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Home has always had an inexorable pull for me. If you’ll bear with my tortured metaphor, consider it a spiritual solenoid. Home is like a length of rosy copper wire wound around my life, and I a small iron core. The more I’m shuttled through this mortal coil, the stronger home’s magnetic draw. The attraction strengthens as Thanksgiving approaches, as my mind starts signaling for Exit 76 and cruises up the bypass towards my hometown, and memories buried by fresher accounts burgeon and resurface.
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The tower stands alone on the moonlit plain, a clear target for the intrepid adventurers trundling towards it. They cover the final stretch on foot - with goblins about, you can’t be too careful. A quick clamber to the tower’s upper levels finds them vacant save for a sleeping gob, easily dispatched with a shot through the arrowslit.
The rabble on the first floor, however, poses a larger danger. Though engrossed in their cards, the goblins still outnumber our heroes and charging into combat may prove a deadly mistake. As the elven adage goes, “Work smarter, not harder,” and the party’s thief just happens to speak the monsters’ language. Creeping on tiptoe around the tower, he shouts in Goblin – “Korg, you cheater!” Korg, surprised and affronted by the accusation, throws down his cards, and, after our golden-hearted scoundrel injects a few more well-placed barbs, begins a brawl that leaves half the goblins dead before our heroes kick in the door and mop up the rest. So began the journey of Alton Tosscobble, the halfling rogue I played in my very first Dungeons & Dragons campaign. I can still feel the giddy rush when a 10-year-old Ian tore the wrapping paper from a 3rd Edition Player’s Handbook, a gift from my father. My older brother received the Dungeon Master’s Guide, and my future changed. What happened to you?
Where did you go? We could have conquered the world, if our aspirations exceeded a quality muffin. We could have put Alexander to shame. And we would have been compassionate monarchs, beloved by all until our follicles failed and faded. In the mire of my meltdown, as I struggled to stay afloat, You pulled me from the quicksand and set me on stable ground. And you don’t know How much that meant. And you cannot fathom The depths of the disasters you averted. On the road to St. Louis, we talked without stopping. I’d never done that before. I’ve never done that since. I miss that. We’ve crossed the country, gallivanted the globe, Packed plates at 2 AM for tickets that never coalesced. Groggy grapes, bleary baguettes, and a nice hard cheese-- Covent Garden makes an unconventional picnic plot, But our attitude is odd, Made for midnights in a shoebox cinema, For mech suits and movie monsters, mild-mannered but unmovable. And then the bottom dropped out and you turned away. For your own good, you say, and I trust that. And even though you left, Though the A-shaped altar remains unadorned with your likeness, Your silhouette still points the way, A beacon even in your vacancy. Hanging in my closet back home is a beige button-up shirt. It’s too small for me now. The sleeves are too short, and I’ve developed a bit through the shoulders in this last decade. Given my growth, though, it still fits surprisingly well. The length is about right, the neck is a comfortable diameter, and I can easily give myself a hug, all of which makes me wonder how I wasn’t swimming in it as a youth. An Old Glory patch adorns the right shoulder, balanced by a Council patch and three numbers on the opposite side, all sewn with machine precision. On the left breast pocket, a golden flour-de-lis over a crimson heart is stitched with rather less finesse; you can count the loose loops of thread on one hand. And embroidered on the opposite pocket, in the same brilliant red, four words: Boy Scouts of America. In the wake of their decision to allow girls into the organization, they’ve been on my mind. When we met you were filled with fireworks,
Brimming with brilliant displays Of the red of your temper, Of the green of your eyes, Bright enough to illuminate all the beauty that my heart was too young to have seen, And I was drawn like a firefly to a mystical glow. But you were spitting pinwheels to make yourself seem bigger than you are, Because there are two blazes at home who love to use you as tinder. You fed on the flames that forged you, and that fire made you strong, But it left your insides blistered and burning, A constant conflagration that you can’t help but spout. And I know That a lifetime of bearing your future has cracked you at your seams, And I know You think you're strong enough to bear it (and if anyone can, it's you) But when you add the expectations of generations The straw becomes an anvil And even the strongest camel has no chance. So I beg you, Melt my heart. Let me seep into the fissures in your soul. Let me make you whole. Though you reduced it to slag, And though it’s not yours anymore, I'll pick through the pieces of my heart And see what I can salvage. IMPRESSIONS 1
I remember when Kentucky would get snow. I once took a ruler out to the picnic table for an accurate accounting of our accumulation, and we had eight whole inches. That no longer seems impressive after years in the Midwest, but remember, this is the South we’re talking about. I built an igloo. It was magical. (Weirdly, Kentucky’s gotten a lot of snow in recent years—just a few weeks ago, ten inches fell on my hometown. What the heck.) Ice was the bigger danger. When I was young we had an ice storm harsh enough to crack the mulberry tree in our backyard in half. In high school we lost power for a week when an especially bad one tore through. In the eerily silent darkness, I remember the trees clicking like windchimes, like an audience of crystalline fingers snapping. Doug’s face at that moment twisted into an expression of a very particular fear. It wasn’t the creeping dread awakened by a shadow at the door, nor the oppressive settling of a weighty comprehension, nor the steeling of the gut that precedes a fated appointment. It was the panic felt when, in the space of a breath, your confident footing slips and you suddenly speed downhill towards icy waters. In that short spell when you see control still within your reach, before you realize that you perceive only its afterimage and that it has, in fact, already left the state, you too would grimace in an involuntary and ineffectual attempt to maintain your poise. Not unlike poor Douglas.
That’s not a metaphor—Doug really was about to fall chest-first into a lake. Well, it is a metaphor, but I’ll come back to that. First, the story of how we got to that point. As I’m writing this morning, sipping my coffee with Beirut in my ears, the Windy City is living up to its moniker. I always feel reenergized when the weather cools and I break out my fall attire. I want to wander feeling the crisp breeze on my cheeks, seeing the trees glow with their own autumn wardrobe, gazing over the steely waters of Lake Michigan whipped into choppy white-capped waves. I want to sit inside with warm muffins and tea and blankets and watch the wind blow. It’s a time for friends, for love and for loved ones, when community comes together to prepare for the winter months. And as I’m writing this morning, my mind wanders through the annals of memory to a place and people that are forever connected with feelings of intimacy and f(F)riendship.
Expansion. Discovery. For me, exploration is the essence of acting, and I’m always on the lookout for opportunities I haven’t had, roles I haven’t played in situations I haven’t experienced. Of course, as is the case with any actor, my personality and instincts are more suited to a particular type of character. In my case, at least in the younger pool of academic theatre, that happens to be somber father figures in their 50s and 60s (I’ve been told I have ‘gravitas’). But, as I’m hoping to find work as a young actor, playing men more than twice my age over and over hasn’t been the most relevant experience. I’ve got the “stand-still-with-hands-in-suit-pockets-and-look-severe” pose down, but for a while I’ve yearned to branch out, play different characters. I recently got that chance, when I played Caliban in The Tempest. This is his story.
Today’s story is a tale of epic proportions, a journey fit for the storybooks. In England, they tell tales of mysterious garments known as ‘movement trousers.’ For centuries cryptoclothologists have debated the true nature of these secret slacks. When I studied abroad in London, I got a chance to try and pierce the shroud of secrecy. My dance teacher required us to find a pair of these clandestine chinos, and I couldn’t wait to take my shot. Armed with good weather on a Saturday morning, I set out on a quest for the ages.
I went for a walk today, and the wind rustled through dry yellow grasses taller than I. It skipped over the glistening waters of the ponds, which crested into peaks like a fine meringue. It danced with the hawk soaring overhead, which bobbed like a ship at sea with such grace. I stood and watched the markings on its underwing feathers and it joined me on my walk for a ways before winging off into the endless blue.
I went for a walk today, and as I rested for my meal a deer joined me from across the field, unaware of me, untroubled by me, utterly peaceful as it grazed. I watched as it sauntered through the dry yellow grasses to the top of the ridge and disappeared into the trees. I went for a walk today and couldn’t remember how to read the colors on a wooly worm. Will the snows be harsh or merciful this winter? Shame that this augury has escaped me. I went for a walk today and wondered why the shiny red beetle avoided the light as it wandered on the sides of my bottle. Perhaps its cherry color is severe sunburn. I went for a walk today and let the breeze blow through me. I went for a walk today and lived. (Photos at Jacob Krumm Nature Preserve) Of all my blog posts, this may be the one that strikes closest to my soul. Prepare yourself for a heavy dose of Essence of Ian.
We begin with an anecdote, taken from my time in London. I went with my friend Abby on a bus tour to Stonehenge and Bath, and to pass the time I started making jokes. For whatever reason (I’m sure it made sense contextually), they were all puns about hair. This went on for about 15 minutes. Nonstop. For a quarter of an hour, nary a sentence left my lips that was not punishment (or should I say--bunishment) for my eternally sweet and suffering friend. But no matter how much pain and existential regret my jokes caused, I found myself powerless to stop. I punned to-and-afro until we arrived. I still get upbraided about it. Warning. This post contains bugs.
There are several reasons I don't live in Australia. It's far away, it would be expensive to move, and I don't know anyone. But one reason far outweighs all others, a fear more sinister and primal than any other: I'm scared of the Outback's huge spiders. Something about the environment Down Under breeds multi-legged monstrosities out of a Godzilla film. Spiders. in Australia fall into three general categories: big, huge, and downright Brobdingnagian. I know I don't like big spiders because I've had experience with big spiders. This is the story of the most memorable. This story is dredged from the depths of my memory, and is one of my favorites about myself. I don't particularly remember it happening, but it's been corroborated enough times for me to believe it. It's the kind of story you can't make up.
Way back when I was but a wee young lad, only five or six, my brother tried to teach me math. Ben is two and a half years older than me, and for years I thought he was the academic bees knees. Heck, I still think he's the academic bee's knees, especially when it comes to math. He majored in math. He's a math wizard. He's positively mathemagical, and has always been so. I was moderately mathematically inclined, but never even approached his precociousness. Ben's gift for navigating the exact and exacting work of complex mathematical theory boggles me. And like his craft, he is a very precise individual. So this was the person trying to teach elementary math to his little brother with the attitude and energy level of a coke-addled bumblebee. As I approach the end of my collegiate career—I graduate with honors in Theatre from Grinnell in just over two weeks—I want to look back at my time here. Grinnell has given me soooooooo frickin’ much. I learned to get out of my own way, to make a plan of action when I’m in unfamiliar waters, to be more sympathetic and empathetic while retaining a sense of objectivity, and as I go out into the world I feel prepared for whatever might come my way.
But more than that, Grinnell has given me some of the greatest friends I will ever have. They are engaging, kind, so talented, so driven, and just as weird as I am if not more so. They are the ones who have truly made my Grinnell experience as rewarding as it has been. So here’s to you, friends, and to old times. Though our paths may stray, we are all just parts of the same whole and I know that when (not if) we reunite we will complete each other once more. It was England, 2014, just as the new flower buds were beginning to come in. I was immersed in my study abroad program (the London Dramatic Academy, a semester-long conservatory) and the days were long and hard. Soon, though, we had the promise of a short reprieve—spring break. For a week, we would be free. Now, while my fellow actors quickly planned trips to the big cities of Europe—Rome, Paris, Copenhagen, and more—I felt myself pulled towards a different route. I wanted to get out of the metropolitan hustle and bustle, to see the English countryside, experience English country culture, and just stop moving for a while.
It’s a wonderful feeling, when you realize that you enjoy your vocation enough to make it a hobby as well. This is the story of my first experience with that warm glowy sensation. This is the story of The Bear.
The Bear happened the summer after I had just returned from the London Dramatic Academy, the program where I’d studied acting the previous spring. I had learned so much and wanted to try out my newfound skills; I was itching for some acting. Fortunately for me, my friend Liv from high school had a similar craving. Early in the summer, we resolved that before we went back to school we would put on a play. It was a few weeks before we got any traction on it. When we finally got moving, the first thing we did was pick our show. Liv got in contact with a director friend in Canada and, on his recommendation, we landed on Chekhov’s The Bear. It was perfect—there was love and loathing and scandal and a duel, manageable in a summer but with enough substance to make it engaging. Through the power of our irresistible charm, we managed to get Mrs. Flara, our old high school director, on board. Now all we needed was a space. The following is a rough transcript of our decision process: |
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