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.
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.
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.
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.”
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?
This ancient Persian carpet was an exhibit at LACMA
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….
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.
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.
