<![CDATA[MARY DARCY

<![CDATA[MARY DARCY - Blog]]>Fri, 10 May 2024 21:34:42 -0400Weebly<![CDATA[Notes to self: It's stupid to cry over a car]]>Sat, 27 Feb 2021 08:48:39 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/notes-to-self-its-stupid-to-cry-over-a-car

It's stupid to cry over a car.
So I won't.
I won't.
Because I know it's stupid.
It's especially stupid during Covid – with the loss of life and jobs, and the economy tanking and the bitter political climate. I mean, seriously, when minotaurs are breaking down the doors of the U.S Capitol, it seems particularly small and self-indulgent to shed tears over giving up one tiny little car. Especially a 16-year-old car with 195,000 miles whose back hatch has already rusted off once. Letting go of car whose right front wheel may come loose at any moment, whose gear shift has to be jammed hard while turning the key to get it to start, is certainly no great cause for lament.
Even if it is a British racing green Mini Cooper.

So what?
It's not safe to drive anymore. Nothing lasts forever. And 16 years -- that's like 120 dog years. How long did you think it would last? A lot changes in 16 years.
When you drove her off the lot in 2005 she was shiny and dent free, even if you weren't. You'd already been through a lot. In the before times you were broke. Every night as you walked home from your public radio job, you'd pass a car just like her in the park. It was the first one you'd seen up-close, and the only time you can recall that a thing made your heart ache just a little. You've never been materialistic. You knew you shouldn't love a thing. But still.
You talked about that car so much that your new boyfriend got you a toy one to put on your desk. And sometimes, in the moments between interviewing and editing, you'd wistfully dream about a real one. That was back in the time when the public radio job was the latest in a string of things about you that made your conservative dad shake his head a bit. Buy an American car was the family mantra – with something about repair costs on foreign vehicles tossed in for good measure. All said with love.
And all that was before the boyfriend slipped a ring on your finger and together you created a new family with new rules. Suddenly the safe, sporty little green machine went from self-indulgent extravagance to wise, only slightly self-indulgent investment that would make you happy. Happy.
So you went to the dealership and handed over your hard earned money from the public radio job. And somehow, in that very act, you moved ever so slightly closer to the person you wanted to become.
And when they presented you with the key to this sporty little toy – this shiny piece metal with a long flat top and seats perfectly suited to your 5 foot 4 frame, it was love at first sight. Suddenly so much hurt evaporated. Suddenly you weren't fat and ugly and stupid and dorky. You weren't a liberal pinko freak or the girl who was bullied in schools or cheated on by boyfriends or who was just never enough. Suddenly you had depth and style and substance and joy. All that from a car. Or maybe just from a decision.

With the sunroof open and the wind in your hair so much hurt blew away, and over miles of backroads and highways you began to realize what you want isn't wrong. That who you are isn't wrong. And together you'd drive around carrying that message to people who needed to hear it. For sixteen years. Would you have figured all of that out anyway? Probably. Would you have tried to instill that message in others? Sure. But it was more fun with her. For sixteen years she was the spoonful of sugar that helped make everything go down a little easier.

Sixteen years of ice cream runs with kids, road trips with friends, wedding photos, opening nights, random summer drives, carting plants, cupcakes, a three tier wedding cake, and 9 foot Christmas trees. Sixteen years of carpool karaoke. You drove her while building a business, planning events, accepting awards and nursing defeats. She once carried you on three wheels across town to the hospital where your father was dying so you could be with him. Your dad, who loved her too, because he could see how happy she made you. He'd always laugh when he saw you roll up in the driveway.
For 16 years, she kept you safe, and delivered you home, through good times and bad. She was cute, and fabulous – and she made you realize that you were too. And when people saw her coming, they knew that you had arrived.
So, no, I will not cry over a car.
That would be stupid.
Not over a car.
Never over a car.

]]><![CDATA[The 1st Failure of the Year? Or: What she Did and Didn't Do.]]>Sat, 02 Jan 2021 16:04:03 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/the-1st-failure-of-the-year-or-what-she-did-and-didnt-do*This is the first entry for the new 2021 podcast Failing Better -- where successful people talk about the time things went wrong. Look for it soon at failingbetterpodcast.com

The party didn't happen this year.

In the tradition of my parents, each January 1st my husband and I fill our home to the brim with good food and good people. Our annual New Year's Day open house has become so popular with friends that people have to squeeze through sideways to make their way from the living room to the kitchen to get their cocktails from my husband. If you arrive early you may get a coveted space by the Christmas tree. Guests can also be found leaning against walls and furniture or perched in deep conversation on stairs, and their coats form a small mountain on our bed. On the upstairs landing people jockey for a spot on the small couch or draw up their knees on the floor while others belt out show tunes at the piano (Did I mention we are theater people? Oh, well – we are theater people).

On New Year's Day, the house is just the way I like it – full of love and music and laughter. On days like this, the first failures of the year may pass barely noticed. A botched cocktail, a spill on the couch, calling someone's new girlfriend by the wrong name. Not great, but easily fixed and forgivable. It's a fresh new year and we're doing what we love to do – making people happy. And that, it seems to me, is one of the best possible ways to start a new year.

I wonder sometimes, if parties like this are entirely a thing of the past. In the post-Covid years, will anyone still want to pack together like sardines, brushing up against 15 other people for a pomegranate-champagne cocktail?

But for this year at least, we knew that hosting the party wouldn't have been wise. So to avoid the mother of all failures, and to keep our loved ones safe, Peter and I spent January 1st on the couch, wrapped in blankets, binging on Netflix and leftover Christmas cookies. You're welcome, people. No sacrifice is too great for you.

At the beginning of the day it wasn't so bad. A breakfast of vanilla butter rounds and a viewing of Death to 2020 seemed silly and decadent. A snack of caramel corn and The Prom –OK. The whole first season of Mrs. Maisel and a turkey breast and mac and cheese was just comfort. Right? By the time we broke into a Sports Night binge I remembered why I don't do this often. I am not built for it. Truthfully, all day I kept thinking about people who were hungry or people who were lonely or people who just needed something when we had so much. Welcome to the thought process of an Irish Catholic kid. I mean on the average New Year's Day I'm serving up cocktails and comfort food at a point in the season where people have had their fill of cocktails and comfort food – I'm not out saving the world. But I'm at least creating community. And that is something. Isn't it?

Anyway, the truth of this story is somewhere in between hedonism and martyrdom. In the light of day on this January 2nd, maybe I didn't help anyone on the first day of 2021, but I didn't hurt anyone. And I rested. On the first day, I rested. And binged a little. And spent some quality time with my husband and my Christmas tree – my favorites. Usually in that order. And truth be told, I woke up this morning genuinely feeling rested. And ready for 2021. There are places to go and people to help and things to create and beautiful successes and some failures to from which to learn.

I'll tell you all about them at next year's party. It's going to be off the hook.

]]><![CDATA[The street's a little kinder when you're home]]>Wed, 08 Jul 2020 14:49:56 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/when-youre-home-the-streets-a-little-kinder-when-youre-homeI’ve walked around my beautiful neighborhood in NYC pretty much every day since this crisis began – first bundled in winter coats, then layered in sweaters and scarves, and finally in a sundress, mask and tennis shoes. Nobody knows me. Most folks don’t want to. They have enough on their minds. My geeky little secret?

I wave and say hello to almost everyone I pass. Some people ignore me. I’ve made myself be ok with that. That’s their right. But if I don’t wave and say hello, how will I ever connect with the ones that do want to say hello— the ones as lonely and starved for human connection as I am. So I keep waving. And I keep hoping.

Today, Albany – the place I've called home longer than any other – seemed almost surreal to me; a place where people on the street not only know you, but seem warmed by your presence— happy to see you safe and home. A place where you feel the same way about them. A simple lunch with my dear friend Heather felt so incredibly special. Just the company and conversation of someone I love so much. Just to see her smile and hear her laugh up-close -- was so lovely and precious.

A walk with Devon through Center Square to the Governor’s Mansion – just catching up with an amazing human-- was lovely. Running into my back alley neighbor, Bill so many times that each of us though the other was following them was delightful. And truth be told, I nearly cried a few times behind my mask, talking to Bill and neighbors Mark and John. Everyone I met today seemed so happy and genuinely glad to see each other. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the fact that Covid quarantine and a cold spring have kept us so isolated. Maybe it was simply Smallbany – the nickname we give to a place where, if not quite everyone knows your name, chances are they know someone who does. Every interaction today felt heightened, more meaningful, important. Whatever it was, I’m grateful for it. Right down to Bill practicing the violin while Peter and Devon and I finished dinner, complete with gelato, berries and double dark Milanos, under the backyard twinkle lights.

Quarantine has been harder on most people than it has on me. On me, it’s taken mostly an emotional toll. I'm an extrovert. I get my energy from interaction with others. I don't do well alone, which is how I've spent most of my time. Today was a tonic. Thank you to Heather for lunch, to Devon for the walk, to Bill and Mark and John and everyone I passed who waved and said hello, and to Peter, for knowing when I have to come home. And for taking me there.

]]><![CDATA[Shifting sands: love in the time of Covid]]>Wed, 25 Mar 2020 04:00:00 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/shifting-sands-love-in-the-time-of-covid
Like everything else Covid-19 is messing with -- our work, our favorite restaurants, our quest for bread and toilet paper -- the nasty little virus is complicating our relationships. In some ways, our relationships and how we relate, are at the heart of the complications. Being near each other is the way the virus spreads. Staying away from each other flattens the curve and slows the pandemic. The oxymoron of the moment is social distancing. I get it. I'm onboard. By now, most of us are onboard. But for each of us there was a line, a moment --or many -- when the sands shifted and ideas about what Covid-19 would mean, became reality.

The weekend before the social distancing effort began in the United States-- I left NYC with my husband to visit our house in Albany. We had friends performing in three separate plays, and the weekend was packed with social activities. All of the performances were canceled before we left the city. We considered staying home, but travel was only going to get more difficult, and there were things to be taken care of at the house. So we packed our bags and copious amounts of hand sanitizer and boarded Amtrak. We would take care of the house, pay a visit to our favorite restaurant to support them in a rough time, and check in on friends and family before what was shaping up to be a long winter/spring quarantine. Now, of course, this seems ridiculous -- but this was two weeks ago and change, since then, has been the only constant. My husband works in health care, and we'd both been watching and reading extensively about Covid-19. At the time we felt the travel was not a risk. If we did, we wouldn't have gone. In retrospect, maybe I would have skipped the trip. But that was then.

We saw a few friends on Friday, and ran a few errands. But on Saturday morning, plans to see someone I dearly love were canceled. There was vagueness on both of our parts -- hers about how scared she was about catching the virus, mine about how important it was that I see her in person in a time that was beginning to feel increasingly serious. With just a little time and distance I can say that I totally understand and respect her fear. But in the moment, I had a terrible time. In the moment I was hurt. In the moment there were tears. In the moment, even while I somehow understood that I was failing as a friend, my heart was breaking. For me it was the last time we would see each other, possibly until the summer. In my head, and in my heart, I had taken precautions specifically to protect the people around me. But to her, I was potentially dangerous and was being precarious with her health and the health of others. I didn't mean to be precarious. She didn't mean to hurt me. We know that now. But a lot has changed in two weeks. I may have mentioned that already.

Today, I go for walks through Washington Heights, keeping a six foot distance from my neighbors, and I'm weighing a 13 story climb against a crowded elevator ride to my apartment -- so yes, I understand the need for social distancing. In retrospect, my reaction that day seems so out of proportion with my friend's perfectly reasonable request to stay away. So why was I so upset? What I've come to is this: that moment was, for me, the shifting of the sands. Suddenly, slowly, the idea was seeping into my consciousness that, on a list of things quickly changing in our universe, we might now need to be afraid of one another. I couldn't parse it at the time, but the idea that saying no (my least favorite word) and, to some degree, turning away from someone that you love, might actually be the right thing to do. This is a crushing blow to someone who sometimes rides the subway just to be around people. So this first realization -- this first shifting of the sands -- really unnerved me.

I'm sure you've had your own moments of shifting sands; the slight changes that unbalance us and make us remember that life is much scarier, much more precarious than people we realize. Lately it seems the sands shift often. It shifts when I'm watching press conferences on television, when someone crosses the street to avoid me, when I see capacity lines at grocery stores, when my husband leaves the apartment to go to work at a hospital.

But now when it shifts, I am ready for it. I'm learning to right myself, to balance. I can't hug the people I love, but I can talk to them, and the last two weeks have brought more, and sometimes deeper conversations. I've gathered with siblings and friends. I've been touched when people I haven't seen in years check in on social media to see how we are doing. I've seen virtual concerts, museums and I've even taken time to reach out to folks here. We are steadying each other. We are helping each other find balance. Maybe shifting sands are the new normal, at least for now. If they are, then what comforts me is that taking care of each other is a part of the new normal.

Even if taking care of each other looks a little different than it did two weeks ago.

]]><![CDATA[To: You From: the streets of Upper Broadway]]>Tue, 24 Mar 2020 04:00:00 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/to-you-from-the-streets-of-upper-broadwayFound on Tuesday's walk through Washington Heights. There is love out there people. Sending some your way.

]]><![CDATA[A Funny Thing Happened On The Way...]]>Tue, 10 Mar 2020 04:00:00 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/a-funny-thing-happened-on-the-wayAt 6:30pm on Friday the 13th, 2020, the proverbial butterflies should be fluttering in the bellies of Pseudolus and the rest of the company of A Funny thing Happened on the Way to the Forum at Schenectady Light Opera. The nervous excitement, the “roar of the greasepaint,” the flowers and chocolates, the hugs and back-pats, the calls of “good show” and “break-a-leg” should abound. There should be stretches and vocal warm-ups and ushers sorting out programs. There should be rousing words of encouragement by a director who has been working on the show for not just the six week rehearsal period, but for six months.

At 8pm on Friday the 13th 2020 the lights should come up on an intricately designed set that was constructed, painted and decorated over weeks by a team of volunteers working long nights, after full-time day jobs. Actors should appear in beautiful costumes, planned, fitted, scavenged and sewn by another dedicated crew of volunteers who have given their time and talent for free. There should be music, led by a music director who for months to has been teaching and perfecting and encouraging her musicians and cast. And there should be performers, some of whom have waited years to this play their roles; who have practiced music and lines and dances for countless hours, just to make people laugh and forget their troubles for a while.

At 8pm on Friday the 13th, audiences were promised A Comedy Tonight! Weighty affairs would just have to wait-- as the song says. But as we now know, those affairs wouldn't wait after all. They couldn't. The outside world would intrude on comedy and tragedy alike, and, in a rare instance, the show – the shows – would not go on.

At 8pm on Friday the 13th, the ghost light is all that will illuminate the stage at Schenectady Light Opera – like the ghost lights at Proctors, and The Egg, schools and regional theaters across the country, and every stage on Broadway. To make the world safer for all of us, we must let go of short term plans, and long held traditions.

When a world crisis hits close to home, everyone has their own moment of realization – when they begin to grasp the closeness or the gravity of a situation. For many of us in the theater – those of us born with a “get it done” ethos practically ingrained in our DNA, the closing of theaters was one of those moments when the threat of a pandemic began to feel real. Of course we were aware of what's been happening around the country and the world. Of course there are larger costs to the pandemic sweeping through our communities right now than the canceling a few plays. But this is our normal, and our way of giving back to the world, so it's only natural that canceling the theater should be jarring and disappointing. And the thought of the long term effects for companies involved in the joyful struggle to bring the arts to into our communities is painful. Kudos to the boards who had to make the difficult decisions to close their doors to keep the companies solvent and their communities safe. And for that matter, for doing the thankless work of non-profit theater administration with your free time.

While closing theaters is a small slice of what is happening in the world, it is a part of what we're all experiencing, and right now I'm feeling for my community and my art. People are sad and even angry that they worked so hard to create a gift they will not get to give. That's OK. You can understand why and still be sad. You can completely agree with the reasoning and be disappointed. But here's a thought I hope will help those of you who will not get to share the results of your hard work with an audience. You see, A funny thing happened on the way to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. The same funny thing that happened in theaters and rehearsal halls for every single show that has been canceled. I wasn't in the room for any of those rehearsals, but I know that it happened. I know it because it happens every single time performers come together for a show. Some of you made new friends. Some of you got closer to old friends. All of you laughed. All of you helped each other. All of you made memories. Every single one of you learned something. You connected with each other, you shared joy and frustration. You were human and you experienced the humanity of others.

Nothing we do in the arts is for naught. The process is just as important – if not more important-- than the outcome. Connecting with and enjoying each other are the very best part of creating theater. You may not get your well deserved ovations in the next months, but no-one can ever take the experience you had away from you. As Stephen Sondheim wrote, "None of it was wasted, all of it will last."

Keep singing your songs and reciting your lines – in the car, in the shower, in small groups, in Google hangouts, and we'll be back together for the next audition. Just don't forget your hand sanitizer.

]]><![CDATA[Shut up Mary Darcy!]]>Mon, 09 Sep 2019 21:51:31 GMThttp://marydarcy.com/blog/shut-up-mary-darcy Maybe it's just me.

I'd like to think it isn't, but maybe it is. Except it's not. I'm sure of it.

Stop me if the following sounds familiar.

You think about something. Then you think about it some more. You decide you have something to say. In fact, you're certain you do. So you write it down -- or, more likely, you open your computer and hit the keys. You compose a draft -- as clearly, as concisely, as creatively as you possibly can. Then you walk away. And you come back a while later, take another look and are suddenly filled with self loathing. You say "What the F*$k was I thinking?" or something less vulgar, but equally self deprecating.

Maybe it's the sentiment of the piece that bothers you. Maybe it's the perceived level of talent. Maybe it's the sheer avarice involved in expecting anyone to pay attention to your thoughts in a world where there's Netflix and Hulu and HBO, CNN, NBC, MSNBC, The New Yorker, and the New York frigging Times. Then there's the daily barrage of tweets, texts, updates and alerts coming to our droids and iPhones at lightening speed. Oh, and somewhere in a 168 hour week we're supposed to eat healthy, exercise, get adequate rest, hold down a job, do laundry and hopefully develop, oh, I don't know -- a hobby, and while we're at it, some quality human relationships. So, you think, "With all that who has time to read this drivel?"

And there you sit, alone, with you finger hovering over the delete button, questioning the reason for your whole existence. Maybe, you think, it's just best to go back to consuming what other people create.

Anyone? Anyone?

Creating anything is an act of daring. Especially in a world that tells you to sit down and shut up. And who, in one way or another, hasn't been told to shut up? Who hasn't been made to feel like they aren't quite right, or worse, that they are flat out wrong -- not their ideas, but them, themselves -- just as they are. The voices of others can eventually become the voices in our heads. They can make the perfect the enemy of the good until we begin to wonder -- "why try?"

But when did perfection become the sole reason for doing something? When did art for the sake of art or self expression for understanding or connection or -- you know -- fun, become wrong? Not that we shouldn't strive to be better, or develop a craft -- but should only trained singers sing? Can you paint if you've never taken a class -- but just because you think it's fun? Can you write, even if all the people who have told you to shut up have become the loudest voice in your head?

I don't know.

Let's find out.

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