Process of the Platform to the Prize of the Performance

I'm officially working on a solo show.
It's really helping me tame the voices within.
It's so much more psychological than I ever could've imagined.
In fact, it's therapy.

My process in discovering these characters is something I learned about through an amazing Solo Show Class here in New York City with Matt Hoverman (www.createyourownsoloshow.com) cheesy name, brilliant man.  Sort of pricey, but not really.  If you are interested in creating one, TAKE HIS CLASS.

There is no doubt what I wanted to do was less personal and more theatrical.
Shocking.
Me?  Want to entertain?  Go figgggguh!

FOCUS, Tracey.
Back to the Process!  (See why it's hard for me to write?)
This is from an article Eric Bogosian wrote about how he creates,
I stole it and modified it for myself.
I take a digital voice recorder and walk around as the character speaking.
THEN I write out everything I have said that I found useful (up to when I'm taking a breath.)
THEN I must erase all excess bullshit afterwards so I don't go revisit and get muddled in my intentions.
(Again, which as you can see can be very choppy and all over the place!)

So, In the midst of this talky-talkiness walking around like a former (present?) diva of the stage,
I dropped in.
Hard.
I found her.
She is a part of me disguised as an old woman.
She is me.
I snap out of it.
Here's what I said directly after I broke.....(laughing)

"I am schizophrenic, definitely.  Oh, (realizing) yeah.  (sigh)  Is this what they think crazy people are like?  Am I crazy? (realizing) yeahhh."

Therapy.
I should be charging myself.

Vintage Blog....

This is from my old Blog on Friendster.  I totally remember this!
Cutting and pasting at it's finest, too.

Upstate Acting Exercise

This past weekend I attended an acting workshop in Chelsea.
I know, you picture a bunch of film hopefuls sitting around a black box theatre weeping through a scene of “Agnes of God.” Methodically digging up personal skeletons of rape, abandonment, and lack of parental love of the past in order to really get in touch with character. Ah, the drama. Let me tell you that it was NOTHING like this. It was actually incredible, but that’s really beside the point. Allow me to introduce you to Danny.

Upon entering the bright acting studio (and I’m nervous mind you, I totally fear the unknown. Do not get this confused with unable to accept the unknown.) it’s painted all white, and is actually covered in windows whose view entails a lovely church, I see something that startles me. In the corner, a tall and lanky slender, older man stands.
In all black and grey
In dress slacks and shoes
In a calf length black leather jacket
Boasting a killer orange self tan.

“Hi I’m Danny, what’s your name?” (shit he’s one of those)
“I’m Tracey” (in an octave higher than my normal spoken tone)
“Do you live here in the city?” (Is this guy my equal in the class or is he an assistant?? I’m confused.)
“yeah, in midtown.” (help)
“Oh I’m from upstate and the city makes me nervous. Good for you, TRACE.” (Its official, I’m done.)

I proceed to hear him chat with everyone in the class as they enter. Its mostly about upstate and how he lives off highway such and such. I don’t know where that is. I can barely distinguish the state of new york on a blank map of the U.S. I jot down in my notebook “OH MY GOD. WHO IS THIS GUY?” I figure I’ve got 2 days with him, so I should sit as far away from his as possible. Done, good job Trace–the high road.

Sande (our instructor) starts handing out scenes. Now mind you, I was instructed to bring a Female/Female scene which I did. Legally Blonde. Funny. But before I know it she’s paired everyone and my brain is working overtime and I come to the chilling conclusion….
I’m paired with Dan the Tan Man??? The answer to my jotted down question became “He’s your partner, you bitch.” OH SHIT!!!

It only gets worse, “Go sit with your partners.” I cringe. He motions for me to come over and I (being me) shake my head and say, “why don’t you come over here.” The whole while he’s callling me TRACE. TRACE. Now, I love to be called Trace. By anyone but this guy. As the workshop goes on I supress his retardation of clapping after scenes, telling me good job when I sit down from my monologue help, and telling me he’s sorry when he flubs a line. I pretty much ignore him and answer in one word sentences. ie

“Ok”
“Sure”
“Uh, yeah.”

Then, I start thinking. He’s probably a lonely old man who is still looking for himself at 60. Its probably a huge step for him to come to the city and do something like this. His idiosyncrocies are just a way of dealing with anxiety. In a positive way. Positively annoying. But positively.

I start to smile and reached for a sip of water. As I lowered the bottle from my mouth I notice that something tastes sweet. I’m totally confused. Until I look down and see a mirror replica POLAND SPRINGS bottle to my left right by my bag, the same type I’m holding in my hand right now. It hits me. This is Danny’s water-bottle and the sweet taste has to be DAN THE TAN MANS self tan!!! I tasted the tanning lotion from his fucking lips. I’m gagging. I’m trying to breathe.

I put down the infected bottle and grab my own. 

I swish and swallow. 

I scrub at my lips.

I started laughing.

 t was that or vomit and that’s too messy. 

Jesus, Danny.

I wanna size you up! Tic Toc Ya Don't Stop.

Have you ever hated someone without really knowing them.
Or speaking to them.
Or even ever been in their presence?

I do.

Well, hate is a strong word.
It's more like,
extreme disdain.

Because in case you didn't know, I'm psychic.

In case
you didn't
know.

(Some people call it judgemental, but I know the truth, it's psychic ability)

I'm pretty good at sizing up a human existence/spirit in a series of pictures.
Facebook has only added fuel to my judgemental, er, psychic fire.

I may not like someone for a number of reasons!
1.  Weird face*
2.  The essence of stupidity
3.  We're nothing alike
4.  We're too much alike
5.  I know who you are just by seeing how you pose for photos.
6.  You dress like a whore
7.  You dress like a turd
8.  You are a whore
9.  You are a turd
10. You are a whorey turd

*was that really my #1 reason??

But I am usually pretty right about people.
I need to stop being so vague.
Another day.
Maybe next year.

Tracey vs Alice

I am at war with myself.
Constantly.
Constantly.
My knee-jerk reactions are being suppressed by this new "adult" consciousness living inside of me.
I call her Alice.
I hate her.  But, I respect the fact that she keeps it civil.
Confused?

EXAMPLE:  Walking onto the train at rush hour, I see a woman with dried out, fried, frizzy hair and a pock marked nose running for the last seat.  She is hunched and scowling with no regard for anyone else around her.  Scowling, Running, Pushing for the only open seat.

Tracey says: Jesus!  This old witch, with an ate up nose needs to chill the fuck out, rude.  Rude!
Alice says:  Tracey, (she uses my name), She can't help that.  Take it easy.  Take a breath.  Who cares, anyway?  You didn't even want that seat.  You're getting off at the next stop.

They say that artists are prone to schizophrenia.

EXAMPLE #2:  Two people are speaking another language, loudly, at a rapid rate.

Tracey Says:  wa wa wa wa, dat dat dat dat dat dat, SHUT UP!
Alice Says:  Tracey,  They are merely communicating in the language with which they feel comfortable!   Just because you don't understand it, doesn't mean that you have a right to judge it.  Take it easy.  Take a Breath.  Who cares, anyway?  Are they REALLY bothering you?  You've got headphones, use them.

I'm beginning to hate Alice.
I'm beginning to believe she's trying to tame the beast in me.
I'm beginning to wonder if now is the time in my life that this said beast requires taming?
What a pickle.

EXAMPLE #3:  Now.

Tracey says: Fuck New York.  My life is crazy.  Sometimes I don't know whether to laugh or sob.  Or kill.  Maybe I just wanna have kids and be "normal" do something where I'm my own boss.  Give up trying to BE something, someone, anyone!
Alice Says:  Tracey, whoa.  You'd be much more unhappy by accepting unhappiness and giving up on what you want.  Take it easy.  Take a Breath.  Who cares, anyway?  You're doing just fine.  Now pour yourself a glass of wine, watch some of the amazing videos you've done with Candy Slice, or go out to dinner with your husband, or with your friends.  You've got options, kid.  You've still got options.

Then again,
Sometimes I'm glad Alice is around.
Thank You.

Don't do that!

The voices in my head are getting louder.
And
more
outwardly
vocal.

An Open Letter to Vocal Men

Dear Can't Keep it to Yourselves,

As a woman, I do not need you to deliver God's Blessings to me.

If I wanted them, I'd go to Church.

I do not need you to twirk your neck when I walk by so you can see my ass.

If I wanted that I'd bend over for you.

I do not need you to tell me I'm beautiful.

If I wanted that I'd ask a gentleman who isn't wearing a wife-beater and a bandana.

I do not need you to make cat-like/animal-type hissing noise at me to get my attention.

If I wanted that I'd be in the "furries" scene.

Keep it to yourself.

Save it for your own girlfriend(s).

Or be prepared to:

Buy me everything I want

Take me to the BEST restaurants in the city

Take my verbal abuse when I turn into a bitch

Consistently listen to my long stories and "new characters"

Be willing to drop everything you're doing for ME ME ME ME ME!

and

STOP CAT-CALLING OTHER WOMEN!

And fuck you for making me have to worry about what I wear each day because I don't feel like getting fake-hit on. douche.

Sincerely,

Tracey Petrillo

The Troll Under the Stairs

I don't know if you know this, but there's a Troll living in our basement,
The Troll Under the Stairs!

Allow me to set the scene:
I am dreaming of four sets of shoes being placed in a quad cubby by our "dream" front door.
As I put the fourth pair in, ankle boots, I hear knocking.
Pounding.
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3.
Repeat.
I can't get the ankle boots in the cubby fast enough!
The shoes begin to fade into a slow, fuzzy, hypnosis like swirl and everything becomes black.
I open my eyes.  The pounding?  Was that real?  I glance at my phone and it's 8:16 am.
Surely, the Troll has nothing to say to me this early?
Yet I know.
I know, the rhythm of the rapid, anxious, poundings, produced only by
The Troll Under the Stairs

A little backstory:
Our apartment building is for sale.
A sign was hastily placed in front of our house, or is it in front of the abandoned building next door?
Yesterday, I had an afternoon visit from The Troll saying realtors would be coming by to show my apartment, followed by the troll-speak "you be here 4 o'clock?"
Oh you tricky little Troll!
Guess who else is tricky?
"What realtors?"  I asked.  Coyness is a blessing of mine when used for good and not evil (or improv)
"For deee house!  Dey Comeen tomoddow."  screamed Troll as she waved her arms and slapped the sides of her hips,  as she often punctuates her sentences.
So at least then I had answers.

UNDERSTAND THIS:  The Troll Under the Stairs can be offhandedly nice at times.  Sometimes she even smiles.  It's like spinning the Wheel of fortune with each interaction.  But the congeniality is a rarity.  A rarity, indeed.  One I believe to be induced only with the proper medication.

Present day:
We last left Tracey laying in bed, anxiety rising faster than smoke from a fire.
I look over at Lewie, he's asleep.  Damn.  Typical.
I roll over and breathe deep.  I even start a visualization exercise to calm the demons of craziness.
I'm almost there, one voice sealed, two voices sealed, quiet, heaviness, subconscious visions......
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4....1,2,3.
It's 8:30 am.
Mother.  Fuck.

(In my head)  "I've already told that Troll that people can see the place at 4pm!  I will not allow this!"
(What came out) "Lewie, did you hear knocking"
Coy.  I told you.
Lewie:  Yeah.  I'm not getting up though.
Me (outloud):       Yeah.
(In my head) :  I'm freaking out and need to get up to see if there's a note on the door, which is a very common weekly occurence here.

We can't go back to sleep and it's inevitable that the knocking pattern will continue.
We rise at 8:52 am, anticipating the heavy tread of The Troll Under the Stairs.
Similar to menstruating each month, you know it's going to happen, and you just have to wait it out.

I pee.  9:02 am.
Just as I'm about to flush,
1,2,3,4....1,2,3,4...1,2-
I throw open our front door.
"What is it?"  I ask standing in my pink robe, sleep still in my eyes, ready to fight.
I am face to face with the Troll.
Orange bowl cut hair in disarray, black eyes beaming, robust nostrils flaring,
"Listen to me, (which is always perfectly comprehendable) I get up and is all over dee basement.  Gonna calla dee plumba.  Catsheet.  You are deee on a leee one.  All over dee basemeh.  Catsheet."
My heart is racing like I've just done 3 lines of blow followed by a pot of coffee and a redbull, sugarfree.

It is then I notice she is holding large, white putty knife.
On the putty knife, is a mess of greyish matter.
This is starting to make sense.
There is shit all over the basement, her coven, and she thinks it's from our cat??!!

"What is that?" (coy)
She comes closer.  With the gunk.
"Catsheet.  You dee only one dat hassa cat.  You clogga toyleh.  You no flush it!  Nesstime you gonna pay for dee plumber."  One arm flailing, smaking the outer hip while the other holds the mess.
I'm about to lose it.
"No,"  I say (in my head)
"No,"  I yell (outloud)
We don't flush kitty litter, and don't sit here and accuse us*
(*To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure this was comprehendable.  All I could hear was the pulsing in my head.  She spoke in Troll code and I continued to respond, totally comprehendable and calm I'm certain.)
The Troll started in again, "I not gonna pay for dees again, No cat.  No more cat again."

Then I did something I've been wanting to do since the day this horrible Troll wouldn't assist me with my cable needs,
I shut. The door.
The screaming heightened.
"No close ah dee door!  Growl, drool, thud, ROAR!"
Followed by a fading thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.  SLAM!

I  stood up to the Troll.  For the first time.
I looked at Lewie, shaking with rage, and I started crying:

1.  Because I hate confrontation and the release of conflict, no matter who "wins" evokes this reaction
2.  Because I hadn't had coffee yet- not a drop
and most importantly
3.  Because I knew she'd be back, eventually.

Just like your monthly period.