You’ve written a youthful male character (30s-40s). However the director casts a youthful actor (mid-late 50s). Significant or not?

You’ve written a jukebox musical using music in the public domain, and the “old-time” music vs a 21^st century high-tech world theme is embedded into the text. The music director decides to modernize the sound of the music. Significant or not?

You’ve written a drama about the nature of love. However the actor playing the love interest decides to portray his character as if mocking his female love interest. Significant or not?

You are invited to a rehearsal of a play you wrote. You are invited to provide feedback to the actors. You do. The next day you find out that the actor couldn’t reconcile your feedback with the way he had chosen to portray the character, and the director told him to forget about what you said. Significant or not?

Is it better to have your play produced for the sake of being produced even if it doesn’t look or sound like what you wrote? Or not? Please comment 🙂

I recently read words to the effect, “Submit your polished play. Must work as a reading”. The rational me asked myself, “How does a play get polished, if it’s never been read?” The irrational me got pissed. The rational me asked myself, “How does a play which is meant to be staged, “work” as a reading?” The irrational me decided not to submit… It seemed the best solution at the time.

I recently participated as an audience member at a staged reading of five short plays. The rational me asked myself, “Why did the director choose to direct this drama, as if it is a farce? The irrational me wrote an email to the playwright expressing my outrage on his/her behalf. The rational me regretted sending my unsolicited opinion. The irrational me worries that I never received a reply… It seemed the best decision at the time.

I got pneumonia again.
This time I refused hospitalization.
And it was like I imagine hospice care
Should be.

My parents did not smell the smells.
Did not wear the gowns.
Did not wear the masks.
Did not grow ever depressed.

Instead they fussed and tended,
While my sister and girlfriend shopped,
And my pups and housemate worried.
For this, my sixth bout in five years.

My body is completely unrealiable.
My mind knows that time, or lack thereof,
Is pressing me on.
I write between afflictions. You?

I just posted.
Then read back two weeks.
Seems there are questions
On our minds.
My friends and I.

How is it I was not influenced
By pre-reading and yet, we,
Those of us in May,
Are pondering, seemingly,
Identical questions?

One cries to be allowed, finally,
To gift us with writing full-time.
Or me, writing all the time
Just in my mind,
Because I cannot write all the time.

Asking big questions.
Answering big questions.
I am struck by the kinship.
And regret when on that rainy day
I missed Topanga with them.

Low potassium,
Little oxygen.
My body jerks,
Realizes I must write.
I am late. Late. Late.
But for what?

I cannot remember.
Yet persistent am I,
So I check my email.
Yes, I remember:
My friend, blog. Blog! Blog!
This is my week!

The end of my fourth day of summer and these are the first words I have written, and that is okay with me. Last year, January, I had an idea and wrote two scenes, about nine pages; inspired conflict, but completely lacking in defined characters and storyline.

Later I wrote more on the theme, and still lacked defined characters and storyline. Since I restrict my outside influences when writing, it was odd, but I did allow myself to watch a DVD of Bigelow’s HURT LOCKER. All three pieces of the puzzle came together after some intense research.

In the spring of last year I sent out the script to several theaters and festivals, and two weeks later I received interest from one, as well as notes framed as questions. I pounded out a revised draft in a week and sent it back. From the one I received more interest, and more questions. Nine months later I read the play again, and discovered I might have some answers. So I rewrote the play and sent it back again.

I received more interest, and more questions. Two months later – a Friday afternoon – I took a nap, and in my dreams I believe that I heard the faint mutterings of dialogue. I could not discern the words, but ‘felt’ it was time. I got up and sat down and handwrote a new Act I, Scene One; handwriting multiple pages of text is something I haven’t done since 1981.

The next day I went through the entire fourth list of questions, and sent out the revised play. This time I received more interest, and five tweaks! Who is to say whether I should be writing all of the time? Maybe I am; just in my head. I have discovered when the words are ready for the page, I write them down.

“What’s your story about?”

This is a question asked of everyone in my writing class every week, and every week I struggle for a definitive answer. It’s hard for me to stick to one theme, because my story is about everything when I fold in all the subtexts like the ribbons of vanilla and chocolate in a marble cake. But if I had to choose one theme then I would say, “My story is about forgiveness.”

In closing my blogging week my last question is “What does forgiveness look like?”

Forgiveness looks like a long hard road of letting go. Forgiveness feels like letting out a breath that I’ve held for too long. I gasp and realize I could’ve let go and sucked in fresh air with more oxygen and more life.

I think it’s a process for me and it usually begins with how deeply I’m wounded. I remember a day when someone very special to me said, “You’re taking this too hard.” I was devastated thinking of the the day when he wouldn’t hold me in that special place in his heart anymore.

I’m guilty of paying lip service on many occasions when I tell somebody, “I forgive you,” or “That’s okay”, because forgiveness does not come easily to me. As I get more experience I learn that in accepting “bad news” or an event is really about how I relate to it/the subject/the situation. Some things are just really hard to accept, and I hope for the gift of grace to grant me the power to forgive through and through.

Well, till next time around. I’ve enjoyed sharing these questions with you.

Thanks for reading.

Analyn

What is rage?

 Rage is when I’ve been ignored and I’m standing waiting to be heard.  Rage is when I’ve been forgotten, and I’m still waiting to be attended to.  Rage is when I’ve had enough. 

 There’s the story of Rosa Parks who defied the segregation laws of Alabama by refusing to give her seat to a white man.  She said that she was not tired, not anymore tired than usual after a day’s work.  She said that she was tired of giving in.

 This is a 4:39 minute video of the story of Rosa Parks as told by a 5 year old girl named Rio:  http://childwild.com/2010/03/11/the-rosa-parks-story-as-told-by-my-kid/

 Rage is when I’ve ignored my soul.  My power comes from my connection to my soul by listening to it and acting on the voice from within.  As artists struggling to do art and still be able to be self-sufficient financially this is a moment-to-moment challenge.  

 Maybe some of you are familiar with that feeling of wishing that we were writing, producing and growing creatively in theater all the time instead of working at a job to do the art.  The joy in not feeling the pinch to spend on paper and pen, or laptop and electricity that powers that tool; to enjoy the hours alone at a coffee shop watching, absorbing, translating, and writing, and doing it all over again.

 After a long day of working at the job I feel robbed of my soul, because I haven’t nurtured it with what it craves.  The only way I compensate it is with making connections with people I work with beyond the actual work at hand; or I attach a meaning to that paycheck.  The most effective way of combating this feeling is doing my work soulfully – really putting care into the product I produce or the service I provide.

 The personal microcosm of my rage seeps in ways that violate myself like I’ll eat too much sugar, indulge in alcohol, not exercise, tell myself I’m not worthy of this art – some really dreadful put downs which only makes the situation worse.  I can relate to fluidly to Thomas Moore’s explanation of rage when the soul’s voice is repressed.

 “If we don not claim the soul’s power on our own behalf, we become its victims.  We suffer our emotions rather than feel them working for us.  We hold our thoughts and passions inward, disconnecting them from life, and then they stir up trouble witin, making us feel profoundly unsettled or, it seems, turning into illness.” – Thomas Moore from “Care of the Soul” HarperCollins Publication

 So everyday I’ve been practicing just trying to be silent before I go to work and write down stream of consciousness pages.  I do my best to put down tracks or building steam of subtexts that I can write something to show myself (and maybe to someone) for validation that I have been working on my art.

The larger microcosm of rage is the violence of political wars.  I need not say more than this because you’ve seen it and heard of it.  There are people actively listening and doing to change the balance to be more respectful of everyone.  It is easier to give in to feeling hopeless and ineffective and distract ourselves with entertainment and/or hiding behind a job.  I am so grateful for having the opportunity to communicate to you with this writing.  And it’s after hours from my daily grind at the office.

 A change in one heart can create a ripple effect that creates massive changes in society and history.  When Rosa Parks died the former president Bill Clinton spoke at her funeral:

, I was reminded of what Abraham Lincoln said when he was introduced to Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He said, “So this is the little lady who started the great war.” This time, Rosa’s war was fought by Martin Luther King’s rules—civil disobedience, peaceful resistance—but a war, nonetheless, for one America in which the law of the land means the same thing for everybody… That great civil rights song that Nina Simone did so well: “I wish I knew how it would feel to be free, I wish I could break all the chains holding me, I wish I could fly like a bird in the sky.” The end says, “I wish that you knew how it feels to be me. Then you’d see and agree that everyone should be free.” Now that our friend, Rosa Parks, has gone on to her just reward, now that she has gone home and left us behind, let us never forget that in that simple act and a lifetime of grace and dignity, she showed us every single day what it means to be free. She made us see and agree that everyone should be free. God bless you, Rosa. God bless you.” – President Bill Clinton on Nov. 2nd, 2005 in Detroit, Michigan

The Civil Rights movement in the US has shed a lot of blood and tears, though the original act was a simple defiance to stop giving in.  A woman remained seated in her chair.  When I look at other civil rights movements happening now it has mostly been a non-violent action of just words and not giving in.  It would be inaccurate to say that there has not been any non-violent actions against the established norm and these have been called acts of terrorism. 

 It’s vital to own every part of ourselves, and the shadows that we repress finds escape in unpredictable ways.  Accepting every part of ourselves also allows for a wider acceptance of others because we can see ourselves in the other.  It just takes imagination and self-love.  The rage is a signal of what we’re not paying attention to.

What is the face of fear?  The loss of personal freedom.  The loss of power.  The loss of control.  There are rational fears and irrational ones. 

 Yesterday and today my fear has been mounting because of the news I read about the Supreme Court’s ruling that gave police officers increased power to enter the homes of citizens without a warrant.  

“the Court upheld the warrantless search of a Kentucky man’s apartment after police smelled marijuana and feared those inside were destroying evidence. Writing for the majority, Justice Samuel Alito wrote that citizens are not required to grant police officers permission to enter their homes after hearing a knock, but if there is no response and the officers hear noise that suggests evidence is being destroyed, they are justified in breaking in.” – Source:  Demorcracy Now!

 My first experience with power was within the dynamics of my family.  There is the natural law of the adult’s  power over a child.  There is the  mother’s active or passive neglect or attention to the health and welfare of her baby.  I have vivid memories of being told “No.” or “Stay.”  (Kinda like a dog now that I think of it.)  As I got older I got exposed to the dynamics of rivalry between siblings over territory (what are we going to watch?  MTV or sports?  Who gets the window? I always got back seat middle because I have two elder siblings.) Finally, I cut a path towards financial independence after getting an education and working for many years at a job, and I am finally in the “driver’s seat” or the illusion of it. 

I have this fear that the little plot of personal freedom that I have is getting smaller when I hear disturbing news about the policy making of governments at all levels and in the work place.  The face of fear is not knowing when, where, and how I will be prevented from exercising free will.

 True story.  I’m not embarrassed or shy to share this because I use it as an example of how the fear of loss of self-control manifests in the behavior to control others.  Three weeks ago on a Friday morning I cheerfully brought a tray of pastries to work.  “Happy Friday!” is a common greeting at the office, and a signal of the upcoming weekend when we are free to do what we want with our own time. 

 A woman in the office who is heavy and has been on a strict diet was in the kitchen making her protein shake.  Her diet requires every morsel of food to be measured and meted out at precise times.  In the past she’s complained about the mealy texture of the shake, and almost everyday the conversation with her is about her diet.  This particular morning she confronted me with a question, “Why do you do that?”  I was dumbfounded by the question.  “Do what?”, I asked.  “Why do you bring in those pastries?”  My response, “I like to share.”  “You know you’re contributing to peoples’ bad health by bringing those in,” she quipped.  I said, “Uh… there’s free will.  People can choose to eat it if they want to.”  “Yeah, but why do it?” she persisted.  “Free will.  Choices.  It’s the spice of life,” I parried lightly.  “No, really, why do you do it?” she asked again.  I went back to my first answer realizing this was a dead end conversation, “Because I like to share.”

 She made the choice to go on the diet (good for her) but the rest of the office does not have to suffer because of her personal choice.  The activist in me decided and acted.  I brought treats for the office everyday during following week. I offered two choices:  fruits or pastries/cookies.  At the end of the day the fruit was left over on kitchen table.  People chose what they want to eat.

 I understand that it is my co-worker’s fear of not having control over her urges that made her want to control me.  But I refuse to buckle to pressure (“You know you’re contributing to people’s bad health…”)  This illogical reasoning is like George W. Bush’s argument, “If you quit drugs you join the fight against terrorism.” (A quote from the movie “American Drug War” by Kevin Booth.)  What the former president said is a blanket statement that puts drugs and terrorism under one tent, and that is not rational reasoning.  With the numerous over-the-counter drugs that can be “cooked-up” then should the pharmaceutical companies producing these drugs be lumped in with terrorist?

 What is the face of fear? When someone believes they have the right to exercise control over my ability to choose.  Are we really born free? I sometimes wonder.  There has been courageous people in history who has fought to maintain the spirit of freedom by exposing lies and telling the truth.  Truth can have an unsavory look and taste, and it can also be beautiful and uplifiting.  As writers joining other artists we participate in the fight against terrorism by the power of our art that gives insight into our nature. 

 The first song I learned on the guitar was “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley.  It has a verse that says, “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.  None but ourselves can free our minds.”

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJHgMD1S0bg