Irene Ziegler's Blog, page 8

My Voiceover for Brandermill Woods

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Some people were nice enough to give me an award...

http://youtu.be/wEfAJbNImTw
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My voiceover for Korbel

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In Which I Sign on the Solid Line

I signed divorce papers today. It was a non-event. I thought it would be an event. Noop. And last month, my therapist fired me. She said, "Go, live, be free," or something like that. Or, maybe it was "Stick a fork in you, you're done." Anyway, she's a good therapist. I call her the Woodland Creature for reasons I won't disclose. Now she's in my past.

I am rehearsing tonight, then I will fall asleep in front of the TV. Then I will wake with a sore neck and shuffle off to bed.

Except I don't shuffle. More like prance. I will prance off to bed.

Aw, who the hell am I kidding. I'll shuffle.

And the sun will come up and the sun will do down and today will become part of my past. Just another uneventful day in the life.

This is my first spring in my new-to-me house. I didn't know I had daffodils in the yard until two weeks ago when they started popping up all over the place. Many will get displaced when I begin the big dig. Putting in lots of plants whose names end in 'a.' The acid-lovers.

Virginia is for acid lovers.

Oh, wait.

That's California.

I digress.

They say this rain will be over tomorrow.


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In Which the New Year Looks Promising

 I have never been so happy to ring out a year in my life.

The beginning of 2013 finds me healthy, happy, sleeping well, and constructing a fireplace, yet to be completed. When I think of my mindset a year ago, I am thankful for Woodi, who held my hand, for Bill, who listened, and for my students, who pulled me out of my head.

On tap for 2013:

A fireplace. Seriously.

A playwriting class, which I teach at University of Richmond. So far, I have eight students. I start Monday. I have no freaking idea what I'm doing, but am confident I'll think of something.

Hay Fever, by Noel Coward. I'm playing Judith. She's very Downton Abbey in a Maggie-Smith-meets-Greta-Garbo sort of way.

Spring Awakening, at U of R. I can rock a corset. Bring it!

And I was awarded a playwriting commission that involves adapting a holocaust survival story for the stage. This will culminate in a 2014 production, but it counts. Like my mentor says, "Think now, get paid later."

Travel. So many places I've never been, so many things I've never done: London Theatre (I know, RIGHT?!), Santa Fe, Northern California, Boston Red Sox, Canadian Rockies, and the aurora borealis. My fireplace is escorting me.

Garden. Knock out roses. A lot of them. And some azaleas, and shade-loving things. Mulch, no grass.

Unknown. Yesterday, I auditioned for a TVpilot, a series based on a novel by Steven King. Add to this category new friends, pleasant surprises, and a crowning glory, and I'm looking at a great year.

Looking forward, but savoring one day at a time. It's a good plan.
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In Which I Stoke the Fire

I don’t have a fireplace. I want a fireplace reallyreallyreallyreally badly. To me, fire is love.            It’s not easy to keep an ember burning—all that flame fanning and coal stirring—one might question it’s worth.
You know damn well the flame is going to burn out; it always does, and a lot of heat goes up the chimney. It’s not an efficient system. I've already had two fireplaces, and they were a lot of work and sometimes, a pain in the butt. At the end of the day, I toted a lot of ash. But I still want another one.
I’m going to pay close attention to the design this time. It must throw heat and warm bones. It must last. I’m willing to chop the wood, stack the pile, tote the ash.
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In Which I'm Still Here

It's December 21, 2012, and I'm still here. (Cue Elaine Stritch in full Sondheim regalia.)

One year ago today, I was shaken awake by two masked gunmen who put a pillow over my face, and held a gun to my head. After a four hour ordeal involving duct tape and lots of yelling (at me), the felons left with my wedding rings, some Christmas gifts, my laptop, cell phone, credit cards, and a few other easily pawned items. They are still at large.

When I asked my husband to replace my wedding rings, he didn't answer me. That's when I knew I was in real trouble. Ten days later, on January 1, he announced his intentions to leave our marriage. He refused marriage counseling, and my downward spiral began.

Yesterday, I spoke with my therapist, and she said something incredibly kind. She said, "Irene, seeing you and hearing you today is so far from what I heard and saw a year ago. I'll consider it a special Christmas gift."

Then I started blubbering like a blubbering blubberer, and she thought maybe she spoke too soon.

But you know what?

I feel good.

I found out this month that:

a) I do not have pre-cervical cancer (as feared) and get to keep my lady parts,

b) that I am cast in a lovely role in Noel Coward's Hay Fever at Virginia Repertory Theatre,

c) that my play, Miss Palmer's School of Penmanship and Civil Behavior will have a reading in Kansas City,

d) that I am being considered (along with 4 others) to write an exciting new play that I can't talk about yet,

e) and that I am "a very beautiful woman," this being said not by my mother, but by someone who has gently touched my face and my heart.

This blog marks the end of a writing block that has shaken my self-confidence, and hollowed my soul. What's there to blog about when the black dog has you around the middle and is giving you the good ol rag doll shake? But that's over now. Thanks to Prozac (hey, big fan here) and sleeping pills, I have wakened refreshed, and can see the sky.

On my birthday, December 7, a friend took me inside the Jefferson Hotel just to soak up the Christmas atmosphere. I watched parents taking pictures of their red velvet children in front of nutcrackers, ribbon, and poinsettias. The tree in the lobby drew every eye to that glorious ceiling, and I thought, "Where has Christmas been?" I felt, literally, as if I was waking up after a year-long nightmare. Thank you, friend, for taking me there.

And thank you Kristin Swansen, for your literary salon. And thank you Bill Patton for tennis and company (you stubborn old goat). Thank you Mellisa Rayford for caring so deeply. And thank you mom and dad, for coming to see me and helping me in the yard. This spring, the fruits of efforts will pay off, and my world will have color. Thank you Dorothy Holland and my kids in Acting 201. You forced my brain onto a familiar track, challenged, and gave me joy.

Thank you everyone I will see today for coffee, cookies, creative thinking, wine, and love.

I'm changing my name back to Irene Mary Ziegler, but that's the only thing I'm carrying forward from my old life.  I'm stepping onto a new stage, and I'm going to make it my bitch.





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In Which I Deliver My Acceptance Speech

On Sunday, I attended a local "red carpet" event. The Richmond Theatre Critics Circle presented the "Artsies," Richmond's answer to the Tony Awards, which recognizes excellence in the theatre. I was nominated in the Best Actress category for my role as Kimberly in "Kimberly Akimbo."

I didn't expect to win, and I didn't, but I had an acceptance speech prepared "just in case." Since I didn't get to deliver it, I thought I'd share it. This probably seems indulgent, but it's my blog, so I get to be indulgent:

"I'd like to give first thanks to the Richmond Theatre Critics, Cadence Theatre Company, and VA Repertory Theatre. I'd also like to thank my director, Anna Johnson, for pushing me. Sometimes, I pushed back, but Anna made me understand something fundamental about the character I was playing. She said, 'Irene, as an actor, your 'reset button' is set 'to fight.' That's where you go when you don't explore other choices. Kimberly is not a fighter,' she said. 'Kimberly is a survivor.'

Anna, when you said that, a light came on, and I widened my range of intentions. Instead of 'to fight,' I explored 'to escape,' and made wonderful discoveries during the rehearsal process. Thank you, Anna, for your hands-on leadership. And thank you, Matt Mitchell, for mentioning me in your acceptance speech. That was very generous of you, and I'm a little bit in love with you all over again.

Certain aspects of my personal life fell apart this year, and I want to say something about being a part of this community of Richmond theatre artists. Were it not for you, I would not be standing here. (I don't think I'd be standing anywhere.) Thank you, Mess Rayford and Bill Patton, for not letting me fall through the cracks. And thanks to many more of you who have taught me how to be a better friend. Your attentiveness and many kindnesses have been a ladder of hope and healing.

Finally, I'd like to thank the students in my Basics of Acting class at the University of Richmond. I'm so lucky to have you in my life twice a week. After this artistically fallow year, you have been a source of stability and delight. You bowl me over with your honesty and insights, and you make me laugh. With your eagerness to share in my experience, you have, literally and metaphorically, given me my appetite back."

So I didn't get to say that. And now I have.body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;} a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;} a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}

Article in Style Weekly Magazine

Style Weekly Magazine recently ran an article about me, and I liked it, so I'm sharing it. It's called "The Comeback." If you're interested, you can cut and paste into your browser: http://www.styleweekly.com/richmond/t...

In Which I Have a PTSD Moment

Okay, that was interesting.

We have a lot of Knock-Out rose bushes, which grow faster than chin hairs, and flower profusely all summer. They make a great hedge, unless you don't need a hedge, in which case you probably don't have to worry about having a PTSD moment. At least, not involving roses.

I digress.

I was pruning the wild hairs (anything growing sideways is usually a good candidate for snipping) when I realized I'd worked myself in the middle of a six-foot tall, ten-foot wide hedge. As it turns, out, the research and development team for the Knock-Out rose neglected to address two things: smell (they got nuthn,) and thorns. Of the two, thorns is the bigger oversight.
I was stuck. Stuck like a sticker stuck on a stick. The thorns grabbed my arms first, then my torso, and the more I tried to unstick myself, the worse the situation got. I started to panic, then BAM.

Ski masks
Gun in my face
DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME, BITCH!

I called out, but the Mister was inside. Nothing to do but calm down and take it slowly, which after a moment, I did. My arms look like I lost a fight with face-ripper monkey.
So how 'bout THAT!?

Until now, PTSD was something I'd read about, but had never experienced. I was introduced to EMDR therapy shortly after the robbery, but showed no symptoms beyond "what could be reasonably expected," and didn't pursue it. I may have to rethink that decision.

The funny thing is, when I was purging my closet, and actually LOOKED at a ski mask: nuthin. Still, I over-purged, both in the garden and the closet. The garden will be fine, but the closet? Well, I guess I'll just have to fill that baby back up, won't I?

I've lost over 20 pounds. The Anxiety Diet is NOT for sissies. I have a feeling EMDR therapy can't hold a candle to retail therapy. I think I'll go to Macy's big sale right now and buy a new bra. That should lift my spirits, and some other things, besides.
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