved-in chest! But I simply respond
'No, I'm married thank you'
I realize now, of course, that my answer was illogical. I realize that it was innapropriate. But at the time it was all I could think of to say. 
Well he leans back and really in the the most supercillious manner, he leers at me and intones, ‘I meant are you eating alone.’ ‘I KNEW WHAT YOU MEANT! I KNEW WHAT HE MEANT!’ I’m not a person who shouts, generally. I don’t like shouting. It hurts to shout and it hurts to be shouted at. But I shouted. I was standing. I must’ve leapt up when I shouted. So I was standing and everyone was staring at me. The place was very crowded, much more crowded than I ever recall seeing it before. 

Friday, April 18, 2014

Pterodactyls/ Emma/ Nicky Silver

Hello everybody. I’m dead. How are you? I’m glad I killed myself. I’m not reccomending it for others, mind you - no Dr. Kevorkian am I. But it’s worked out for me. Looking back, I don’t think I ever was supposed to have been born with to begin with. Of course, the idea that ‘supposed to be’ implies a master plan„ and I don’t believe in that kind of thing. When I say I shouldn’t have been born, I mean that my life was never all that pleasant. And there was no real reason for it. I was pretty. I had money. I was lucky enough to be born into a time and a class where I had nothing but opportunities. I look around and there is crippled people and blind people and refugees and I can’t believe I had the gall to whine about anything! I had my health - oh sure, I complained a lot, but really I was fine. And I had love! Granted the object of my affections was a latent, or not-so-latent homosexual as it turned out who was affected with the HIV virus, who in turn infected me and my unborn baby—but isn’t that really picking nits? I can never thank Todd enough for giving me the gun, because for the first time, I’m happy. The pain is gone and I remember everything. Tommy is here but we’re not speaking. He spends all his time with Montgomery Clift and George Cukor talking about movies. I assume. And I’ve been reunited with Alice Paulker. We went to school together. She was shot last year by a disgruntled postal worker. She has long wavy brown hair and skin so pale you can see right through it - I don’t mean it’s really transparent and you can see her guts and everything. It’s just pale. And she has very big eyes. Green. And we listen to music and go for walks. And take turns read aloud to each other. She reads poems by Emily Bronte and I read chapters from The Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. She was always classier than me. And sometimes we just hold each other. and I run my fingers through her hair and she touches her lips, gently, along my cheek. She makes soft sounds, comforting sounds and she takes her time and runs her tongue around the edge of my ear. We take off our clothes and just look at each other. I was shy at first, but Alice helped me and never rushed me. She held my breasts in her hand and ran her lips between them, down my stomach. I touch her eyelids and her forehead and her hair and her fingers and the back of her neck. And she enters me and I am everywhere at once and nowhere at all. And I remember everything and find that nothing matters. And for a moment, for a moment or two that lasts forever we become one person. And I forget, we forget, that we were ever alive. And everything makes perfect sense.