https://ljgranered.com LJ GRANERED Thu, 20 Jul 2023 15:54:50 +0000 https://ljgranered.com en https://ljgranered.com/Lydian Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:04 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Lydian L.J. Granered’s music project “Lydian” has performed at the Bitter End, Purgatory, Pete’s Candy Store, Pianos, Berlin, Club Cumming, the Metropolitan Room, and other venues across New York City. They have a new album releasing this year. Their latest album is available to stream on Spotify.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; https://ljgranered.com/Fine-Let-s-Pray Thu, 20 Jul 2023 15:33:55 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Fine-Let-s-Pray FINE. LET’S PRAY. A response to the shooting at Covenant Christian School in Nashville, TN, on March 27, 2023. In Memoriam of Katherine Koonce, Headmaster of the school and loved, long-timed educator at Christ Presbyterian Academy, where LJ attended elementary though high school. Dear Lord, I thank you for another day to breathe, though it feels foreign, clouded. Fragmented between sips of coffee and body cam footage and the memory of Katherine’s voice calling my name down the hallway with that unwavering lightness, like she is about to tell a joke. Like someone who is always happy to see you. In the wake of the impossible, on a day that marks time with another line in the gravel of before and after, the ground is beginning to look like barbed wire. I pray you make yourself profoundly known to the people of Nashville, Lord, to the families and friends of those we lost at Covenant. Dear God, I have never made a more earnest bid, that you make good on your promise and be near to the broken hearted. I pray the grief comes quickly because you are there to hold it. And that we are strong enough to hold it for each other, as I have experienced many times before. I wonder if you hear the tambour of grief like colors, because I can hear the sound of the same community I have grieved with like a sustained note in the parking lot and that volley ball court and the chapel and the hope house and looking through the nursing room window from the back of the sanctuary. I can hear it playing again, Lord, and it is louder than ever. Dear God, I am angry. But you know this. You are not scared of my anger, Christians are scared of my anger. I have been wrestling with you like Jacob for longer than makes a good Christian comfortable. But I am not a good Christian, and you seem to be okay with that. I am angry that Katherine Koonce is dead. I am angry she was murdered. I am angry there are 6 people who were here two days ago that are not anymore. I am angry three children will never grow up. I am angry that my hometown is terrified and full of sorrow. I am angry that no one seems to want to do anything about it. I am angry that thoughts and prayers and condolences are used as a fail safe, used as a shield against feeling the weight of guilt that we haven’t done anything for this long. Like letting vegetables rot in the fridge, or dirt accumulate in the sink, or the infection of an untreated wound. But fine. I will humble myself. I will do what is asked of me and I will pray. Though I doubt many people believe my fucking queer trans nonbinary prayers reach the same hotline, I will pray. Sorry for cursing. &nbsp; Dear God, I pray that this tremendous grief incites a radical action. That you give Bill Lee and Marsha Blackburn and Andy Ogles or anyone really, the courage to reject the favor of men and the temptation of money and power so that they can lead our community with grace and humility towards a future that is safe and welcoming for all people. I pray no one buys an AR-15 ever again, because what on earth could you possibly need one for except to cause destruction or maintain the illusion of control. I pray that we use this as an opportunity to reckon with the pain the church has wrought in whose name? The God I know believes I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Even reading to children in drag about Ruby Bridges. Especially when reading to children in drag about Ruby Bridges. I pray that we do that painful work of changing so we can end the pain of staying the same. Thank you that I am in good company when I speak these words. Thank you, that though the world is trembling, there is a rumble, a hunger to see each other more clearly. Thank you, for the opportunity to be alive when the facade is cracking. I pray that it shatters completely. They told me to pray, Lord. They told me to pray. They told me to pray, as though I have not been praying for a very, very long time. https://ljgranered.com/Foreshadowing Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:03 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Foreshadowing FORESHADOWING A reflection on generational trauma and gluten intolerance.I follow it like a lazy balloon and mutter, “I am probably enough,” wondering why I am still&nbsp;always hungry. I am probably enough,” I tell myself willy-nilly in between swigs of Mini M&amp;Ms straight from the plastic cylindrical canister as I write at my kitchen table. I bought them to bribe the ten year olds I tutor into writing paragraphs implementing elements of foreshadowing. And for every successful seed of future mayhem they invoke in their writing, I give them a single Mini M&amp;M, for which they are ravenous. They pretend to swallow them like little pills, a foreshadowing in itself. I pop one in my mouth, smirking, and try to hide my phone as I google whether or not I was correct in saying “statistically” is an adverb. Danny looks up and whines about this injustice, “Hey, you're eating the M&amp;Ms!” He likes to pretend to flip his hair like the girls on Drag Race when he feels self-righteous. The confident gesture of a boy whose parents think it’s chic to have a gay son. “I know, I wanted one,” not indulging his entitlement. “But they’re OURS,” he persists. Fine. Bonus lesson for today. “Actually, Danny, I bought the M&amp;Ms. And I am being generous enough to share them with you all as a reward for doing your work.” “But you bought them with our money. Our parents are paying you.” At that moment, I forgave my parents a little for every spanking I ever received. With a herculean patience, I say, “That’s not how money works. But I would be happy to talk to you about it after we finish the exercise.” He huffs a resistant acquiescence to my authority and continues writing. Chloe looks up from their paper. Chloe can read a room so keenly, I sometimes witness it overwhelm her little body. I asked how they felt about Sarah not being in class today because her grandmother passed. Chloe sighed, looking off into the horizon, and said soberly, “Very empathetic.” Chloe is a Pisces. Chloe told me their pronouns were he/they at the beginning of the year. I noticed them using more feminine gendered language when referring to themself today, so I asked, “What are your pronouns these days?” Chloe replied sheepishly, “She/her or they/them. Whatever is easiest.” I smiled and said, “Cool. I like how you let your pronouns change. I do that too.” She smiled and sat quietly next to me talking about band class while the others ran around on the playground. “I am probably enough,” I say to myself back in my slice of Brooklyn. I like to trick myself into bouts of self-esteem. Like I could try it on and take it right back off if I offended anyone for liking myself too loudly. My mother texted me to “make sure you’re not planning on taking any hormones” or chopping my tits off or anything like that anytime soon, having recently shaved my head into an undeniable androgyny. I didn’t respond to this unprompted reminder of how conditional her love is. They say for every year of recovery, you get one second before you react. I’m at about ten seconds. Another message, “Don’t make it a big deal. I just want to know what I have to pray for. Love you.” Ten seconds. “Please don’t make it a thing. It’s just a question.” The script is so repetitive, she doesn’t even need me to say my lines anymore, and I let her argue with my ghost. The apple not falling far from the tree, my father is an apparition. Omnipresent but translucent. He gives one the feeling you could walk through him, but he might swat you on the head from behind. Fucking with the mortals from the afterlife. He finally disappeared for real when he legally changed his first and last name to Samsen Endal, like he’s in the Witness Protection Program hiding from himself. End all. I did. I stopped speaking to him altogether. Blocked his number. I know how mad it’s making him that I won’t even let him say his lines anymore. He’s an amazing actor. “I am probably enough,” I say to myself as I chop peppers and avocado into a salad like a chore. After insisting there is “no food in the house,” the kids are ecstatic that I make them cheese and crackers for snack. I sliced a hunk of cheddar on saltines, an exotic relic from a 90s childhood they have never been offered before. Gluten and dairy. “Am I doing this right?” I wonder. I think about how I am the first generation on my mother’s side to have enough to eat. My mother speaks about her childhood of 8 kids living on canned peas and cheese sandwiches like a half-filled helium balloon. Lazily floating away, she follows it and wonders why she is still always hungry. For the first time, I can feel the distance I have put between myself and Tennessee. I can feel my ten seconds lasting like the never ending lull in a conversation between acquaintances. I am watching my parents argue with my stand-in, and realize that they were never talking to me at all. I pop another M&amp;M into my mouth and turn towards the mirror to see my reflection. I follow it like a lazy balloon and mutter, “I am probably enough,” wondering why I am still always hungry. I work on next week’s lesson plan. https://ljgranered.com/Beatrice Thu, 20 Jul 2023 15:42:12 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Beatrice BEATRICE "I have been thinking about the patience of ordinary things." On March 12th, 2020, the bar was empty. A state of emergency had been announced the night before but I was still working the dinner shift. The atmosphere was tense and confusing, unsure if we should be scared or if nothing had really happened at all. But I stocked the wine and cut the garnishes, the busser folded napkins and took their time setting the silverware that no one would use tonight. No one came in. So we sat in the back, passing the time snacking on bread and olive oil and making ourselves lattes in paper cups, sitting on the counter and talking shit. The hostess peaks into the server station, grimaces, and says, “Beatrice is here.” To which we all groan and collectively roll our eyes. I hop off the counter, wipe the crumbs from my mouth, and rummage up the energy to perform what is known as “hospitality.” Beatrice is a regular. A rail-thin woman in her 70s with a cropped blonde bob, a black turtleneck, and delicate pearl necklace. She comes in alone, sometimes with a friend who seems to know her distantly, but usually alone. She says hello as I methodically reach for the Margot, a heavy pour that she never asks for but always insists on with the way her eyes follow the liquid just past the line between average and indecent. I know she wants the tomato salad, but she leans in and asks anyway with a cheeky smile, that I return with a wink. A routine that tonight feels undercut with a power dynamic, of - We shouldn’t be here. Something isn’t right. You are asking too much of me. Beatrice is…particular. She is calm but picky, complains seldom but pointedly, and likes to talk. Never forcefully, but the need emanates from her. The kind of regular that every bartender recognizes. Though she doesn’t know me, I make up a significant portion of her social life. I don’t want to talk tonight. It doesn’t feel good and we don’t feel safe. And so beyond the “Hi, how are you?” and “What’s happening?” and “Isn’t this crazy?” I busy myself with polishing bottles, and other duties that clearly don’t need completing. She takes out her notebook, the one that’s hard-covered and pocket-sized like a deck of cards. The one she usually reaches for on busy nights when I’m in the weeds and don’t have attention to spare. She memorizes poems in this tiny notebook. Sitting at the bar, she copies words in the smallest handwriting, and mouths them inaudibly. We don’t usually chat about the poems. It seems an activity she genuinely enjoys in solitude, but prefers it with her wine and tomato salad. She doesn’t need me to ask and we go about our routine with a quiet togetherness. &nbsp; The empty restaurant, the lone patron, and me with my rag slung over my shoulder ringing clear like an Edward Hopper painting. I bite. The singularity of the evening overcoming me, the moment begging to be acknowledged. “What poem are you working on?” I ask. She looks up, delighted. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Would you like me to read it to you?” “Yes,” I confess, not without hesitation. She proceeds to read it aloud. Her voice is loud in the empty room, despite its gentleness. Each word affects her, but she remains composed and steady. It’s the story of a couple no longer in love but asleep in the same bed. Pondering their distance. Their life together. And at the end, reaching for each other. &nbsp; It is a beautiful. She finishes and smiles like she has just shared a secret. The confident vulnerability that a woman in her 70s has earned. No more need to worry about what other people think. I feel moved to offer something in return, searching for something of equal value. &nbsp; Scrambling for a moment until I remembered, “There is one poem I have memorized.” And for whatever reason, perhaps the persistent intuition that I may not see Beatrice for a long time, I began to recite it. “I have been thinking about the patience of ordinary things. How the soap sits quietly in the dish. How clothes wait respectfully in closets. The lovely repetition of stairs. And what Is more generous than a window?” She sighs. “That is wonderful.” I learned a lot about Beatrice that night. We talked for hours. She told me about her lovers and marrying too young. How she got caught up with this nomadic caravan in the 70s and things got bad and she had to escape with her son in the middle of the night. Her years as a nurse through her 30s and 40s. Putting herself through law school in her 50s. Men who were terrible to her. Women who were good to her. “I’m what people would call bisexual I guess,” she chuckled. “I never thought about it, I just had relationships with women. Sometimes we would make love and sometimes we were just very dear friends.” There was one particularly saucy story involving a French woman and a bar of soap imprinted with a Fleur de Lis. “It’s so hard to meet women at my age, though,” she said. “I don’t know how to approach them and they don’t know how to approach me.” I laughed in commiseration and said, “You know where a great place to meet gay women is, Beatrice? At a poetry reading.” Reacting with genuine surprise, “Really?” “Yes, I think that would be a great place to start.” “Well, I just might do that.” She packed up her things and we said our goodbyes. She thanked me for a lovely evening and I waved as she said that she would report back with her luck on the poetry reading. The next day, the restaurant closed and I was laid off indefinitely, the news reporting confirmed cases of something called “The Corona Virus” on a frantic loop. I haven’t seen Beatrice since, but I do think that instead of asking people where they’re from or what they do for a living we should all commit something to memory. So at drab parties and dinner with friends of friends, we can simply ask, “Will you read me your poem?” &nbsp; https://ljgranered.com/Big-Brothers Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:02 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Big-Brothers BIG BROTHERS Performance Piece, Greenpoint Studio, Brooklyn, New York, 2023 Collaboration with Alex Williams (photographed) and Sarah Blesener (photographer)&nbsp; I have a confession to make. I have to confess that I have this grief. This grief of not having grown up with an “Unnamed You” to teach me how to live. Without old gay people. Without Queer Elders. Queer Mentors. I have this grief that instead of a ringing in my bonesInstead of a felt sense of my ancestors, Instead of a deep knowing of a history of generations of people like me There is a big empty space. A combination of erased and unwritten, and wiped out, and withheld, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waitingto be heard. Waiting to be memorized like nursery rhymes or catechism or a good song. I want to be rooted, too, ya know?I want to feel history in my blood. Do you ever take for granted the certainty of being real and valid and alive? <img width="2667" height="4000" width_o="2667" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/771830992623cab334ba971ba0cae486768eff4fb266398f910c40d34320ea3f/221223_Blesener_WPP_003.jpeg" data-mid="185704183" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/771830992623cab334ba971ba0cae486768eff4fb266398f910c40d34320ea3f/221223_Blesener_WPP_003.jpeg" /> &nbsp; I want someone to tell me the story of myself before it’s mine, so that I might recognize it a little sooner and a little softer.&nbsp; I want deeply un-tragic homosexual mythologies. I want fairy tales where faggots live happily-ever-after, with no “just kiddings” at the end.&nbsp;I want a Twelfth Night where Viola is neither a man nor a woman and falls madly in love with both Olivia and the Duke…I just want to make me a willow cabin at your gate But do not think we have been twiddling our thumbs in the meantime To find yourself on stage without a script in front of the audience Means one must improvise Even the sacred rituals:Define Marriage - Verb. to swear an oath of boundless love to one’s friends Baptism - the act of shaving each other’s head in the bathroom Communion - a repeated event of eating dinner with all the people who are also not invited home for christmas. We name and rename ourselves - a christening.We practice pronouns, we try things on - graduation. We change our minds&nbsp;We are fluid and contradictory and impossible and delicious. We, who have not been guaranteed a future, Are fashioning new ways of being here now. <img width="2667" height="4000" width_o="2667" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/96b650fe042e388db97177b9b439d6869470fb5a0eb294e1bb9f50d51449fd95/221223_Blesener_WPP_008.jpeg" data-mid="185704241" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/96b650fe042e388db97177b9b439d6869470fb5a0eb294e1bb9f50d51449fd95/221223_Blesener_WPP_008.jpeg" /> <img width="2667" height="4000" width_o="2667" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b5ab6b1809c2c8ac002b79d033281d7af994e5a0f7d37d440fb6c810c9722861/221223_Blesener_WPP_001.jpeg" data-mid="185624331" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b5ab6b1809c2c8ac002b79d033281d7af994e5a0f7d37d440fb6c810c9722861/221223_Blesener_WPP_001.jpeg" /> I want memories of an old geezer who lives upstairs with his husband and his cat. Who’s seen some shit and wears his pants too high, but his laughter fills the air with oxygen and he secretly likes it when we play Madonna too loud. I want memories of the late nights he would come downstairs to sit around the kitchen table and tell us stories we’ve heard a million times of falling in love and making inconsequential mistakes over cookies and milk until the sun comes up.&nbsp; I want a jaunty old dyke to tie my tie for prom and teach me how to dance with a girl. How to lead and how to follow, because I’m not sure which one feels like me yet. And maybe it’s both. I want a drag queen with bad knees and a chain around her glasses to read to me before bed and the rusty baritone of a wrinkly trans man to sing me to sleep. <img width="2667" height="4000" width_o="2667" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/81294c19c10d2326097755b92cab3bb3c8ac276aa0b49b44d982ee2523c50763/221223_Blesener_WPP_006.jpeg" data-mid="185704189" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/81294c19c10d2326097755b92cab3bb3c8ac276aa0b49b44d982ee2523c50763/221223_Blesener_WPP_006.jpeg" /> So it’s trueI have been thinking about Weddings and Funerals. About Sunday Dinners. And Holiday Get-to-Gethers. About first kisses and throwing around a football. About learning to shave, learning what to shave. I have been thinking about Quinceaneras, and Bar Mitzvahs, and Tao Moko, and the Debutante Ball. and I have been thinking about Top Surgery. As another sacred rite of passage. That universally recognized moment when someone in our community is ready to step into a new role. The natural maturation from youth into leadership. I am thinking about a day when we gather in ceremonious celebration and the elders smile and say, “Ah, I remember my big day.” And the young ones look up and say, “I can’t wait for it to be my turn.” And the repetition hangs in the air, rich and meaningful with the passage of time. There are speeches and toasts and traditional songs for the occasion, and we dance the night away. Perhaps what I lack in looking back, I make up for in what we have yet to look forward to. And how even though I am not surrounded by Grandfathers or Grand-flowersNo Great-Grandqueers nor Grandcestors. I am swimming in beginnings. Not front to back, not past to future. But left to right. Surrounded on all sides by the sweet and slow accumulation of Big Brothers. Who have only just begun to teach me how to live. https://ljgranered.com/Performances Thu, 20 Jul 2023 15:54:50 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Performances <img width="2880" height="1800" width_o="2880" height_o="1800" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c149bda4eef23daabdbcb09dce9312c37eef943b7e39ab608dc13d577d788b45/Screen-Shot-2024-02-24-at-3.46.07-PM.png" data-mid="205392961" border="0" alt="NYT Critic's Pick Review: 1,001 Nights " data-caption="NYT Critic's Pick Review: 1,001 Nights " src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c149bda4eef23daabdbcb09dce9312c37eef943b7e39ab608dc13d577d788b45/Screen-Shot-2024-02-24-at-3.46.07-PM.png" /> <img width="1942" height="1290" width_o="1942" height_o="1290" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/61f66a69cdd24e0e292edcc09ea9179402f0e4bb15aa27c3e0af82b539d63f10/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.50.10.png" data-mid="185701756" border="0" alt="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" data-caption="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/61f66a69cdd24e0e292edcc09ea9179402f0e4bb15aa27c3e0af82b539d63f10/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.50.10.png" /> <img width="1942" height="1292" width_o="1942" height_o="1292" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4b1c3f5b15967924e54235c7d576236ac9da226fb1151560b81599397cf94fe1/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.49.02.png" data-mid="185701700" border="0" alt="THE SLIPPER ROOM, NYC" data-caption="THE SLIPPER ROOM, NYC" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/4b1c3f5b15967924e54235c7d576236ac9da226fb1151560b81599397cf94fe1/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.49.02.png" /> <img width="2048" height="1365" width_o="2048" height_o="1365" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8283effe069b67b4969028eaddb49478c606146008a4a3ce6a90c188be87f7d5/16179647_748021212032544_7721450276428353498_o-1.jpg" data-mid="185701531" border="0" alt="MUSIC DIRECTING AND COMPOSITION AT THE IDIOT BOX" data-caption="MUSIC DIRECTING AND COMPOSITION AT THE IDIOT BOX" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/8283effe069b67b4969028eaddb49478c606146008a4a3ce6a90c188be87f7d5/16179647_748021212032544_7721450276428353498_o-1.jpg" /> <img width="1026" height="1288" width_o="1026" height_o="1288" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fc0346e5b74d14aea2f2c1427757d1a55613bbd2095bf62f2d114a5a4b527cee/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.53.png" data-mid="185701699" border="0" alt="PHOTO CREDIT: MAMIE HELDMAN" data-caption="PHOTO CREDIT: MAMIE HELDMAN" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/fc0346e5b74d14aea2f2c1427757d1a55613bbd2095bf62f2d114a5a4b527cee/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.53.png" /> <img width="1274" height="854" width_o="1274" height_o="854" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7a6de1acde5ce5273f7b474ce7bf1212e4ffb8755f79bc6ebbf9b60abf9d5cde/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.35.png" data-mid="185701697" border="0" alt="THE MICHAEL BEVAN SHOW AT CLUB CUMMING, NYC - PHOTO CREDIT: ARIN SANG-URAI" data-caption="THE MICHAEL BEVAN SHOW AT CLUB CUMMING, NYC - PHOTO CREDIT: ARIN SANG-URAI" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7a6de1acde5ce5273f7b474ce7bf1212e4ffb8755f79bc6ebbf9b60abf9d5cde/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.35.png" /> <img width="1938" height="1282" width_o="1938" height_o="1282" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6e2e1218d5081b51df2692ac4c4eb65be4241c9bddb1eb2afc7b7df84d70ccc8/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.50.38.png" data-mid="185701758" border="0" alt="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" data-caption="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6e2e1218d5081b51df2692ac4c4eb65be4241c9bddb1eb2afc7b7df84d70ccc8/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.50.38.png" /> <img width="960" height="960" width_o="960" height_o="960" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0626843a10c418573b719a2b19c1644b0bdbb608bf555464dfa02c52d0eab26b/14606352_10157628593155444_4490551891982277035_n-1.jpg" data-mid="185701529" border="0" alt="THE CAST OF A THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS, BY BOBBY LOPEZ, NEW YORK TIMES CRITIC PICK AT THE ATLANTIC THEATER" data-caption="THE CAST OF A THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS, BY BOBBY LOPEZ, NEW YORK TIMES CRITIC PICK AT THE ATLANTIC THEATER" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/960/i/0626843a10c418573b719a2b19c1644b0bdbb608bf555464dfa02c52d0eab26b/14606352_10157628593155444_4490551891982277035_n-1.jpg" /> <img width="864" height="1290" width_o="864" height_o="1290" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/730392ed38488bce680f221ae61557cfc5687eb920b6328864a509a00da62e13/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.44.png" data-mid="185701698" border="0" alt="CLUB CUMMING, NYC - PHOTO CREDIT: ARIN SANG-URAI" data-caption="CLUB CUMMING, NYC - PHOTO CREDIT: ARIN SANG-URAI" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/864/i/730392ed38488bce680f221ae61557cfc5687eb920b6328864a509a00da62e13/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.48.44.png" /> <img width="866" height="1292" width_o="866" height_o="1292" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/cc6581dad2d377705e664f0f04aa87e53a4c0e81edd4a73ebe3c830f2a644e37/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.49.47.png" data-mid="185701706" border="0" alt="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" data-caption="PETE'S CANDY STORE, NYC" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/866/i/cc6581dad2d377705e664f0f04aa87e53a4c0e81edd4a73ebe3c830f2a644e37/Screen-Shot-2023-07-21-at-08.49.47.png" /> https://ljgranered.com/Homepage Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:05 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Homepage LJ GRANERED BROOKLYN, NEW YORK https://ljgranered.com/Info Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:05 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Info <img width="2316" height="3088" width_o="2316" height_o="3088" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/de2ed9a475260e0fc7e14a610670b26687c3c9f88df1ce6053b9b128e5481645/CCA18ED2-BEFF-4FBA-A77F-60F6043FD546.JPG" data-mid="205394282" border="0" data-scale="47" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/de2ed9a475260e0fc7e14a610670b26687c3c9f88df1ce6053b9b128e5481645/CCA18ED2-BEFF-4FBA-A77F-60F6043FD546.JPG" /> BIO L.J. Granered is a writer, musician, and actor based in New York City.&nbsp; A graduate of NYU's Tisch School of the Arts and a native of Nashville, Tennessee, L.J.'s work focuses on unearthing the nuances of the performance of identity in Southern and Queer culture, with an emphasis on deconstructed spirituality and mindfulness of the body. With a disarming clarity, they use the tension of connecting recycled elements of evangelical ideology and contemporary queer narratives to challenge the notion of their disparity. THEATRE Diving Board, as Jane, Dir. Jen Parkhill The Cherry Orchard, as Carlotta, Dir. Tatiana Pandiana7x7 at The Tank (Zoom Ed.), as Laine, Dir. Tom Costello Rosie, as Alice, Dir. Bryn Herdrich1001 Nights*, as Genie/Ensemble, Dir. Adam Koplan/Robert Lopez Sunday Clothes, Solo Show, Metropolitan Room Our Town, Stage Manager, Dir. Stephen Brown-Fried Twelfth Night, as Viola, Dir. Anya Saffir Hey, Timmy!, as Isabelle, Dir. Jen Parkhill You Can’t Take It With You, as Essie, Dir. Paula Flautt Tandem Children's Theatre Company - Co-Founder, Creative Director 2015-2018 *New York Times Critic’s Pick (Off-Broadway) EDUCATION Prisma Leadership - July 2022, September 2022 New York University, Tisch School of the Arts, Atlantic Acting Studio &nbsp; Stones Street, Film and TV The Second City, Improv NYU Madrid - Immersive Spanish FILM &amp; TV Uber Commercial (2023) Dig Deeper (2022), Supporting, Dir. Girault Seger P&amp;G #Leadwithlove (2021), Supporting, Dir. The Art of Blowing It (2019), Supporting, Dir. Ashley Menard Ashes** (2017), Lead, Dir. Grace Gao Viral (2015), Supporting, Dir. Gabby Bryan **Cannes Short Film Corner (Official Selection) / FFI Madrid Nom. Best Lead Actress in a Short Film COMPOSITION Lydian, Composer / Artist, Prd. Gio K. RileyAtlantic For Kids Showcase (2019), Commissioned by ATC Black Coffee (2016 - 2018), Brunch Theater Co. Harlequin (LP 2017), Prd. Lydia GraneredThe Idiot Box (2017), Prd. Rebecca LampiasiBound Series (2016), Prd. Colin Murphey Teaching Artist - Music Teacher, Atlantic Acting School Brunch Theatre Company - Music Director, Composer 2017-2019 CURRENT PROJECTSHarlequin AlbumEasyFamily Meal Sunday Clothes The Michael Bevan Show ︎ &nbsp; &nbsp; ︎ &nbsp;&nbsp; ︎ https://ljgranered.com/Header Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:06 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Header WRITER/ACTOR/MUSICIAN&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; About &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; Contact https://ljgranered.com/Running-on-Cargo Thu, 20 Jul 2023 12:02:06 +0000 LJ GRANERED https://ljgranered.com/Running-on-Cargo Running on Cargo