Today, the first day of my blogging week, I’m going to tackle the first of a list of questions I’ve been mulling over.  And I’d love your feedback what ideas you come up with on the questions.

 First Question:  What is the nature of dying?

 A reverence for life where people acknowledge the fragility of living; and the solemn observance of a life lived as in the rituals of burying the dead.

 In exploring the nature of dying and death I wander to the topic of the soul.  I have been reading two books on the topic:  “Modern Man in Search of a Soul” by C.G. Jung and “Care of the Soul” by Thomas Moore.  The latter is easier reading and digestion, and so I’ve delved deeper into that one.

 What I’ve learned is that the depth of soul comes from suffering.  (This is not something T. Moore stated, but my own absorption of the book.)  We all suffer, and this experience helps us maintain our humanity and connectedness to each other.  So my instinctive response to the question of “What does death look like?” with “A reverence for life”, I imagined that when we see others suffer then how can we not experience compassion to stop the suffering.

 Ok, I’m going to dare throwing fuel into the fire by going this way.  There were different reactions to the assassination of Osama Bin Laden.  The major news networks televised the celebratory mood of the people in major cities, especially in New York City.  I asked a few people I knew about their reactions, and the responses were:  “I’m glad.” And “It’s a relief.”

 I stop to wonder.  Is the world a safer place with this one person’s death?

 Because this is not the forum for political discussions I won’t venture further into that topic.  But I will continue with a quote from Steve Earle (musician, actor, author and activist.) He recently completed a new album titled, “I’ll Never Get Out of this World Alive”, and also a novel by the same name.  This is the quote from an interview with Amy Goodman:  “Making Art in America is a Political Statement in Itself”.

 When I sat with that thought and watched the interview I decided that it’s not enough to sit by and watch death and destruction while I live comfortably in my safe bubble.  What am I here to do? I ask myself.  (It’s the same question I ask of myself when I’m at the pool with the intention of getting some exercise.  Will I be content to just paddle around, and “just show up”.  There are many days when I feel like that with my good intentions of writing and taking care of my heart:  “Just show up.”  Maybe some magic will happen.  I’ve been praying for a bolt of genius to hit me, but it’s really just hard work and slogging for every bit of meaningful words that impacts me and somebody else from the inside out.)

 It’s getting harder to just stand by and not only for the selfish reasons that one day all THIS will catch up with you and me and we live at the fringes of what’s happening out there.  But the bigger part of it is I do care.  I feel something is array about the way of the world, and how can I make it better I wonder.

 The immediate answer is to work on my art.  My art is my heart, and I have to make a statement in my own unique way about what I see and feel, and not care about what others say or think.  My intention is not to hurt, but to make peace.

 What does death look like?  The esoteric answer is that it is the death of the self – the ego.  In the face of dying the “fevered ego” (a la Bill Hicks) then compassion for another being is born. 

 Down to the nitty-gritty of everyday reality I am reminded of an acquaintance who has been begging me for attention.  She just wears her sorrow on her sleeves and it’s painful to be around her, because I’m afraid I would get drawn into her vortex of sorrow.  Her pain is so visceral that my instinct is to push back.  Once I did invite her for a drink.  After one drink she pulled out a thorn stuck deep into her heart.  She confessed that she had been sexually abused by her father. 

 This was not exactly the way I wanted to initiate getting to know her better, but there is was lying on the table– a writhing doll with pins and needles.  I felt the blood dripping on the floor and my shoes sticking to the ground.  I wanted to escape the rawness.  I wasn’t prepared for this.  My mind judged, ‘She is clingy.”  I’m not the person to help ease the weight of this pain, but I also wanted to help her somehow, maybe with a seed of an idea that it’s possible to step out of her box and to try to imagine a different way to accept the events in her life. 

 Suffering does build our souls.  It makes us grow and expand – literally like growing pains – it hurts physically, but we can’t be on Gerber and Pablum all our lives.  It awakens us to awareness of other planes and possibilities; to reach out – above and below – that allows for depth like the roots and branches of a tree.  (I love old trees – the gnarly knots and bulging roots of an old tree.  I put my hands on its trunk and my ear to its veins and feel the pulse of the earth and beings living on it.) 

 Going back to the assassination of someone deemed as a terrorist, I think of ancient Greek mythology – Zeus, Poseidon and Hades.  The three brothers who rule the realms of the sky, the sea, and the underworld. I entertain idea that all three represent elements in our soul, and these gods tumble and fight for control of our psyche.  What turns a person into a terrorist?  It strikes me now that I could extend more compassion to the woman and withhold my judgments. 

 There are cases that are black and white: Crazy, alien and out of touch with humanity.  But then again haven’t we all experienced a certain madness personally and as a collective?  What’s really going on beneath the surface of what I’m seeing and being told and fed?  I really want to know.  I trust that this curiousity is in the realm of the seeing eye and the feeling heart of an artist. 

We are co-creators in this plane of reality.  As participants in life like the threads in the loom of a carpet we impact and influence the design and feel of the carpet that decorate the walls and floors which is left after the last breath.  How can we revere a life lived?  What legacy do we want to leave behind?

TED Talks: A demonstration of the Puppetry behind \"War Horse\".

War Horse on Broadway: the play was nominated for a Tony. And everyone who I’ve talked to who has seen the show has been very moved by the emotional power of this “puppet show”.

Conversely, my sister invested in a show in London, “The Umbrellas of Cherbourgh”, that used puppets -and she was perplexed and unsatisfied with their appearance in the musical. And the musical closed quickly on the West End this spring.

I’m using “Mixed Media” in one of my scripts ~ as in performance art/surreal action and circumstances. I don’t know how a theatre can “perform” some of these ideas – but the images of “War Horse” really inspired me. Can a six foot eagle’s nest have dialouge? I guess I might find out….

>An article about dramaturgs – that gave me – pause.

Here are some of the comments following the lead article:

“Many plays are ruined by dramaturgs who have an agenda such as feminism or strict rules for writing a play. All plays aren’t the same. It used to be that the director or producer-director acted as dramaturg, such as Elia Kazan with Tennessee Williams. By the way, the singular for phenomenon is NOT phenomena. Your logos are blocking this box so I can’t see what I’ve written completely!”

“This article seems to start from an assumption that playwrights need help. My formula for New Play Development is pretty simple: Listen to the playwright. Trust the playwright. If a playwright knows what she’s doing, then just get out of her way. If she doesn’t, she can ask for help. Either way, she steers the ship.”

This article and these comments have given me – pause – for some of the thick/thin skin revealed in this process. I’d like to think that playwrights could be as robust as actors are in rehearsal to taking “notes” in “NPR” – (a grouse here: must we abbreviate everything to a code instead of using the words that describe our actions?)

At any rate, this article gave me a lot to think about and I wanted to share.

Friday night I went to the REDCAT Theatre at Disney Hall to see a Dance peformance of “Faith”. I’d been submitting my work to the REDCAT Theatre’s “new works” series and they offered me a couple of comps to see how their theatre works, and what they do.  I love Disney Hall, (and how music sounds in Disney Hall) and I hadn’t been inside their experimental theatre space, REDCAT, and I wanted to be able to “see” what my works might look like there.

A few minutes before curtain, my cell phone rang. I never have my cell phone on – at any time – it’s always off until I turn it on to make a phone call. So I was very surprised to hear someone’s really annoying cell phone ringing in the lobby, and realized it was me.  I picked up the phone and talked to a friend, who was in tears and greatly upset: she had called to let me know that a mutual friend had just died.  Our friend, Leticia, had fought cancer for two years.  It started out as cervical cancer, then lung cancer, liver cancer, spleen cancer, brain cancer.  She was 36 years old and had three young children.  I had been part of her support/meals/spa as therapy group and I knew we were in the “end stage” of her illness.  She had just died at the hospital with her family gathered around her, and she is now, gratefully, finally, out of pain.  I’m relieved that she doesn’t have to suffer any more, or be afraid of what treatment/chemo/clinical trial awaits her.  I’m glad her illness is over.

I just didn’t expect her to die then.  I thought she would die…..later. We ended the call, and then I went in to see the performance.  I knew I was “upset” but I thought I could sit through the event and process my feelings later.

I’ve never been to the theatre before with the specter of death as a companion, and let me tell you, it really changes the ride.  I know at any given moment babies are born, and people die, and puppies learn to walk, but when you sitting on the razor blade of grief with death, watching theatre/dance/performing takes on a different perspective.

I wondered – how many times in my life as actor, did people in the audience come to the theatre knowing that someone they loved had just died?  How many times have I worked with people, stage crew, ushers, actors ~ who checked into the theatre, put on their make up, and gave a brilliant performance, as someone they loved just died.  (I know of one actor, who managed that feat, and I wondered if the actor’s ability to compartmentalize their roles had anything to do with his amazing ability to just…put it…away from him that night.)

The performance was strange and stunning:  I found myself moved to a place of contemplating the history of grief as seen in paintings and dance.  I experienced grief in a public place in a very unexpected way.  I’ll be thinking about this for a long time.

The review of \”Faith\” from the Los Angeles Times

If you’re reading this, you are most likely a full-fledged instigator with LAFPI, but you may also be a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

I attended my first annual meeting of the Guild last January, and – to be honest – I was a little starstruck. There I was, having conversations with Tina Howe and Lynn Ahrens and feeling a bit like youknowwho in Oz.

So when the Guild descends upon Fairfax, Virginia, for its first-ever national conference June 9 – 12, you can bet I will be there. It’s going to take priceline, hotwire, Visa and a few borrowed sofas, but it’s going to be worth it.

Because they will all be there: the Marsha Normans, the Christopher Durangs, the Edward Albees. And Julia Jordan with be giving the keynote speech Saturday night on Gender Parity in the Theatre. And I will be interviewing my hero Stephen Schwartz. And there will be a smorgasbord of workshops and interviews from which to choose.

And everyone you rub elbows with will be just like you: a playwright who is passionate about words and ideas and theatre and expression.

Can you afford it? Well, the Guild is sure trying hard to make it affordable. It’s only $375 for members to register for all the events ($325 if you register by May 9). Compare that to the $550 fee for the TCG Conference in LA the following weekend (which doesn’t include any of the names I dropped earlier – I’m just sayin’).

For more info, visit dramatistsguild.com/conference.aspx

This is my final blog for the week. Thanks to Robin and all the faboo LAFPI instigators for welcoming me into the gang.

Today was the first rehearsal of a show in which I’m especially proud to play a role. It’s called “Expressing Motherhood,” and I share a stage with 13 amazing women who  tell stories about…well, motherhood.

There are new moms, experienced moms, singing moms, a divorced mom, a mom who gave birth late in her 40s, a mom who’s due in 3 weeks, a woman who never got to be a mom and a mom who shares a story that will stop your heart.

And then there’s me. The only guy.  Batting clean-up in the show with a personal story about my own mom. I hope you will come see it. We open Wednesday at the Elephant Theatre on Santa Monica.  www.expressingmotherhood.com

These women speak such powerful truth: be it funny or furious, sardonic or serious. The stage is bare, but the production is epic.

And I am so fortunate to be in their presence.

It’s the same way I feel about LAFPI. This group has an energy about it that no Super Bowl locker room could ever hope to equal.

When I tell people I’m in a show about motherhood – or a proud member of LAFPI – I get a raised eyebrow or two. And I usually laugh “What can I tell you? Girls are a lot more fun than boys.”  It’s true.

But it’s more than that: women can connect easier, cut through the bullshit faster and get down to business and celebrate what’s truly important in a far more spectacular fashion.

And the food?  It’s always good, and it’s always plentiful. And this fella is just happy to have a seat at the table.

I’m proud to be the first male blogger. Thanks to LAFPI for letting me join your cool club, and congrats on your first anniversary!