The All-New Technological Seth Asa’s Angle

Here it is… the newest thing in my tech life: Windows Live Writer.

I also acquired a copy of Office 2010 and now I can check all of my various email accounts at the same time.  My.  God.

Last night my friend Chris Cullinan led the band FunkJunky at Red Room for an hour and a half of rocking.  I played drums for Chris as per our karmic arrangement, in this life, to drum for one another's music.

The Red Room is red.  This might seem like an obvious statement.  It's red all over, like a newspaper.  I wore blue to stand out.  I also wore my blue shades which made the whole place look kind of pinkish-purple.  Whatever.  Even the colorblind can rock.

Our lineup last night included Chris on guitar and vocals, Jon Taylor on bass, and a dood named Pete on keys - a fabulous player with whom I had only played once, the night before last.

The intent is to have a live band to back karaoke singing with printed lyrics instead of a machine and monitor.  I like this idea.  The worse the singer might be, the better the band looks by comparison!

I spent the entire night feeling great about rocking but also wondering if this rocking was as good as any other.  Can a creative musician be happy filling his time with cover versions?  Only time will tell....

It is February, month of gray.

Gray areas are absent of color, absent of highlight.  This is not the case with me, however.  This winter, I have highlighted my need to ROCK THE FLUTE.

I started playing Blues Flute in high school, fueled by the early work of the band Jethro Tull.  Many seminal 70's rock groups like Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mack, and Jethro Tull, began by playing blues music (only slightly louder and more obnoxiously than their blues heroes).

I loved Ian Anderson's early flute work.  It was raw and powerful - driven by chaos but somehow tempered by the intensity behind it.  I decided I would follow suit.  I also decided I would plug in the flute, like an electric guitar, and augment the overall sound of the flute with interesting audio effects: pitch shifters, octave doublers, delays, anything to take the haunting natural sound of the flute and drive it forcibly into the future.

Enter "Sweet Nothing".  I'm soloing all over this album.  I'm trying some new things.  I'm rapping, singing, fluting, guitaring, looping, stealing, and originating.  I'm having fun again!

Today, things are different than they were last February. I lost my love, my band lost their weekly gig, I moved and/or changed my address three times, I was hospitalized, medicated, poked, and prodded, and I drove from Boise, Idaho, to Parsonsfield, Maine, and back. My life is an open book with a half-broken binding and torn corners. I am held together, but only just, and the information of my volume is slightly stained.

My dreams are different, too. In one of my repeating dream constructs, I have been excavating the basement for relics for many years now. I recently found some... couldn't tell you what, though, as that detail was lost to the confusion of morning.

Lately I haven't been as wrapped up in dreams as realities. Futures. The thoughtforms of everyday that become every night.

I'm 35 years old. Almost 36. Now don't get me wrong... I don't think of myself as old, by any means. But I am older and supposedly wiser than I once was. I search within this age wisdom for answers to fundamental questions: why am I here; what am I doing; what do I want from the rest of my life.

The answers are both surprising and predictable. I want security. But I want improvisation. I want health. But I crave unhealthy foods and actions. I want love. But I don't want to be hurt so deeply again by the loss of it. I want woodland property. But I want intown convenience.

I am a moron... an oxymoron. I am a contradiciton.

So I decided to make a new album. A stupid album. An easy album. My "Dream:33" sequel, "Cult 45," would simply have to wait.

Enter: "Sweet Nothings". Sony ACID Music Studio loops coupled with some lyrics and some flute. Rap, folk, funk, whatever. The point is to make SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Any new project to both remove me from myself and return me to myself. Wish me luck!

I begin to pick up the pieces of myself left over from a few weeks without regular sleep. A few months without regular sleep. A few years without regular sleep. My entire life without regular sleep.

Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome often results in a complete lack of synchronicity with the rest of the world. It can be linked to depression, social anxiety, and a host of other unfortunacies. Yeah, I know that isn't a word. So what? I'm out of sync.

Can you imagine feeling jet-lagged every day? Can you imagine taking a sleep aid and remaining awake with a slow mind and an unresponsive body? Can you imagine being awake for 20 hours, sleeping two to four hours, if at all, and then trying to blend into the normal waking world? Or trying to drive a car on a Friday after an entire week with little or no sleep?

You can try to imagine... or you can live this way.

I know that many people have it far worse than I do. I wouldn't know from personal experience, though, because I don't mesh with normal people. They don't make sense to me. They have cycles and rhythms that give their life order. They understand deadlines. I don't feel the passage of time until the time has already passed. My dreams are chaotic and fantastical. I carry my waking life into my dreams, creating a lack of dream-freedom. I don't have nay more money in my dreams. I don't have better ability than in real life. I can't have sex dreams because I remember to be faithful to my real life. It's almost as if my dream world and waking world are the same, except the dream world has dinosaurs and zombies instead of paperwork and car repairs.

So what does one do when they feel this disconnected and alone? After 3o-odd years, does one continue to work against the reality of their own nature? Or does one look for peace by deciding to be as physically alone as they emotionally or intellectually feel? At what point does the dream of connection fall away to accommodate the reality of disconnection? Yeah, I know that's not a word. So what? I'm out of sync.

Well it has been awhile since I posted last. A lot has happened since I was in Cleveland last year.

First and foremost, I finally released my album into the world! Normally, only friends and family get to hear my offerings. This time, however, I set about to create the kind of album I enjoyed listening to as a kid... not just a collection of songs but something cohesive within itself.

Dream:33 was born. I began it in December 2007, recorded and mixed throughout 2008 (including my time in Cleveland), and released with a concert on 3'30'09.

333 individually-numbered copies. Length: 33 minutes, 33 seconds, and 33 milliseconds (33:33:33). Three acts, with three songs per act, with an intro piece for each act. 12 tracks, 11 songs.

I would love to say the thing has sold like gangbusters. I would love to say it has generated "buzz" among music buffs or that other professionals in the industry have lauded my songwriting or that people appreciated the symmetry of the title, length, arrangement, and my efforts to make the CD itself look like a little 33 1/3 RPM record. In fact, no one really cared much.

We sold about 50 copies at the CD release party. I sold a few copies online and got fractions of pennies for a few listens on Rhapsody. I haven't made even $33 in online sales. I know because I set the service to pay me when it hit $33... and I haven't been paid. I also know that most of the online sales came from one family member, and one CD was bought by a friend.

So I'm disappointed. I sent out a number of copies at the request of online music reviewing sites and have seen no review. I gave copies to important music folk in Boise and they didn't even bother to listen. I sent copies to friends and got no feedback. I even paid for advertising on Facebook and MySpace to help drive people to my website, and to CD Baby, to help move sales on individual tracks. Nothing. Larger services like iTunes completely screwed up the track titles, too, which has been frustrating.

We try to set up shows. People don't come. It doesn't matter how late or early we schedule the shows. It doesn't matter what venue or how much advance notice we give. It doesn't matter, smoking or non-smoking. Not even friends want to hear me play my music. They only come if I'm having a special occasion like the release or a birthday. All signs point to no.

Despite such a dismal failure to connect, I'm readying material for a second piece called Cult 45. I will once again endeavor to match the title to the overall length but I don't know how many songs it will be. Probably 9.

Dream:33 was supposed to be a sort of musical dream sequence and it included a lot of very artsy sounds. Most of Cult 45 is more like blues-rock. Not that you care. You're not even reading this. How do I know? The service tells me.

Well get ready for Cult 45 - the greatest album you'll probably never hear.

MACJOURNAL 2.4

"You lack the season of all natures, sleep."
- MacB, Act III, Scene iv

Well, the show has opened and now Great Lakes Theatre Festival is in tech rehearsals and previews for their next offering, the musical "Into the Woods" by Stephen Sondheim, opening this Saturday. My lovely Hannah will be in town to attend opening with me (high-pitched squeal of glee)...!

While much of the company continues on a daily work schedule for the musical, others among us are getting a bit of down time. For my part, I have been recovering from a slight muscle strain in my right shoulderblabe (and catching up on sleep).

The reviews for MacB here in Cleveland have been largely positive. We drummers have been mentioned nearly as often, and as favorably, as the rest of the cast and designers. My flute playing has also been mentioned on a couple of occasions.

I hope to have more to report in the future as I explore Cleveland. So far I have only made it as far as Prospect Music, an established music equipment retailer downtown (I don't have a better photo yet). I bought a couple of beginner fifes there and had some nice conversations with Mike, the owner. Mike gave me his unique perspective on the life and times of the downtown Cleveland retail scene.

Last night, actor Lynn Berg and I attended "Noises Off" at The Cleveland Play House. The Cleveland Play House is America's oldest regional theatre, founded in 1915. Their performance complex is one of the largest in North America, housing four separate performance spaces. The picture below doesn't do justice to this beautiful theatre complex. It looks like a castle. If it weren't for some tall floor-level windows and glass doors, this building looks like it could mount a substantial defense against a Zombie attack.

For more information on The Cleveland Play House, visit: http://www.clevelandplayhouse.com/about-history.asp

Today looks a bit gray outside. But I hope to take a walk across the bridge to the West Side Market. The West Side Market is a bit like Boise's Saturday Market except it is housed within a couple of permanent structures and is open daily. And it's more food oriented where Boise's Market caters more toward crafters. Housed within the West Side Market are about a dozen produce markets and an entire complex of meat specialists. There's even real Polish Keilbasa and Pierogi. And cheese. And chicken and lamb and goose and goat and just about any other meat you can think of. There's probably seafood, too, but I don't really look for that.

I continue my adventures. Those of you who are reading this blog (all two of you), please send some positive energy toward my kitty, Bebe Awa Gita. Her hair tangle problem has gotten out of hand and she's getting a little trim today. I should have pictures from Hannah later on. But here's a little picture of my sweet Bebe girl. Rock on...!

MACJOURNAL 2.3

"Fair is foul and foul is fair." MacB, Act I, Scene i

Well, okay. The witches in MacB aren't talking about baseball. But I am...!

Tonight, while many of my fine peers enjoyed a fabulous Gala to celebrate the opening of the Hanna Theatre, my buddies and I took the opportunity to see a Cleveland Indians baseball game. It was the second-to-last game of the season and my last chance to take in Cleveland's home team as they engaged in a classic rivalry game against the Detroit Tigers.

Cleveland Indians games are played at Progressive Field, affectionately known as "The Jake" due to it's earlier, non-corporate monicker "Jacobs Field" (after former team owners Richard and David Jacobs). We arrived sometime around 6pm to see a bit of the warmup. Our seats were in the left field bleachers, beneath the Diamond Screen Scoreboard. It was "Rally Hat" night, so we all achieved free inside-out hats. As we wandered in and acquired our prerequisite beers and hotdogs, some reps from Time Warner gave us all orange t-shirts. We found our seats, three rows up from the field railing, right near the Home Run Porch. One of my buds got some peanuts. Cracker Jacks would come later.

I chose to buy myself an item I have desired for a long time: a large foam-rubber finger. I don't know why, but I have wanted one of these things for, like, fifteen years.

A cameraman and interviewer came into our section early in the game and he and his lovely assistants gave us all copies of "The Best of the Doors" 2-CD compilation. And yes... we appeared, larger than life, on the Diamond Screen - foam finger and all...! This proved to be a great night for a ballgame and an even better night for shwag. My other friend was remarking on his intention to buy a game shirt. And, errily enough, he WON a game shirt (signed by infielder Ryan Garko) simply for having the winning ticketed seat...!

While my friend ventured into the depths of the stadium to claim his mighty prize, I had my picture taken with a giant hot dog with onions.

Herein I will list the garbage I ate: 1) hotdog with onions and 'ballpark mustard'; 2) draft beer; 3) peanuts; 4) canned beer poured into plastic cup; 5) Cracker Jacks; 6) draft beer; 7) soft pretzel and nacho cheese; 8) polish sausage hotdog with peppers and onions and 'ballpark mustard'; 9) chili cheese fries. We shared the peanuts, Cracker Jacks, and chili cheese fries. The three of us were roundly defeated by the fries.

It's worth noting that, before tonight, I had never been to an American League ballgame. I saw two New York Mets games (National League) about twenty years ago. I was amazed at home much of the game I had forgotten. And at how quickly I picked it all up again. It was truly a magical night. The Cleveland Indians beat the Detroit Tigers, 6-3.

Go Tribe...!

MACJOURNAL 2.2

"Welcome hither:
I have begun to plant thee, and will labour
To make thee full of growing." -MacB, Act I, Scene iv

Today was our first day in the newly-restored Hanna Theatre. The place is beautiful. I have taken a couple of nice photos of shadows from the beautiful upstairs hallway lighting fixtures.



Not only is the interior of the Hanna Theatre simply divine, the technical systems are thoroughly outfitted with some of the latest technology in lighting and sound. The crew is fabulous. They have worked hard hours and have done a great job get the space up and running.

Today we sat and talked about what an amazing experience it is to be the first artists to walk this new stage. To be the first group of women and men to be seen under these lights and heard bouncing our artistc voice from floor to ceiling in this new configuration. Granted, this is an old space, brought to new life by committed and dedicated lovers of the performing arts. Some of us will only ever have the experience of opening a new theatre once and I, for one, am enjoying every moment.

This performance space will grow with the labor of those who love it and I believe it will reap the rewards of that love. I believe it will flourish... something new under the sun for the Cleveland community, built from a history that this same community began in the same loving spirit.

DINOSAUR RANCH DREAM

I have been tired. As ever, I have trouble sleeping. Doubly so here in Cleveland, in a strange environment. I walk through many of my days in a sort of waking dream. As spoken in the movie version of Fight Club, "When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake." This is a condition to which I have become accustomed, having suffered from it for many years. I am often renergized by the excitement of my experience in Cleveland but I fear the sleep deprivation may be taking a toll on my work, though. Ever hopeful, I try again tonight.

I did get to have a cool dream, though. It was short but fun.

I was a ranch hand on a Dinosaur farm. We had a few hadrosaurs scattered about, grazing quietly on the plains. I rested comfortably on a woven grass cot in a basic shack structure with a strand of long grass hanging from my mouth.

A slow rolling rumble began to form from the distance. I rose from my bunk and looked out a small open window portal. Over the hilly rise in thge distance, flanked by a cloud of dust and flying twigs and branches... a sight that froize me in my reverie and chilled my heart until it could only seek warmth in my throat. A dinosaur stampede.

I dropped down and turned away from the window as if it would actually stop the stampede from happening. The roar only became louder. I looked out the window once again to confirm the doom; surely, the entire ranch would be destroyed and everyone with it. The dino herd broke through the stupid typical crooked wooden fence. But when they did, they underwent an amazing transformation.

They became cows. And they calmed right down and grazed.

MACJOURNAL 2.1

"This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air sweetly and nimbly recommends itself unto our gentle senses." -MacB, Act I, Scene vi

I arrived in Cleveland, Ohio, on Monday, Spetember 8. It was a beautiful sunny day with a nice breeze on the air. I was dropped at my housing, an apartment building in downtown Cleveland, just a few minutes' walk from the offices of Great Lakes Theater Festival. Immediately, I got lost inside the building, looking for someone to give me my keys. I was told to go to the apartment leasing office but the leasing office told me to go to the corporate management office, who told me to visit another office... the third office told me they didn't know who I was supposed to talk to. I stood in the hallway with my heavy rolling duffel, my day pack, and my PeeWee guitar, wondering what to do next.

Luckily, as I was about to get really anxious, I ran into fellow performers Sara and Jodi. They came to my rescue. It turned out that the security desk had my papers and my keys. Sara gave me brief instruction on how to check in and out and where to go and, seeing my frazzled and confused look, asked, "Do you want help?" I said, "Yes, please." She took up my packet and my keys and guided me up to my apartment. After I briefly settled my things, I walked with her and Jodi to the offices and rehearsal space.

The Playhouse Square complex is huge, containing four different theatres. At any given time, Playhouse Square may have any combination of up to four local acts or tours while a number of other shows are in rehearsal, ranging from theatre to dance to opera and anywhere in between.

The Hanna Theatre is only few blocks away from Playhouse Square. I haven't seen it yet but I'm told the renovation is coming along quite well. Our Producing Artistic Director speaks very highly of the work and describes it as one of the most beautiful theatres he has ever seen. It has been newly outfitted with modern professional audio and lighting equipment. It has hydraulic lift capabilities within the stage itself. The thrust stage (a stage that juts out into the audience) has been finished with a cross-pattern parquet flooring. The seating section includes bar seating, specailty boxes, and a balcony level.

As for Cleveland, I haven't had a lot of time to roam. In a short jaunt to buy headphones, I saw the Soldier and Sailor Memorial and the Arcade (a beautiful little mall with skylights and a number of quirky little shops and boutiques), and got a quick glimpse of the sports arenas. I took note of a wide variety of interesting architecture and a few unique restaurants. One of them was a Martini and Bowling bar called the Corner Alley Bar & Grill. I can't wait to check this place out. It looks super hip...!

Once the rain clears out I'll take some pictures and visit some local oddities. Maybe I can even figure out how to include pictures in my posts...!

MACJOURNAL 1.4

"Well, may you see things well done there: adieu! Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!" - MacB, Act II, Scene iv

We have recently ended our show's Boise engagements and will soon be moving on to Cleveland, Ohio. I'll be in New England, briefly, to attend the wedding of an old friend. Then it's on to Cleveland to begin rehearsals.

I haven't even started packing I have been so busy.

So busy, in fact, that I can't really spend a whole lot of time on this weblog entry. I will, however, report again from Cleveland. Rock on...!

Today is my 3-year quit anniversary!

3 years without a cigarette!

MACJOURNAL 1.3

"Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd." - MacB, Act III, Scene iv

We are halfway through our Boise show run. The feedback has been fabulous. People seem to love the production. A few of the faculty and staff of The College (where I work) have seen it and have given me great compliments. I ran into a local radio personality at a reception for a magazine and he couldn't stop gushing about all the elements of the production; scenic design, costumes, actors, and musicians.

Most performances have gone pretty well. Both of us drummers have missed a few cues on occasion. There's a lot to remember for this show. We have scripts on stage next to our drums so we can keep track but we actively work toward having the show completely memorized. Page turns can be very distracting to the audience.

Soon, we'll be making our way to Cleveland. I'll be leaving Boise on September 3 to begin rehearsals in Cleveland. Much of the cast from Boise will also travel to Cleveland but there will be some new folks joining us. Additionally, there will be more stage elements incorporated in the new space in Cleveland so we'll need time to acclimate.

I'm a little nervous about Cleveland. I have never been there and I have been given mixed reviews about it. Some call it dangerous and others call it harmless. For a semi-agorophobic like me, the idea of dropping all home comfort to spend three months in a completely different place is more than a little frightening. But it is imparitive in this life that we face our fears.

The show will be running in repertory with the Sondheim musical 'Into the Woods'. On 'Woods' days I will be busily exploring the Land of Cleve. I am very excited to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; the mecca of my people. I'm told there is a nice exhibit on Jeff Buckley, one of my heroes.

I'll be mostly cut off from my support system. Even as an adult, it can be pretty nerve-wracking to think about everything that needs to be done in the coming months; there are major events that need to be handled at The College and I still have to train a few folks to manage them; there will be intense labor for the production of MacB in Cleveland; and I will miss a number of gigging opportunities in Boise with my bands, Semi*Famous and Po' Billy Beats.

I knew what I was getting into. Now that I'm in it I'm still excited but also pretty stressed. When one has as many responsibilities, interests, and talents as I do, it can be hard to keep it all organized and functioning. I am fortunate to have friends, family, and co-workers who are kind and supportive.

MACJOURNAL 1.2

"Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er" - MacB, Act III, Scene iv

Tech Rehearsal. For those of you who live outside of the theatre world, there's this period during the week before a show opens... it's called, "Tech."

Tech is a series of rehearsals that allow the designers to apply timed lighting and sound cues and work on any problems with scenery, effects, and costumes. The actors learn to move through their actions, in the space, wearing the necessary gear and using the necessary props. The musicians learn to hear the show on the main stage, which often sounds very different from a rehearsal hall, and learn to anticipate the rhythms of the actors' entrances and exits.

Tech is long. It's nothing compared to a complicated film shoot, but it's still a series of long stop-and-start days. These tech days are very important, though, as unlearned scenery and stage elements can be hazardous when people are running around with swords...!

For my part, I stand. I stand for a very long time, as does my collegue across the stage. We stand and play. When we don't play, we stand. I try to stand as still as I can and not make any movements that would pull focus from the actors. I stand.

I'm pretty good at long days of standing. When I used to run audio cues for live shows, I often chose to stand to give myself the maximum range of motion over the audio console and other equipment. In a chair, one can be tempted to ignore things that are out-of-reach. I spend most of my days as an audio/visual engineer either walking, jogging, climbing, or crawling, sometimes for hours on end and rarely get a chance to sit.

Yesterday I wore shoes while I played. Today, I was barefoot. I enjoyed being barefoot, although my feet became more than a little cold by the end of the night. I felt more connected to the Earth, in a way, but if my feet get cold it may divide my attention. We'll see about the end result.

I'm still having a blast, despite our recent loss and the heavy schedule. The cast and crew have all been wonderful and I think it's going to be a real cool theatrical experience for those who see it...!

DANNY

"Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. " - Hamlet, Act V, scene ii

A great light has gone out in the world. Danny Peterson, actor and founding member of the Idaho Shakespeare Festival, died of a heart attack on Tuesday.

We are all in shock.

Danny was a lovely man. He was kind and generous. When I first moved to Boise, he was one of the first people who kind of 'took me in'. One of my first friends, here. We would get together about once every couple of weeks to listen to our favorite vinyl records... Firesign Theatre, Harry Nilsson, Warren Zevon, and of course, Danny's favorite, The Beach Boys.

A few years back, Danny and I went to Stitch Marker's house to record a Pretty Youth album. Danny came with a tenor ukulele and three children's 'taptone' zylophones. He also brought a great idea for a song: "I'm a Walkin' Antenna and She's Pickin' Up My Radio Waves". We all wrote it together and it was fantastic.

Danny and I designed two theatrical productions together, for The College of Idaho. "Lysistrata" and "The Madwoman of Chaillot". Both equally weird and fun.

Danny and I also went golfing together. I'm terrible at it. He was fair. He admitted to being a very avid golfer at one time but gave it up to build his famous treehouse. We would cruise out to Warm Springs (a very forgiving course) grab a cart and coffee and give it our best shot for a few hours. We'd grab hot dogs in between 9's.

I'll miss Danny every day. He was a light in the face of darkness and a smile in the face of adversity. I am honored to have known him.

MACJOURNAL 1.1

I work as a staff Audio/Visual Technician for a liberal arts college in Southern Idaho. The College has graciously allowed me a leave of absence from July to November to perform in a production of Shakespeare's Scottish Play in Boise and later in Cleveland, Ohio. The following is a log of my process, written in an effort to share my experience with my family and the good folks at The College. Enjoy!

'The labour we delight in physics pain.' - MacB, Act II, Scene 3

I wake up in the early morning, shave my head and most of my face and bike down to the theatre. I get there by 10am or so. There, I meet up with the resident sound designer/composer, my mentor of many years. He and I visit the roof of the theatre, face the sun, and he leads us in a 15-minute, somewhat physical, ancient Japanese warm-up ritual, immediately followed by a 10-minute run. The ritual serves two functions: it jump-starts the focus and readies the body but it also serves to ward off negative energy and cleanse one's energy.

After we finish running, we work through the scoring for the scenes in the daily rehearsal call, before the actors arrive at noon. I stand Stage Left with my entire attention span focused on the actors onstage. I try to learn to match their rhythms, both vocal physical. I try to learn how each actor moves through their text and what they see to convey throughout their performance. I learn when, and how, to accent the action onstage through the instruments I am given.

An alum of the College I work for is also performing in the show and has a really cool fight sequence which he performs brilliantly. During the fight I get to underscore his movements. I have to watch with a keen eye... many of the sounds we're playing have to land with perfect timing. I play a large bass drum, a sheet of jagged steel hung behind me, as well as a variety of flutes.

Actors come and go during the rehearsal calls, depending on whether they're in the scene that's being rehearsed. The drummers, however, are there from beginning to end. Some nights rehearsal has to end early because most of the actors are also in the theatre's other productions in the evenings. On those nights, I work on revising my run script so that I can read it in the most effiecient way possible during the show, using limited page turns and clear notation.

I can't say much about my costume but I'm going to look great. I was measured for my costume two weeks ago. I have reduced my intake of bad food and drink. Most days I excercise, in some form, for about an hour, in addtion to the drumming and the bike ride to and from work (uphill on the way home). I also have a series of stretching excersices for my hands and wrists to keep my forearms from becoming too tense and to prevent further episodes of the tendonitis from the Berklee days. I also do similar exercises for my upper back and sides, as I have to keep my arms aloft and active for long periods of time.

It has been a tiring schedule from morning until late night and has pushed me physically and mentally. I am probably near the best physical shape of my life and working hard to maintain it. I am learning new ways to meditate and bring my mind into harmony with my surroundings. I rarely have any down-time and most of it is spent keeping my muscles limber or going over my show notes. I have a newfound respect for the professional stage performer and the ability to hold intention and focus. I used to ignore breakfast. Now, I try to eat a little something each morning to keep the machine moving forward.

I'm having fun. When people think of accomplishment in music, they think of the Grammy Awards or top-of-the-charts singles or begin named first chair in the London Symphony. For me, this show is a culmination of a great deal of work and training in theatre and music and it is a point of great pride to be doing this for such a unique company.

I can't wait to share this amazing work...!

A Little Background

It is said that, unlike the drama of Romeo and Juliet or the boistrous comedy of Twelfth Night, Shakespeare's Scottish Play is more like an action movie. It is even 'ripped from the headlines' in that it is a dramatization of historic events in Scotland. King Duncan was a Scottish king who was murdered. MacB succeeded Duncan and was probably one of the murderer/conspirators. The play was written during the reign of King James I, who claimed to be a decendant of Banquo, another character who, in the play, is foretold to have future kings in his bloodline. King James I was apparently also very interested in the occult, having himself written a book on witchcraft. Shakespeare may have written the play partially to appeal to the personal interests of King James I.

GOD'S GIFT OF PARKING

God doesn't give me riches. God doesn't give me a super body and stunning head of hair. God doesn't give me the ability to handle money.

God gives me GOOD PARKING. And I'll take it.

I have an uncanny ability to achieve the highly-coveted 'within-a-block' parking spaces in dowtown locations. It doesn't matter what city, what day, or what event, or whose car I drive. I get good parking. My lovely girlfriend, Hannah, has remarked on this on a number of occasions.

I park well, too. I can parallel park very well. I usually get within five inches of the curb, evenly-aligned from front to rear. I can get myself in and out of spaces most people wouldn't dare try. I drive a big car, too; a Pontiac Aztek. It's roughly the same length as a minivan.

So for any of you who need good parking, here are a few tips:

1) No space is worth driving around the lot for half an hour. You could have been inside and shopping already. Take the first closest spot you find and enjoy your shopping or dining experience instead of driving in circles, wasting gas, cursing at the other drivers for arriving first. In Supermarket, Department Store, or Mall parking lots, find the parking lanes that feature Handicap parking (usually centered on the store's entrance). Drive two lanes over, to either side. That's where you are most likely to find close parking.

2) Be considerate. In unmarked street parking try to calculate the maximum number of spaces that could be created in the area in question, and park in such a way that leaves room for others but maximizes the space. In marked-stall parking, try to stay evenly between the lines. Men - if you can aim into a toilet, you can keep your car between parking lanes. Women - if you have the constitution to clean your man's urine off the rim of the toilet, you have the patience to navigate your car between the lanes. As our cars get bigger, we need to be more aware of the space they consume.

3) Be attuned to your intuition. If you REALLY want to leave the house to get where you're going but a little voice inside is telling you to wait... just wait. Maybe if you listen to that inner voice, you'll get where you want to go just in time for the rockstar parking.

Dreams about Dreams about Dreams

I haven't written a dream in awhile. The dreams haven't been as vivid or as interesting these last few months. Nothing to speak of, I suppose... shapes and colors in vacuum voids.

A few days before the September 11 attacks, I dreamt of planes flying into buildings. Granted, in my dream, the buildings weren't as tall and were made of brick and the planes were old style bi-planes. But it was planes flying into buildings. And on the early morning Tuesday 9/11, when I saw what was happening, hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

"Yeah, right," you say, "That's a load of crap. You didn't dream about it before it happened."

Well, I did... kind of. But who do you tell about something like that? And how was I supposed to know it was going to come true? I thought it was just a weird dream.

I have had dreams that came true, before, but they were far more literal; a moment walking the sidewalk and kicking a piece of ice; a conversational exchange between myself and a co-worker; dropping a fork at a formal dinner. Stupid, mundane stuff.

Someone once asked me if they were all just Deja Vu.

Deja Vu can be scientifically explained by the delay between the eyes and the brain in processing stimuli. No... this was not that. I have a dream, part of it happens in real life, and then I recall, roughly, when I had the dream and what the rest of it was about.

I choose to think of these as metaphysical or spiritual signposts, reminding me that I'm on the right path in life. I believe that they are clues to a great mystery. I am certain that they are more than a brain delay.

But, I was also certain that I wouldn't ever wake to see real planes flying into real buildings.

'ME AND BILLY BALDWIN vs THE YAKUZA' DREAM

I had another big dream last night. But, alas, I cannot remember anything about it. Sometimes that happens. I will spend the whole day trying to remember as many details about my dreams as possible, and then I will become distracted by a single little thing (like kittens, music, or a cute young lady) and it will all go away. So, instead, I thought I'd tell you about a dream I had while living in Austin, Texas, in 1997.

Two notes: 1) I don't own a truck. 2) I have never crossed paths with the Yakuza.

There I was, driving a small body pickup truck, as fast as I could stand to go, down a dirt road in the forest.

I slammed on the brakes, realizing I had missed the dirt parking lot by about 200 yards. I jammed the car into reverse and drove my purple pickup backwards at about 60 miles per hour. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the parking lot and cut the wheel. I tried to hit the brakes but I hit something else first. Something loud. Something metal. Something I couldn't pay for.

I climbed out of my truck to survey the damage and found that, not only had I completely totaled an AMC Pacer, but I had somehow twisted the entire car into a knot.

I looked to my left and saw a five or six Gen-X slackers looking concerned. I said, "I'm so sorry... was this your car?"

The most flannel-laden of the group brushed the hair from his face and said, "No... we came to help. See?" And with that, the group all held out toothpicks. As if that would help.

One girl, who looked quite a bit like Clare Danes, had moved away from the rest of the crowd, and was surveying the damage with her arms folded across her chest as if to hold herself in. It began to rain, and she followed her friends as they trekked off, out of the parking lot, toward the dirt road.

I ran to catch up to her, yelling things like, "Was that your car?" and "I'm so sorry!" and "Please stop and talk to me, Clare!" She would not turn, the rain was coming on stronger now, and the dirt road was turning to mud.

I sped up, ran past her, and dropped to my knees, dramatically, in the mud. "PLEASE FORGIVE ME," I cried, and held aloft a short piece of lumber, a two-by four, in attempted treaty. The Clare Danes girl and her slacker friends just walked by.

Suddenly, a pipe cleaner whipped past my ear, and landed in the mud in front of me. I arose and turned to find a group of oriental men in suits, running toward me. More pipe cleaners cut the air, and I ran. I ran through the parking lot and the tied-up AMC Pacer. I ran into the woods, pipe cleaners whizzing past my head. While running, I paused to pick up the pipe cleaners, hoping these smartly-dressed men would run out and stop chasing me.

I emerged from the woods to find myself back on the dirt road. In the distance, I could see my purple truck, somehow no longer in the parking lot, but parked across the road as if abandoned during a three-point turn. Running toward it, I caught up to a slick-looking man on an afternoon walk. It was Billy Baldwin!

Baldwin smiled and said, "What's happening?"

Out of breath, I gasped the word, "Yakuza" and continued to run. Billy Baldwin looked over his shoulder and ran alongside. "I have some rope in my truck!" I yelled.

When we got to the truck, I opened the passenger door, flipped the seat forward, and began to rummage. I found a length of hemp rope and some signal flares, and handed them to Baldwin.

"Oh, hey," I said, "I dig your movies."

We ran again, the Yakuza hot on our trail, pipe cleaners flying about. I pointed to a hill, with bramble bushes at the top, and told Baldwin to head for it. Once we reached the top, we found that the hill was more of an embankment, overlooking a cliff. There were snakes in the bushes, but they seemed to be on our side.

We found, while hiding in the bushes, a large, flat, paper-mache lion's head, that seemed to be some type of large coin. We picked it up and held it aloft, in preparation. Our moment had come.

We waited, patiently, in the bushes, for the Yakuza to show up. Emerging from the woods, they walked cautiously along the bottom of the ridge. Not cautiously enough, it would seem, because as soon as they were close enough, Billy Baldwin and I threw the lion's head down on the Yakuza, sending them sprawling onto the ground. They were defeated.

And then I woke up.

'KUNG FU CAMPING' DREAM

It began as a simple camping trip. All my real-life buddies were there, in the mountains, all running, hiking, walking, biking, and such. I was running along thin trails I didn't know, testing my reaction time, dodging branches, rocks, and roots. My trails spilled out onto a dirt road. On the road I found all my friends engaged in their own fun activities. Some were playing backgammon, some badminton. Some played leapfrog and some were catching frogs. I did kung-fu on the side of the road, practicing my sparring techniques.

Shortly thereafter, a few of us walked up the road and found ourselves in a small theatre... thus beginning the preparations for the usual "I'm-doing-a-play, don't-know-who-I'm-playing, and-don't-know-any-of-my-lines" dream. The costumes were ragtag bits of ripped fabric loosely sewn together, and I was told we were doing a Shakespeare play. I cannot remember now which one, but I think it was one of the "histories." During most of the performance I just ran (calmly) around the backstage and seating sections trying to find a script. Once I had the script, I sat down backstage on a small stool and chatted quietly with my fellow performers. Then I looked down at the text.

I looked up a moment later and the theatre was gone, replaced by a break in the woods, surrounded by tall, slouching trees. It appeared to be twilight and the sky glowed in a brown-red haze. Off to the side of the field, near the treeline, stood an old log structure that looked much like the rolling battlements from the Minas Tirith siege in the movie version of Lord of the Rings.

This lonely tower in the woods was accompanied by a older man with shoulder-length gray/black hair, dressed in rags to resemble a samurai. Though I do not remember his words, he pointed out a square platform, hanging from the tower by two corners, and explained to me that it was used for a kind of torture. He then put his hand to my head and pulsed images into my imagination; large crowds of brown-leather-clad soldiers holding torches, moving toward the tower and shouting.

I saw from his eyes and felt with his hands as he cabled the platform to the tower. I felt with his heart an overwhelming sorrow, as if he had lost a sister. I knew that he had been forced to attach someone to this deathly device whom he cared for deeply.

The images fell away, and I found myself standing in the empty field, next to the mysterious soldier, as before. He began to explain to me what he called "The Rat Technique." I asked him to demonstrate, and he exploded from his meditative stance, running far and fast, rapidly changing direction. I looked up to find we had been surrounded from all directions by the leather soldiers from the vision!

My point of view shifted rapidly from a ground view to an angled overhead view where I saw this old man run from group to group, moving in chaotic patterns, blowing through lines of soldiers like a strong wind. I don't think they were dead. I think he was teaching them, as he had been teaching me, but their lesson was more violent. Zig-zagging and dog-paddling his hands in front of him, he had neutralized our opponents in short order.

As suddenly as they had appeared, the soldiers were gone. The tower now stood at the edge of a much larger field, and the only trees were far in the distance. The mysterious old Samurai was now standing next to the tower, and both looked young and newly built. They became black and white, and I found I was looking at an old photo I held in my hands. And then I woke.

'CITY OF THE BEAST' DREAM

Last night I dreamt of an indoor street; a normal city block, with a roof overhead. I parked my car and climbed out to take a closer look. The street was darkish from a lack of light, and slightly wet from an indoor rain. As I walked, I found myself in a small alley, framed by gray buildings and chrome garbage cans.

I saw a toddler run past me toward a side tunnel. A baby girl sat on a large box against a building. She was quite a pleasant little thing, smiling and cheerful, but squirmy like a kitten, wearing a dress made of small white and pink pillows. I picked her up and carried her through a tunnel. At one point, she almost wriggled out of my hands, but I told her, "You have to be still, sweetie, I'm losing you." After recovering her, we emerged from the tunnel into a room where I placed her in a crib. She yawned, and played with letter blocks. As I walked away, she stated, "My brother is waking up wrong."

I walked back through the tunnel to the indoor street, where a frumpy patchwork bed had appeared against the back wall. Laying on it was another small child, just beginning to wake, whimpering slightly. He was wearing little striped denim pants and a blue flannel shirt, a bit like a railroad worker. I tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable, and appeared to be in a state of bowel distress. Once his movement had seemed to pass, he turned and looked at me for the first time, with glowing red eyes. I felt uncomfortable.

The child began to breath heavily and pronounced, in a low and polyphonic voice, "I am of Satan, now." His eyes seemed to smoke, and he writhed in discomfort.

I looked into his smoldering eyes and said, "No. My world is strong, and you will leave that child."

The dark voice welled up again. "You are nothing," it replied.

"Bring it on, bitch," I growled. I remember thinking this was an insulting, and perhaps misguided statement to direct at an evil that could potentially be Satan. I also wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew. Or if our dialogue would have been more poetic in real life.

I felt a current pass between the child and I, and my whole body felt unclear. My head became heavy and my eyesight blurry. The child cried out, and I reeled from the high-pitched wail of terror.

I shook off the weight of the dark and concentrated on expelling the harsh energies I had voluntarily absorbed. Clarity came slowly, in the form of color, changing from red to orange to yellow. Then followed a calming green, a warm blue, and a light violet. The violet became pure white. The haze fell away. The child became quiet, and slept.

I staggered up from the patchwork bed, which was now a bland dark gray, and regained myself. I had won.

My dream came to a conclusion when I moved my car from one side of the indoor street to the other, parallel parking perfectly. I shut off the car, pressed in the parking brake, opened the door, and woke up.

INTRO AND ZOMBIE DREAM

So here we are. You, the reader, and I, the writer. I suppose I should start with the who, what, where, when, why, and how.

WHO: Seth Asa
WHAT: Musician, Audio Designer/Engineer/Editor
WHERE: Idaho
WHEN: Present Day
WHY: Narcicism
HOW: Too Much Information

For a long time, I have resisted the idea of spreading too much information about myself around the internet. Having had my identity stolen, and having received some eerily coincidental gifts from a major tobacco company, I'm a little wary of the truth of privacy these days. Not to mention that I don't think anyone would find my life very interesting. My dreams, however, are something much more intriguing. Maybe, you'll relate. If not you might be entertained.

I should begin by letting you know I have been living the better part of my 30-someodd years in a fantasy world. I am a rock star. My music moves people to joyful outburst, grand empowerment, and cathartic tears. Women swoon to see me on the streets. Policemen give me CD's to autograph instead of speeding tickets. My pajamas and hat are not just comfortable houseclothes, but a worldwide fashion statement. People line up for days to acquire my newest music and all eyes are on me, waiting to see what I will do next. I have turned the world on it's ear with my melodic waves and pulses. I am interviewed day and night in various locations and states of dress.

I figure that if I maintain this fantastical view of myself, one day I may reach an age wherein I can no longer tell the difference between reality and my imagination. They say perception fuels reality. I'm counting on it. Because if I haven't lived my dreams by then, the fantasy world I started with could be all I have left as a consolation prize. Maybe that will be entertaining to onlookers, too.

Dreams are a powerful thing. Whether they be daydreams or nightmares, dreams show us the pieces of ourselves that daily consciousness hasn't the time to explain. For example, how do you think you would you deal with yourself... if you suddenly grew wings and flew into another room, miles away, and explained to a talking goat that, if you just solve these last three math problems, you will open the lock to the pie fridge and release the bubble car? I think it might freak you out a bit if it happened while you were awake. That's why it only happens when you are asleep and relaxed.

Like many people, my dreams range from excitingly heroic, to terrifying, to dull and nondescript.

'ZOMBIE SHOOTOUT' DREAM

Last night I dreamt of zombies, though it didn't start that way. It started as a pool party with friends (not people from my waking life). The pool was large, with a rounded cobblestone bottom. Thick ropes were stretched across it, so one could crawl hand-over-hand across the pool; most of us just took off our clothes and went halfway out over the water and let ourselves fall. The water was invisible, but it was there, and we trusted it.

Shortly thereafter, we were frantically getting dressed and loading guns, and heading to lookout towers and patios. We seemed to be in a tall luxury apartment building for awhile. Zombies had been spotted. Not only the slow-moving zombies that make you wonder why zombies are any kind of threat, but also the fast-moving intelligent zombies that make you wonder how humanity can possibly survive. They were coming for us.

We had guns though, and guns is good for one thing: shooting at zombies. Unless the zombies have guns, too, and know how to use them. Our tall apartment building fortress seemed to morph, over time, into a large ground-level deck with multiple tiers. The advantage was now clearly with the zombies. We all began to run.

The rest of the dream is a frantic old-west style shootout, and is very dull. I vaguely recall a few fight sequences, but nothing worth noting. Like many of my heroic dreams, it was all very cinematic.

I awoke tense, but relaxed, knowing that this had been a situation that only occurs in sleep. If zombies attacked in waking life, I think I would just freak out like everyone else... like you would. Dreams are a powerful thing. Too powerful for reality.