Thank you, Ella, for posting Theresa Rebeck’s Laura Pels Keynote Address on your blog.

I was so intrigued and impressed by her heartfelt defense of women playwrights and her eloquent plea to producers to give us equal representation that I went online to the library to look up her work.

I had seen Spike Heels at the Red Brick Road Company and Bad Dates at the Lounge Theatre (an outstanding performance by Samara Frame) and loved them both. I started my reading with The Butterfly Collection, because it was vilified by a New York Times reviewer who saw it as a feminist diatribe and portrayed Rebeck as a man-hater.

He must have seen a different play from the one I read.

The Butterfly Collection is beautiful, skilled, and complex. It’s like a Shaw play in which vivid characters argue passionately about art and life and love in language that bites. It’s about the relationships between men and women, among members of a family, between employer and employee, between young and old. It’s about infidelity, envy, ambition, exquisite things, and about living one’s life based on false assumptions.

The last idea was the one that got to me. The protagonist is considered and considers himself a genius, and he and everyone in his family think that gives him permission to destroy and demean his children, betray his wife, and seduce his young assistants, all in the name of his art.

He prides himself on his “outrageous statements”.

Here are some that he addresses to his actor son:

“You want to know what’s wrong with the theater? All those people, all those fucking people everywhere, on the stage, in the audience. Wrinkling their candy wrappers. Turning on their hearing aides, talking on their call phones. You sit there going, where the fuck are the words, you’re so drowning in people you can’t find the damn words. They‘re there, they’re gone, and no one even notices! Half the actors can’t speak but that’s fine, because half the audience can’t hear. Or think for that matter. All that emotion. Bad one liners. Every other word is fuck. Every character’s a victim, some battered woman or unhappy homosexual. Don’t talk to me about Shakespeare, we’re talking about the theater.”

His wife says to the young assistant whom he’s tried to seduce, “I hope you don’t take any of that personally. I certainly don’t.”

The middle aged actor son, emotionally adolescent and his father’s bitter rival, (he seduces the assistant because he knows his father wants to) is crushed by the man, but behaves exactly like him and puts his career above everything.

The other son, so reduced by his father’s bullying that he can’t finish a sentence when his father is present, says “They’re different things, life and art; you shouldn’t get them confused.”

The butterfly collector kills his butterflies for his art. Does the beautiful collection justify their death?

There’s a lot more and I’d love to see it on its feet, then go out for drinks, and talk about it.

In the meantime, (when we are not writing, of course) there are more plays to be read – Mauritius, The Water’s Edge, Abstract Expression, The Bells, View of the Dome, Sunday on the Rocks, The Scene, Omnium Gatherum, The Family of Mann: a comedy in two acts, Loose Knit, 2010’s The Understudy; two novels, Twelve Rooms With A View, and Three Girls and Their Brother; and a non-fiction book, Free fire zone: a playwright’s adventures on the creative battlefields of film, TV, and theater.

She’s done all that and takes the time to fight for us, and our art. Good on you, Theresa.

Last fall, I saw three plays over the course of three days. Two were full-on theatrical productions, and one was a reading. They all involved people I know, and since I strive to be diplomatic, I won’t name names.

The first play I saw was a good. Oh hell, it was great. It was one of those plays where you sit there watching it and thinking, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh whoah, oh, oh, oh, there!, yes! ahhhhh.  It made me play drunk. When it was over, I wanted the actors to do it all over again, but they had to go home.

Then. . .the morning after. . .hangover.

First, I went to a reading which left me curling under my seat in a fetal position while holding my hands up to my ears. Oh make it stop! Make it stop!

There was no character, no dialogue, no play. The reading was just people reading words.

As I tried to block out the noise, I noticed my two friends next to me. One had his hand over his eyes as if he had a terrible headache. The other friend had her hand over her mouth as if she was about to vomit.

At least I did not suffer alone.

The second bad play was a full production that was all over the stage in its bad bad baddyness. I ran from the theatre.

Now you might be thinking, now Jen, surely there was something salvageable or redeemable in the bad plays. Surely, you could learn something about your own writing from the mistakes of others. Surely, you could be nice because art is hard (sooo hard). Surely you could be supportive of your fellow writers putting themselves out there.    

Surely, no. There was nothing salvageable or redeemable. There was nothing learnable.

Why do bad plays annoy me more than bad movies or bad television? Is it because the actors are right there on the stage, and they could stop that awfulness if they were asked to politely? Is it because plays are a dying form, and the bad ones make one wish the form would die faster? Is it because my time and gas (which is expensive) are being wasted?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so negative.

Maybe I should just focus on the good. Be positive. Okay. Okay. Positive. Yes.

What made the good play good?

It had simplicity. It didn’t need a lot. The characters were there without a lot of explanation or fuss as if the writer knew that the audience didn’t need all the junk that writers get told the audience needs. Maybe it’s just a matter of cleaning out the theatrical clutter.

And there was something else to it. Something in the stuff not shown. I’m not talking about illusions. I’m talking about the world beyond what one sees, that powerful other place in a stage play. It might be offstage or just beyond the spotlight. It might be moving between the characters. It’s the stuff of angels. Be kind to them or they will disappear.

And on that metaphysical note, I’m heading to the movies.

See you next time,

Jen

Honestly when I (pretend to) watch television or a film on my television set, I’m usually doing something else. I’m not mult-tasking, I’m just bored. 

I do watch Glee on Hulu (commercial-free). I also admit to watching tons of 2-5 minute videos on YouTube, and have even been sucked into multi-part series on such topics as religion, mathematics, and evolution. Okay, I admit it. I’m a geek.

However when I witness a movie or a play in a theater I do expect to engage; become completely and emotionally involved with the story to the extent that I may lose myself in it.

I believe that if I commit as deeply to the script, direction, and performances, as the production does itself, my experience whether good or bad, will have done what I sought when I purchased the ticket; I will have been moved.

Have you ever not gone to the theater because of subconscious or conscious emotional and physical trauma directly related to the world of the play, and going there again is too frightening to contemplate?

Last year I actually got lost driving to go witness a local production of Edson’s WIT. I mean, I literally drove around in circles. Of course it was night and I was glasses-less; my stigmatisms made being lost even more surreal. Of course it was the year of my ten-year-cancer-free mark, and I guess I was too freaked out to witness somebody else’s cathartic moment.

The first time I experienced this type of physical reaction of “do not see that play” was around 1991. The event that I am currently avoiding closes this weekend. How do I explain to a respected colleague that his highly-touted and “fun” theater event is actually a traumatic reminder of something that I remember happening to me when I was five-years-old? I can’t and I probably won’t.

While I admit to feeling perplexed when I read about writing from a consumerist point-of-view, I do understand their motive. I just happen to want to write plays that address great trauma with humor, because that is my life experience.

For even as much as I attempt to avoid reliving these events as an audience member, these are the stories that pour out of my subconscious through my fingertips into my computer. I write plays even I don’t want to witness. Ah, the irony.

A couple of weeks ago I realized I’m lucky that I’m not living in my car due to the state of this economy. No joke. I often marvel how a bout with cancer eleven years ago led me to a profession I love, and which provides me with some measure of security today.

After my 50+ work week, I often make time to write. Sometimes I do dare dream what my art and craft might be like, if I had more time to devote to them. However my situation is simple. I need to support myself. I live with two dogs, and share some marvelous friends and family. I am surrounded with more love than I can always bear.

Yet I’ve been investing in myself as an artist for over thirty years, and have received no dividends. I haven’t received a cost-of-living increase from my full-time employer due to the California budget crisis for years. However a couple of weeks ago, a two-hour union contract negotiation meeting finally put my economic situation in perspective.

As I began to look around me, I realized that with the high cost of gasoline and groceries among other things, I actually have less spending power now than I did three years ago. And things only look like they’re going to get worse. Yes, I waited a year to purchase a new pair of glasses, but had to buy them on time; as with everything else, I am still hopeful for a happy ending.

So it was an agonizing decision, but we put our home up for a standard sale last week. We are not underwater, but have lost a lot of dollar equity in the last five years. I am holding my breath at the hope of financial freedom that may come as early as mid-summer. However ironically, my need to not be at the mercy of a cruel economy makes me dependent upon home buyers, who haven’t yet called our agent, as they said they would.

We’ve already made an offer on a short-sale, and we’ll find out Friday, if they’re taking our offer to the bank. I’ve got to do my taxes on Saturday to find out, if I’ll get enough back to pay my property taxes. I know that I’m dancing as fast as I can, but I sense that the sharks are waiting for us to drop our selling price, which could affect the extent of my freedom. I prefer to defy them, but must be sensible.

I can’t read the news for weeping; oh Japan. If I write the truth, does it mean that I’m a bitch? What do I have to complain about? On Sunday I finally have time to take another pass on WATER CLOSET. Then I get to visit my mom, who has been shopping for winter clothes for my New York “debut”.

Yet I have still have choices. And that is my point. Don’t be a victim. Don’t wait for somebody to bail you out. While you’ve still got choices, make them. Buy extra water and food stuff, and an emergency kit for your car; whatever it takes. If you’re like me, once I’m over the paralysis, taking action helps me deal with the fear.

A year ago I sat on my glasses at a reading of the first 10 pages of WATER CLOSET, my two-act drama. For the rest of 2010 I drove in fear due to what I have since learned are stigmatisms brought on by my football-shaped eyeballs. See, I really am a Bruin through and through.

However I like my glasses less because their frames are the same name brand as my favorite perfume, and more because not only can I finally see, but I also feel more rested after a nights sleep; strange how that works. Behind me is a bookshelf, what we librarians call a “stack”, holding rows of printed words of the mostly male playwrights whose words I don’t read anymore.

I cite this image because I shot it in February sometime shortly after the glasses and hair, but during the middle of my faculty librarian contract negotiations; Accreditation visit preparations; the usual turmoil associated to a weakened economy and whether or not I could take a trip to LA: the gasoline versus groceries question; sometime before the real tragedy that the people of Japan are suffering through even as I write this; sometime in the little short month of February, I rewrote WATER CLOSET.

This rewrite is not my first. Not my second. Not my third. But the third based upon notes of an intelligent, intuitive, and highly-trained director, who also happens to want to develop female American playwrights writing about the American experience.

I did receive more notes and have a lot of work to do, but I would also like to announce that on 11/11/11 from 7:30-9pm WATER CLOSET will be read in New York as part of the Dramatists Guild of America Friday Night Footlights series. Cyndy Marion, Producing Artistic Director of the White Horse Theater Company, is directing.

After all these years I am finally going to New York City. And even though you may see me taking the harbor cruise and crying at the sight of the Statue of Liberty and the rising Freedom Tower at ground zero, I am not really going as a tourist, but as a playwright; a female American playwright who is damn proud of us all. Go LA FPI!

Isn’t it fun to live vicariously through a fictional character?  But isn’t it more bizarre to think of the human capacity to create and create experiences?

Living vicariously through a fictional character is what story telling is about.  Enlivening the imagination and motivating the spirit to go out-of-bounds with the external reality of our physical plane.  I’m curious about the production and fascination of movies that imbues human characters by animation, and allowing for ultra-human capabilities.  My first memory of super hero movies the featured computer animation was “The Mask”. 

 This image exaggerates the love felt by the hero shown as an oversized heart beating out of his shirt.

A lot of people were thrilled by “Avatar” too.  I was personally surprised that it won the Best Picture in 2010.  The movie seemed to be a collage of story lines from “Star Wars”, “Thunderdome”, “Water World”, plus other storylines and it was packaged with computer enhanced technology. 

Movie has always been a “bigger than life” experience in the beginning because it was literally projecting a story on a big screen.  But with the heavy competition for seducing a more sophisticated and pocket-rich audience the movies has had to compete with virtual reality entertainment:  from games to social networks (like chat lines) then movie makers have had to produce story telling to an ultra-reality edge.  But once the after the credits have rolled by and the people have mozy’ed down the aisle into their parked cars and have made their way literally and figuratively into their enclosed compartments – reality sets in.

 We are entrenched in our own dramas.  And working through our moments is often harder than watching the hero overcome their own trials and go through their transformation.  Our heroes are the archetypes that live in us, and we seek out to identify with characters that make us feel alive.

  “I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.  

 “A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself”

 – Joseph Campbell

Go to this link for a lot more from this great thinker.  

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/j/joseph_campbell.html#ixzz1F203bA5v

 Without going to the movies think of these special moments, and wonder… how amazing, how bizarre, and how delicate life is:

And the secret is if we can pull ourselves out of our internal spiral is to be curious.  Just be curious like a child and relive those moments of wonder.  Going back to story, I try to be conscious of the stuff between the beginning and the ending:  What made my hero go on this quest and put himself/herself in jeopardy in search of that thing.

 Every ending of a journey is the beginning of another.  We are our own heroes each day we awaken and create a new day of wonder and wander.  Go out there and get lost for a bit and see where you end up.  It’s not that scary of a world despite what the news say. 

Live to tell the story.

– Analyn Revilla

“Story is a collection of meanings. Nothing is random” – Al Watt.

The following day after my writing workshop with Al, I sat at an outdoor cafe across from an auto-body shop. Emblazoned in bold yellow letters I read: “We meet people by accident.”

If I learned anything from my philosophy class then by inductive reasoning then accidents are not random. Life is not random; it is a colleetion of meanings. What is the meaning of life? One answer I’ve come up with is that story telling is a method of healing. Sharing stories is more than making connections with others about our similarities, but the process of telling story and absorbing the art form (as a play, book, dance, painting, music, graffitti) is also the opportunity to resonate the truths within us.

There were random events in my 3-day weekend that I’ve decided to string together in a meaningful way beginning with Friday night when I gathered things that have become a clutter in my life. I got a box and stuffed it full of things I didn’t have much use for anymore: CDs, clothes, wine glasses, a vase – things that use to carry meaning for me, but their memories have faded, and/or the meaning was too painful to keep around – so I’m letting them go.

I was reminded of when my siblings and I had tried to “clean out” my parents’ apartment after my father passed away. The apartment, in my eyes, was littered with things that have collected dust, and/or were forgotten in a corner behind something else. When this thing was brought out into the light, “Hey what about this? Can we get rid of it?” I had cried out to my mother, she would howl, “NO!!! That’s…” and I’d forgotten what meaning or symbolism she had attached to this suddenly-precious material object. That thing held meaning for her. The whole apartment was a collection of chapters of a novel and its sequels.

The next day, Saturday, in my writing workshop I’m confronted with stories belabored by hopeful writers telling of wounds and intrigues. Al’s method of teaching is to awaken the unconscious of its collection of random memories and bringing them forward to the conscious mind and framing them around a structure. I left class with the mantra: “Story is a collection of meanings. Nothing is random”.

Sunday morning, I brought my collection of “unwanted meanings” to the thrift store. I browsed through the titles of books at the back and by accident found a book by Caroline Myss called “Why People Don’t Heal And How They Can Heal”. (I’m a quarter of the way through the book now.) In my process of shedding a layer of dead things I was healing with letting go. Whenever I’m going through a catharsis like this I also try to be consicous of how it is reflected in my art. If I’m humble enough I can see reflections of where ART illuminates LIFE. (I’ve been rewriting the scene of a dying man who has accepted his death, but an aspect of his reality is his family is not yet ready to let him go.) Thus as it is with healing, we’re probably not yet ready to let go of our illnesses.

In her practice of energy medicine Caroline Myss states that “your biography becomes your biology” meaning that our beliefs manifests in our cells and can alter our DNA accordingly.

“As terrifying as disease is, it is also an invitation to enter into the nature of mystery. Our lives are made up of a scries of mysteries that we are meant to explore but that are meant to remain unsolved. We are meant to live with the questions we have about our lives, even use them as companions, and allow them to lead us into the deepest recesses of our nature, wherein we discover the Sacred. I hope that this book will help you find new ways of framing the meaning of illness and other life challenges and help you move deeper into your mysteries and further along your personal path toward spiritual mastery.” – Caroline Myss, “Why People Don’t Heal And How They Can”. I can see how there are many aspiring writers who want to share their stories because the process of getting it down is therapy. But it’s not whole until it has come alive in its true form: a published novel, a staged play, or recorded music. Ah… I think I should switch to drawing or painting, because it might be easier for me to express the story in an image with lines and light, then framing the picture and putting it up. This writing thing (aka healing) is damn hard. Why would anyone want to do it? That would mean change, which leads to growth, which is then expansion – and POP! goes the balloon; or it can fly away, way up in the sky – free like a bird.

– Analyn Revilla

This interview with Lauren Bacall has a rather bracing take on the idea of a nostalgic visit to the golden days of Hollywood.  (Just don’t take too long to open her chocolates…..)

Vanity Fair interview with Lauren Bacall

“Bacall continues, “I don’t think anybody that has a brain can really be happy. What is there really to be happy about? You tell me. If you’re a thinking human being, there’s no way to divorce yourself from the world.””

The interview has some interesting insights into the sting of nostalgia – and what was or wasn’t said in the past.