Drafted

Ladies and Gentlmen, goodnight. But before I go, a word:

My Moscow Journal articles are drafted and e-mailed for review. On time, sorta' (the deadline was "by Sept. 1" ... so the debate of "by" vs. "on" can commence).

BUT, they are done. They are submitted. I await the inevitable - my editor's/professor's criticisms. ugh.

BUT, they are done. This means that this blog is done. My first year of school is, to me, OFFICIALLY OVER. So what to do now? How do I keep going, authorially?

Well, meet Joziu: joziu.blogspot.com. Joziu is a blog I started AGES ago when blogs were popular. Now, I feel, they're professional. People keep blogs for a purpose, and my purpose: to practice my writing. Or, I should say, to continue my writing.

So, goodbye dear "Tolya" followers. If you feel like checkin' out Joziu ... please do so. But give me a couple of days ... gotta' clean the ole boy up first.



PS: my first class of my second year is tomorrow. Joy.

A Paper a week ...

... that's about what I'm averaging right now. It's not good - it's not bad, but it's not good. Perhaps I'm being too in depth? I dunno'. My last essay (my 2nd) was about 3000 words long ... which seems long.

Perhaps I'm agonizing about these papers too much? It's quite possible ... but they're also quite difficult. I have "thesis" engrained in my brain right now -- "what is my point of vew?" and such. What I thought would be simple reflections on my time in Moscow have morphed into agonizing analyses of aesthetics. Myt fear is that these agonies will be tossed back into my face with a simple "that's not really what we're looking for."

Ugh.

I'm a bit jealous. People I've met at other programs seem to get by with much less effort. I don't know if that is a good thing, or if I'm getting a better education, or if I'm making things more difficult for myself than they need to be. Perhaps I'm making mountains out of molehills?? Who knows.

One thing I am taking away from all of this is practice for my THESIS. That towering piece of writing looms over me in the most terrifying manner. I'm scared I'll either not be up to par, or bailout completely.

Bailing has been on my mind a lot recently. Everything seems rather futile. I'm paying upwards of 100k for a degree that will yield a minimum return financially. Beyond that, I'm not sure if my judgement is of any value at all. I've had a few playwrights I've met solicit me for opinions and ideas, which makes me feel appreciated and perhaps I'm on the right track? Who knows ...

all I know is that I'm tired. Thoughts of alternative careers are already whirling around my brain, careers that don't suck up my free time and that pay me decent money. Careers like my old secretary's gig in NYC. I had a life then ... now, I only have aspirations.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

... and I'm tired and burnt out. I can't say I've had the best couple of weeks. In addition to getting used to new surroundings (which, considering it is my parents' house, has been far more of an adjustment than I anticipated), I'm trying to stay productive.

Burn out is, again, occurring. Today was spent in the choir rehearsal room of the beautiful Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. After getting home, stuffing food in my face, I sat down to write my ARTicle.

Heh.

I'm jealous of my fellow interns who don't have homework to do on their days off. Sitting at my lap top, frustrated with my efforts and with my situation, I turned to the TV. Not the best use of my time, but it helped to clear my head. Things are a bit cloudy, right now. I'm just off my game, and am not sure how to correct it. I hope to clear up soon.

Priorities, Priorities...

It's been a while since I've last posted to this thing. It's been a busy month!! Travels through Europe, relocations to Chicago, internship at a major theatre... good times, but tiring.

Amdist it all is my ARTicle. A "fantasy" (as I like to think of it) on Weimar cabaret, I was charged with writing 800 - 1,000 words to help introduce American audiences to our upcoming a.r.t. season. I can't say I didn't enjoy the task; however, writing is always something I moan about.

I'm an improving writer, and I'm beginning to take pleasure in writing; however, I still view it as a chore. Perhaps it has to do with viewing my tasks as assignments and not opportunities - but that's a psychological shift I can tackle over time.

For now, my focus is Weimar cabaret ... and then I can begin my Moscow journals. They're all, technically, begun, but in a variety of places and conditions. So, I need to sit down and clean things up .... by mid July. It will happen, in time, but for right now I'm all about the Weimar.

This blog is good practice, too. Tolya's intent was that by having us write daily we would, like bodybuilders, tone our literary muscles. I think it has worked, and I intend to try and keep "Tolya Made Me Do It" up and running for a few more weeks. When I complete my Moscow diaries, then will Tolya be put to bed ...

and Joziu will be re-awoken.

The Retreat from Moscow

Like Napoleon, my leaving of Moscow was a bloody mess (in the figurative sense).

A simple burger with friends (the expats - Ian, Grant and David, Steve [in spirit]) and a fleeting mention of departing was followed by a melancholy potluck with champansky and vodka and bean dip (yes, bean dip - Vince's, and it was delicious). All was followed by more drink. Afterall, I had a 3am bus to catch - why go to bed?

My bags (somewhat) packed, I was in my dorm room throwing things in places then moving places. People would wander in, interrupting my hurry for a hug and some fond words, and then more fury. My thoughts: "This bag feels too heavy - why don't we have a scale?" or "Who can I give these jeans to? Maxim?"

I was the last on the bus, due to a painful goodbye as a drunken Maxim wandered into my room to start a heart-to-heart 15 minutes before I had to be rushed to the airport. "Really? NOW!" were the thoughts in my head; but, that cattiness was inappropriate. There was a kind of brotherly connection between me and Maxim, and to simply brush him off would have been cruel. So, I stop, listen, and can't help but look at the exquisite half-naked young man in my room. I couldn't really make out what his deal was, specifically; however, generally: he was scared. A 22 year old kid has left everyone near and dear to come to Moscow to do a show. I was one the first people he met, so there was a connection - that I had to cut short due to buses and planes.

So I rush to the bus - the last one on the bus - with my things (I think I collected everything ... but it doesn't matter). As the dark morning Moscow skyline passsed by my window, it was a bitter-sweet goodbye. I didn't know I had fallen for the city as hard as I had ... however, I had - thanks to amazing ex-pats, angels, and self-assurance.

It would have been so easy to stay in my room and simply shuttle myself from classroom to theatre and then back. I didn't. I took myself out, several nights, on my own to see what Moscow is like. The hulking, soot-ridden grey city of blonde haired scowls is not unlike New York. It's grittier, its corruption is more apparent, but its spirit is no different than New York or Chicago. I learned this through solitary evenings at bars and afternoons in restaurants hving lunch. Moscow is a city like any other.

Until you get the airport.

The tuna-can with windows that we were shuttled to has the beauty of a sewage refinery. Its counter clerk was equally pleasant. My two bags were overweight, and after chucking paper, ALL of my Russian (language class) notes (my biggest regret) and my winter boots, I was able to pass one bag through and pay a mere 100 Euros to get the other on the plane. Ugh.

It was not gracious; but, I survived. Weighed down with souvenirs for many members of my family (especially the 4 children adopted from Russia), I boarded my plane and left for the West.

This blog is not about my travails in Western Europe (which had an element of labor to them). This blog is about Russia. This blog is about to end. While this is nowhere near my last post (which will come once my ARTicles are submitted, signaling (for me) the official end of my first year), it is a closing post that is written with some perspective.

I sit here, in the frontroom of my Cambridge apartment with the Stanley Cup finals on the plasms screen (GO HAWKS), typing this post. It comes after I debriefed in Barcelona (and was pick-pocketed), cruised through Madrid, found romance in Paris, and existed in Zurich. In short, I have been alive for the past few weeks, and that life has put my three months in Russia in perspective.

March - May 25 of this past year have not been my most glorious. They have been difficult, and I have learned from them. The knowledge has not been technical, but personal. How do you deal with people you don't particularly like, but with whom you must co-exist and work? How do you deal with moral breaches? How much of your defenses do you let down, and let others dictate your schedule for you? Good questions and good answers.

Packin' it in

I think I have my bags packed.

Well, no, I don't. There are slacks and "man-pris" on the drying rack. There is a bathrobe hanging in the breeze, losing its dampness. My baggage is not yet gathered.

My fellow four dramaturgs and I have our final class in about an hour - Art & Architecture. After that, we will have the privilege of watching the Moscow Art Theatre School audition next years class. An omega, of sorts, and an alpha, of sorts.

It's not as dramatic as all that. There is no beginning or ending right now, just a pause - but it feels like a major one. It is a major one, and that is what gives me the willies. Over drinks last night, surrounded by Rachel, Megan, Nick, Chris, Annika, and Angela, I was sullen and thoughtful. A lot of doubts and regrets are running through my head - and all of the successes and fun I've had over the past 11 months are quietly sitting, somewhere, waiting to be re-discovered at some later date.

For now, I wait for spin cycles to finish; I hang things on racks; I sort, fold, sort again, and then put things in their tight little places.

The squeeze. That's what today is: the squeeze.

Three Sisters

I have acquired three sisters in Moscow. I did not expect this to happen; and, my parents will be most surprised. Still, I have acquired three sisters in Moscow.

Tonight we toasted each other, we toasted life, we toasted Moscow. Over beers in the beautiful gardens of the Hermitage Theatre / New Opera, we ate lovely food and sipped small beers. It was what we could afford. Who knows if one day we will be able to be more extravagant, but on that "one day," I suspect memories -- if not people -- from this Hermitage/New Opera evening will be there.

We have fought with each other, we have consoled each other. We have rejoiced over each other's successes, and we have competed for attention. We have behaved like a family, when you think about it. And why shouldn't we? We've spent three months in bedrooms across the hall from one another.

Growing up, Mary - my sister - had the big bedroom and I had the small bedroom. Mary won hers because it had Holly Hobby wallpaper in it when we moved into the house, so why not put the girl in there?

I was in the smaller room next door, painted yellow. It became my terrain, my kingdom. I would invade my sister's dominion and she would assault mine. I would make her cry, she would make me rage. We eventually learned that this only got us both into trouble with our parents - so we became very adept at mediation (when we wanted to mediate); we learned that, as a force united, we could topple our parents.

And then my little brother was born, and everything changed.

Mary got my yellow room - which I decided to change to seafoam green - and painted it pink. I tore down the Holly Hobby wallpaper and painted the room powder blue. My brother and I shared it - his crib next to my bed, his changing table opposite my desk. It was close quarters, and our duet became a trio. New treaties had to be drawn-up, new alliances - and, most important: new sympathies. Ours was not a child-friendly house: you were expected to mature quickly.

The past three months have been close quarters for me and my classmates. For us dramaturgs, we had our moments of tension - but we overcame them. Like any filial relationship, there are territorial lines that are crossed and then respected. I hope that in the coming months our "diplomatic skills with one another" will become even more finely tuned, making us a united front to be dealt with.

Because, why not? Our "family" is an academic one, and families function best (in my experience) when the boat is rocking. So, in the coming months: let's rock the boat.