Recommitting Myself

Since getting back from the West Coast, I have been diving back into studying my craft. My master's program in writing has left me inspired. The theatre company I work with has motivated me not only to create and perform more of my own work, but to collaborate with other artists. As I find my voice on the page I am taking that same discovery to the stage.

Summer lulls in the Big Apple, and in between literary translation, a practice paper, and dreading my 5 page practice paper, I have decided to sign up for a film acting intensive. This is different from the classes I have taken at The Actor's Fund and the acting class I took each week where I ended up bringing in work I created. I am in front of the camera with no puppets. Just me learning how to cold read.

It's very humanizing. I am getting the same notes in my writing and in my acting. My mentor in my writing program congratulated me on getting my packet in early. However, she said I was judgmental in my writing pieces. Last night's class the note I got was I played attitude. The first writing packet I forgot to double space. First week of class I foolishly copied my sides and my scene partner had an interesting time. Both my mentor and my teacher were good about it.

I feel hungrier than ever for craft. I am reading Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir. I am reading Lee Strasberg's A Dream of Passion. It's my first time reading Stephen King. I haven't read Mr. Strasberg since college. I read one in the morning and one before bed at night. Both often say the same thing. It's tell the truth.

I go to The Drama Bookstore and if I spend any more time in there I run the danger of maxing out every credit card I have. But I have overeaten, over drank, smoked, and dated people who were bad for me because they felt damn good. I have made worse decisions.

But recommitting myself, it's been a good one in some ways. My mentor in my program is great, but when I get a writing packet back there is always a tinge of doubt. Sure, I am more mature as an actor, but Tuesday night I was talking to someone and the old bullshit came up. I am never the best one in the acting class but the most unique. If it's a place where I write and create my own work with my puppets I rock it. That's my zone. I haven't identified as a dramatic, legit actor for years. I mean I guess I still am, but the time, energy, and passion has gone to being a puppeteer.

Suffice to say this class has me a tad out of my comfort zone at times. I thought about bringing an original piece to perform, but that's not the assignment. If I get a big film role, it won't be my work at this point. And besides I am a writer, it would be nice if I respected the words of others, right?

A casting director I once did a class with said it best, "Growth is sometimes painful."

She was right.

The good news is, by participating in an MFA in writing program, I have the opportunity to learn screenwriting. By taking this class, I have the opportunity to get better on camera. By respecting someone else's words and work, I bring good kharma to my own.

I just want to be perfect all the time. I try so hard to be liked. Everything is personal. It's just the way I am made up. A friend told me to take some time off my reading. I told her I needed to go to the bookstore. She said, "April, if you go you will read. Read tomorrow."

So here I am writing. Not reading. Processing. It's easy to read but hard to live. Growth is sometimes painful indeed. But the growth and process are worth it. Because each step, no matter how arduous, gets us closer to the truth.

t's not monstrous that this player here,
But in fiction, in a dream of passion
Could force his soul to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
A broken voice, and his own function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And for nothing!
For Hecuba!
Hamlet


www.AprilBrucker.TV

Cat Coat Fur

Once when I was watching Black Adder there was the episode where Rowan Atkinson got elected to The House of Lords and wore a coat only to discover that it was made out of cat. There were the tags for Mr. Frisky, Mr. Binx and you name it they were there. Cats, dead cats. That is the only kind of cat that is worth anything in my opinion. Just kidding. Maybe it is because I am allergic to the creatures.

I got a kind reminder of that this past summer. A sound engineer I work with was house sitting and we ended hanging out. Anyway, his friend had several cats and there was cat hair everywhere. Suddenly my eyes welled up and all I could do was sneeze and wheeze and look like hell. Mr. Frisky, Mr. Binx and perhaps even Snowball had their revenge for the atrocious joke in the last paragraph I wrote. Damn those cats.

When I came home for winter break I drove past a China King Buffet I frequented as a child with my family when my mother was too tired to cook. Supposedly they served cat. Looking back, I think it was the prevalent xenophobia in my town speaking. But the rumor spread and within a few months they were out of business. But maybe it was true. Maybe I accidentally ate the likes of the House of Frisky, Binx, and Snowball. Maybe this past summer-The Park Slope Incident-was their revenge.

I have to be kinder to animals I suppose. This past summer I went out to eat with my cousin, aunt and uncle to my cousin's favorite eatery in Greenpoint. When we got there I ordered rabbit because I had never had it. I made a joke about my cousin's decease pet bunny and said technically I was eating Midnight. While Midnight had passed long ago, it was a cruel, dark joke but they laughed. Midnight had been only a few months old when she passed from a brain tumor. Poor thing. But still, I have an evil streak. Well Midnight decided she was cursing me from beyond. Brain tumor or not, she had gotten her revenge because I got food poisoning. Serves me right for picking on a dead rabbit. They are slippery creatures. Hence the trouble Bugs Bunny gets himself in constantly.

But I was kind to animals as a child. I had a dog that I so loved named Snapper who got old and died on me. We keep her ashes in the living room. I once asked my mom what would happen if the box fell over. She answered it was sealed so that would never happen. But when someone is cremated how much of them is really there. My brother Wendell once explained it was one third dirt, one third dust, and perhaps one third your loved one.

Still, I was kind to cats too. When I was three years old I played with a stray cat the neighbors took in. After playing with it because I was a child I began to complain of stomach aches and refused to eat my dinner. My mother was concerned after about a week and it was discovered this damn cat gave me worms. They put me on something that made me poop the worms out. But it was all the damn cat's fault. Those fucking feline's had it out for me from day one. The irony of it was later I was grow to be fascinated by Earth Worms.
Okay this is taking a sick turn.

Either way, I discovered the fur I bought the other day was fake which made me feel less guilty. I didn't kill the animal. However, they have a Pet Cemetery conspiracy against me.

Or maybe I am just nuts. Ha ha ha.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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