I DON'T FIND SHADOWS OFFENSIVE

Ah, that first week of Daylight Savings Time. 

It sucks.

Well, I am being a bit dramatic, but that's what I do. 

This week, I teach my normal classes during the week, a workshop at another school this morning, have tech week for a middle school production of A Midsummer Night's Dream which opens Friday, rehearsals for The Wedding Singer up in Conifer and Little Shop of Horrors and Chamber of Secrets up in Boulder, and leave for San Jose Sunday for a short trip to retrieve things that have been in storage for a long time. On top of that, my company is co-producing a new play which had auditions that past few days, and we are in the process of getting a new venture funded (more on that in future blogs, I'm sure).

So I'm a little groggy. Like toast with no butter that's been sitting on the counter while I take a call, I'm not quite what I want to be. 

But I'm trying.

I did have a good breakthrough with one of my scripts, and enjoyed that feeling of "Aha!" for a day or so. 

Wow. I think I am griping a bit. Which is never seemly, and all the more unseemly when you take a step back and look at what is going on in the world. The Pandemic still rages, the climate still changes, and it feels like we are on the brink of World War Three.

So, I really can't complain all that much. 

I suppose there are those who would say that complaining about the smaller things in life is a pressure valve of sorts, a way of venting our general anxiety. And I dig that. But I also firmly believe we need to keep perspective, and not be so self-involved that we inflate our problems and deflate the problems we all need to consider.

Deep thoughts, I know.

What fools these mortals be. 

I must say, working on Shakespeare with young people, who for the most part have no pre-conceived ideas about "The Bard", no bardolatry or treating it preciously or familiarity with past productions, is shockingly refreshing. It's like approaching it for the first time. And what is really cool is how, when they simply say the words, honestly and in the moment, how evenly the lines flow. How the language matches the thought process of most of us. 

Makes me happy to be alive. The story, the work, the young actors running around on stage and off. There is magic in this world, and has been since the Big Bang. 

It hides in plain sight, clear as can be, loud and pungent and mysterious and uncomplicated, all at once. 

I think that is my main theme in pretty much everything I write. Life is beautiful, and we all should realize that, but somehow get caught up in our busy schedules, hurt feelings, past trauma, over due bills and so on. Which is tragic. 

All this wonder out there, and we do our best to fuck it up, or pretend it doesn't exist. 

Well, it does. Grab it. Experience it. Share it. Eat it. 

And be cool if others don't. Or if you don't. That's my advice. I know that is a hard thing for some, and not a desired thing for others. 

That's cool too. It just doesn't make sense to me. Maybe I'm crazy. If so, boo hoo. I shall enjoy my straight jacket of joy and padded cell of art and nature and love and friendships, and will take visitors at all hours.

Party on. Game on. Flame on. 

On.

Here's a song. It's Karn Evil 9, First Impression, part 2, by Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

Also, the new show Sasquatch is co-producing is Puerto Rican Nocturne, which will play at The Bug Theatre this summer. More info HERE. 

SLEEP NO MORE

Me thought I heard a voice cry, 'Sleep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sleep!'
     MacBeth, Act 2; Scene 2



I love the Scottish play. That's what a lot of theatre folk call Shakespeare's MacBeth. In fact, I rarely say the actual word, "MacBeth". You see, it's considered bad luck. Especially in a theatre. There are varying reasons given. Some say Shakespeare actually used real spells for the witches lines. Some say it is a cursed show because it deals with some historically nasty people who really did a lot of bad things. Some say it's just a bunch of old wives tales.

I believe.

And ever since I first heard of the Scottish play, and all of its tradition and mystery, I've been fascinated. Enchanted, you might say. I've read it, seen it, been in it. And I love it. I 've written a screenplay about theatre superstitions called Ghostlight, am working on another screenplay that takes the basic story of MacB- which for those who aren't familiar is a tale of betrayal and ruthlessness in pursuit of power and how said pursuit empties the soul of all joy and hope- and sets it in the world of high school football ala Friday Night Lights. Most recently, I directed a production of the Scottish play for Colorado's Finest High School of Choice, an alternative high school for young people who have had trouble in so-called normal school. It was amazing how easily high school students were able to relate to characters who sell there souls to climb the social ladder.

Suffice to say, this is a play that is part of my being, an essential book in my mental library.

So it was with great joy that, a few weeks ago, I found myself in New York City at the McKittrick Hotel, wandering around like a ghost, silent and masked, as a mobbed up version of MacBeth unfolded all around me in the form of Sleep No More. The show is like a mix between a haunted house and modern dance and dream and theatre and I don't know what else. You enter, are given instructions on how to behave in a very cool bar where performers interact with you, cajole you to have absinthe, and call you one by one to go through the door that leads you into a world of magic, betrayal, sex, and madness.

It's awesome.

I like awesome in my theatre. Awesome and different and cool and original and dangerous.

Every person in the audience becomes part of the show as they wander through the madhouse, as each is given a mask to wear and instructed to remain silent. The effect is that, as you make your own personal journey, you see all your fellow audience members looking like fellow ghosts, lost souls condemned to take part in the ghostly events.

And when I say take part, I mean it.

One of the first things that happened to me was this lady, pregnant and clearly upset and also one of the people of the story- I knew this because she wasn't wearing a mask- grabbed me, dragged me into a closet, rubbed salt behind my ears while whispering something about how she has always tried to protect me from evil. Before she could say more, off she ran. I followed her, then came across a trio of lunatics dancing through a dimly lit hallway. As I went from scene to scene, which are all happening all over the three floors of the hotel at the same time, I could see other fellow ghosts running around following other actors. At one point, I ran into my wife, a fellow ghost that evening having her own adventure, and together we played a creepy card game with a murderous bar tender.

All I can say, with any amount of certainty, is that it was one of the most amazing nights of theatre I have ever experienced.

That is all.

I AM THE MOST OFFENDING SOUL ALIVE

So, as most of you know, I've been working on several projects of late.  A short film , a screenplay reading, and a new play called Riddle Lost.  As such, I've been busting my ass promoting, begging, borrowing, and stealing.  And there have been times when I've just felt tired and alone and confused.  I think most of us have moments like that in life- you know, those times when you think your only true supporter is your dog, and you're starting to suspect that his so-called unconditional love has more to do with you feeding him every day than with your inherent worth as a living being in this universe.  Those days when you keep checking your inbox- hoping that at least a couple of folks from the dozens you have emailed about whatever it is you're doing will write back telling you to be strong, fight the good fight, and to believe in yourself because they always have and always will.  It's pathetic, really.  I am one of the luckiest people I know.  To have something to strive towards, to have several projects ongoing in which I get to create theatre and film- my God, it's what I've always wanted.  Still, despair tries to get a toe hold.

Too bad for despair.  My dog does indeed love me- I mean, look at him.

On top of my dog Padfoot, I have an amazing group of friends and family who have supported me time and time again.  I mean, I always cry at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life", when all the people of Bedford Falls come to George's aid in his hour of need, because I can relate- I know what it is to have friends and family like that- and it's beautiful.

The three projects I'm working on now are huge- daunting, really.  Let's face it, success in the arts, at least on the superficial but important level of finance, is tough.  And I have run into the occasional old friend or colleague who has doubted my chances.  Which can be a drag.

But then, I think of what good old Will Shakespeare said in Henry V, and I feel better.   In particular, I think of the St. Crispians Day speech, which in part goes like this:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.

I get that.  Who cares about money?  I want glory- to kick it in the ass and know I did something special and unique and real.  And if you don't want to get on board with me, then I proclaim:

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

I had the great fortune of playing Henry a while back in the fabled early days  of Shakespeare in the Park(ing) Lot.  It was glorious and fun and one of the experiences that has served me well these many years.  We were a rag tag group of lunatics and artists, with little to no resources.  And we shook the Lower East Side of New York.  

What I'm saying is this- to all who doubt- God bless you, and good luck.  

To those who believe, and you know who you are:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters);
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Last night, my screenplay Burning Man was presented in a reading put on by Harvardwood in NYC.  It was well received, and we shall see what comes of it.  This Saturday, Riddle Lost will be given a reading at ART/NY at 5pm.  I just did a mini-interview about it that you can read here.  Strong Tea, the short film I'm making, has a Kickstarter campaign that so far is doing great- to check that out, go click here.  

I have gathered my forces, and the sun is rising on Agincourt.

THE RUG THEY CAN'T PULL OUT

Long ago, the late great Tom Humphrey, (long time Artistic Director of The Western Stage and known lunatic) said something really smart.  He was doing a seminar for the American College Theatre Festival about starting you own company, producing your own show- taking control of your career.   What he said was that, if you make your own rug, nobody can pull it out from under you.  Why let other people determine your success or failure?  Why empower a bunch of people you've never met, who may or may not be even qualified for the position of power they have?  It made sense to me then, and it makes sense to me now.  Of course, like most great advice, I have forgotten it and remembered it many times over in my life- and no doubt will do so many more times before I kick that final kick.

One of the first times I took that advice to heart was a few years later, when I was working as an actor at Western Stage- yes, the very same theatre company run by Tom Humphrey.  I was feeling a little pent up, creatively, and wanted to do something to express myself.  This was before I went full bore for the whole writing thing, and as such, I had a lot of thoughts in my head looking for a home.  So I decided to write a series of anonymous memos, called "Memos from the Underground", using the pen name Tip the Pooka, a nod to characters from both Harvey and The Land of Oz and Dostoevsky.  Yes, even then I made allusion after allusion, hoping someone would get the reference.  Lame, but it's what I do.  Anyway, it turned out the advice about the rug was true.  I felt great- empowered- brilliant.  And no one  could take it away from me.

Years later, I took that advice to heart again when forming hope theatre, inc. with my sister Heather and brother Jerry.  We had all three been in NYC for years, living the life of the starving artist- waiting hours for an audition so that some casting director's assistant could watch a one minute monologue, doing free theatre in store front theatres run by people who might have been crazy- it was fun, exciting, and romantic.  But time to do something for ourselves, with us in the driver's seat.  We decided, based on an idea of Heather's, to form our own group, and call it hope theatre.  Again, it was empowering, and better yet, successful.  For out first show, we produced the American premiere of Shakespeare's Edward III, once part of the Apocrypha and still debated by scholars, but generally thought to be at least partially written by the Bard.  I came across it while browsing a bookstore in Greenwich Village one day.  Somehow, no one had ever done it in the USA.  I thought that might be a good show to get a lot of free publicity.  And I was right.  We got the NY Times, the New Yorker, and tons of other folks to come to the show.  And it was our own gig.  And it was groovy.

And now, I'm making a movie.  That's right, me, goon among goons.  On the sage advice of old friend and rising film producer Siobhan Mahoney, I've taken my short play Strong Tea and adapted it for the screen.  And I feel freakin' awesome.  All the pieces are falling into place perfectly. I have a crew, most of the cast, and am ironing out some last minute stuff.  It's happening, and feels like this is what I a m supposed to be doing with my life.   Suddenly, there seems to be even less time in the day, because I am answering this call, taking care of that problem, yadda yadda yadda.  And I dig it, baby.

What I'm basically saying is this- too often, we put too much power in the hands of others.  Screw that. As Obama says, we are the people we've been waiting for.

PS- Coming to NYC in November, readings of my screenplay Burning Man by Harvardwood NYC and my play Riddle Lost by Boomerang Theatre.  Stay tuned for more info!~

BACKWARDS AND WRONG

Love is evil, spelled backwards and wrong.

So says Earth, neo-hippie and seeker of truth in my third play, BURNING THE OLD MAN.  It's a great line.  People quote it often, and I've seen it used by others on blogs, aritcles, etc.

I stole it.

There's a saying that I first heard from Richard Parks, one of my teachers at San Jose State University.  Richard was a mad man, a genius, and one of the most memorable people I ever met- one of those teachers who would say something in such a way as to make it funny, revelatory, and pertinent all at the same time.  He also had a wicked temper, which would show up now and then, usually during rehearsal for something he was directing and which wasn't going well.  One memorable night during dress rehearsal for Lysistrata he shouted out "Change your majors!" and marched out of the building.  At the time, it was both hilarious and embarrassing.  But he also was brilliant, and knew how to get the best out of us.    Once, I think it was during rehearsal for A Midsummer Night's Dream,  somebody mentioned how Shakespeare had taken a lot of his plot lines from other sources, and somebody else opined that that meant Shakespeare was just a copy cat.  Doctor Parks raised he eyebrows dramatically, and pronounced to us all that "great artists don't copy, they steal", meaning that if you aren't that good at what you do, then you will often imitate other peoples work- but if you're a true artist, you can take that idea and make it your own- improved, or at least different, and unique.

And that's why I feel okay about stealing Earth's line, and indeed, the character of Earth himself.

Let me explain.  Long ago, and far away, my brother Jerry and I worked for a children's theatre company in Pleasanton, California.  The money was good, and that job was fun- but we had a lot of extra time on our hands, and needed an extra outlet for ourselves.  Somehow, we convinced the local cable company to give us a cable access show- and not only that, but to provide us with cameras and editing room time- all for free.   We named the show Pleasantonland, and basically just shot hours and hours of ourselves goofing around, drinking beer, and talking with other theatre people about life, art, and whatever else came to mind.   It was self-indulgent in the extreme- and we had a blast.  During one of our shoots, we decided that the show should have a guest poet- a sort of fake, over the top, new age gone bad kind of poet- and my buddy Brian Faraone volunteered for the job.  But he didn't want to be called Brian- he wanted to be called Earth.  We thought that sounded perfect- so, while filming, I looked at the camera "And now it's time for a poem from our guest today, Earth!"  Brian walked up, wearing a beret and lots of attitude, looked at the camera and said in perfect deadpan, "Love is evil, spelled backwards, and wrong", and walked off.  It was friggin' brilliant.  We laughed our asses off.

Cut to ten years later.  I'm writing a play for Boomerang Theatre Company about two brothers on their way to the Burning Man festival who get stuck in the desert and run into, among other things, a couple of neo-hippies.  Somewhere in my brain, I remember Brian as Earth, and write him into the show- and it's a perfect fit.  

And that's how I stole Earth from Brian for my show.  Not that I feel too bad- Brian had stolen the idea of Earth from an actual neo-hippie he met in Santa Cruz who would say ridiculous things like "I don't wear shoes- they're a rule of society I find silly".  So fair's fair.

To Be Continued...

Burning the Old Man is available in print in the anthology Plays and Playwrights 2006 and will soon be featured on Indie Theater Now.
http://www.nytesmallpress.com/pp06.php
www.indietheaternow.com

AT SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR...

Continuing my series about where my plays come from- here's the story of SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR, a happy little piece about a guy losing his mind.

I had just gotten through the premiere performance of Burning the Old Man, which was produced by Boomerang Theatre Co., directed by Tim Errickson.  It was a big hit, won the first ever NYIT Award for Outstanding Full Length Script, and got published- first in full by NYTE as part of their Plays and Playwrights Series.  Then it went on to be featured in scene books and anthologies from Applause Books and Smith and Kraus.  And then, to make me feel like Superman, the show gets a 3 year run in Prague at the fabled Divaldlo na Zabradli.  In the Fall of 2004, I didn't know all that was going to happen- just that I had a really good play on my hands, and it was going places.  What to do now?

I thought it would be cool to write as long a scene as possible that would hold people's interest and be viable as a piece of theatre.  It was one of those "this would be a fun experiment" type of notions.  Now all I needed was something to write about- and fate, as usual, provided material.  First, I got a call from an old friend telling me he was getting divorced.  We had many conversations in the following months about divorce, love, life- you know, all the things friends talk about when going through some serious issues.  Second, shortly after hearing about my buddy's divorce, I was at a party, eavesdropping- a habit lots of writers do without even realizing they're doing it.  I was listening to these two young ladies sizing up the party, and in particular the young men at the party.  One girl said "that guy thinks he's gonna end up with you tonight".  The other girl rolled her eyes, and in a very direct tone said "well, at some unfortunate hour, he's gonna realize that he's an asshole".  The girls laughed and changed the subject, but I was struck by the idea that a person would have this hour in their life where they suddenly realize some ugly truths about themselves.  

And the wheels in the playwright section of my brain started to turn.

How about a play set in a bar where a guy who has just gotten divorced has his unfortunate hour, the one where he realizes that maybe he's kind of responsible for what's been happening to him?  Yeah, and the dude is kind of crazy and charming and drunk.   Drunk and/or stoned characters are great to write in that they allow for lots of danger, emotion, and language that is all over the map.  So I start to write.  I test out some of it at The Pool, a writers group in NYC.  People respond positively.  I read some of it over to the phone to my recently divorced friend.  He digs it, a lot.  Things start to fall in place.  I name the guy in the bar Tom, after Poor Mad Tom O'Bedlam- a figure from old English literature who is referenced in King Lear.  At first, I have Tom just ranting to no one in particular- but as I go along, I decide to have him talking to a bar tender.  And then, I think to myself- what if the bar tender is a woman who has always carried a torch for old Tom?   Kind of adds dramatic tension.  I like this idea, and Janus, the smart ass and long suffering bar tender, is born.  I name her Janus after the Old Roman God of doorways and beginnings- because I'm nerdy like that.  

So things are cooking along with the show.  I got an opening monologue that I am pretty happy with- and everyone I read or recite it to by memory really seems to respond.   In that opening monologue, Tom goes on about how all he wants from a wife is some faith, hope, and charity- a reference to First Corinthians 13:13, which you've probably heard at numerous weddings, (and which I recall from my youth, when I wanted to become a minister- but that's a story for another day).  I figure, why not have a lady walk in who Tom instantly falls for- and tries to hook up with?  And, just for shits and giggles, why not have her name be Charity?  

Here's the opening monologue:

TOM

It comes down to two choices, when you get down to it.  You can either be Asshole Happy Clown, or Idiot Sad Clown.  Asshole Happy Clown is happy because he thinks people suck-that we're just a bunch of assholes.  And he is constantly proved right.  So he smiles, not so much because he's glad the world sucks, but because, asshole that he is, nothing makes him happier than being right.  Even if it's about something terrible.   Idiot Sad Clown is the optimist of the pair.  He thinks-no, believes-in the inherent goodness of people.  He holds out great hope for us all.   And he is continually heartbroken.   People do the stupidest shit imaginable, on a constant basis-both to themselves and to each other.  They lie to each other.  They take advantage of each other.  They don't tell you what's really going on inside, even if you ask them again and again.  “What's going on?” “Nothing, everything's fine.”  They leave you.  With little to no explanation.  They say things like, “This package was broke when you bought it,” whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean.   Who says shit like that?  Broke when you bought it?  Not only is that fucked up in its own right, it implies a belief that most of us packages aren't broken.  That most of us are just fine.  Which is crazy.   I promise you, there are no unbroken packages.  None of us are without a dent or two or twelve.   Broke when you bought it?  Jesus fucking Christ!  When I got married, what I had hoped for-what I prayed for, in my lapsed Irish Catholic way (takes a shot of whiskey from the bar, steps downstage and looks up.  He crosses himself with the shot)-the three things I was looking for in my wife were, in no particular order: Faith, Hope, and/ or Charity. (downs the shot)  What did I get?  The complaint department at Sears!  I got the fucking Maytag Repairman!  Looking for a wife, I got some old turd telling me that he has the loneliest job on the face of the Earth.  Which is bullshit.  The loneliest job on the face of the Earth was, until this afternoon, according to a certain paper I signed down at the courthouse, held by me.  Oh  my dear God.  I'm the Maytag Repairman!  Ah, Jesus, I don't want to fix washing machines.  I want-No,  I hope-to one day be called upon to repair some lost soul.  Of course, I don't know how to do that, so part of me is happy that the phone never rings down in the soul department at Sears-(Tom's cell phone rings.  He takes it out, looks at the number, pushes cancel, puts phone back in his pocket)-but still, I'd like to give it a try.  Just once.  And for real, not for make-up.  Did you know that most of life is a game of make-up?  It is.  We make up these characters, these people who we'd like to be-and we spend our lives playing our ideas of ourselves.  And that seems crazy to me.  Faith, Hope, and Charity.  The three Weird Sisters.  The Three Amigos.  That's all.

Not terrible, right?  I have a new, three character play in the form of one scene that's almost half an hour long, and full of what I think is brilliance.  And then I get stuck.   Like nothing is coming, the play will never be done, and I hate it all kind of stuck.  

Sometimes, writing is sublime.  Sometimes, not so much.  I've got to figure out a way to get back on course.  The magic, along with Elvis, has left the building, and suddenly I am wandering in the desert.  I take a trip home to California to visit Mom, and hope something will come- some new door will open that will let me finish this play.

To Be Continued...

Links:

To see how to get a digital version of SOME UNFORTUNATE HOUR, go here:

http://www.indietheaternow.com/Play/PlayDetail/30

To see how to order a copy of Plays and Playwrights 2006, featuring Burning the Old Man, 

go here:  http://www.nytesmallpress.com/pp06.php

For info on INDIE THEATER NOW, the new digital theatre library, go here:

http://www.indietheaternow.com/

For info on Boomerang Theatre Company, go here:

http://boomerangtheatre.org/boom/index2.php

BARE BOSOMS AND THUNDER-STONES

So on the Facebook the other day, American Theatre magazine asked people to post about their favorite theatrical moment ever.  I assume they mean on stage, as opposed to things in life that are theatrical that happened to us.  I mean, we've all had things happen to us that are amazing and weird and when they happen we think "Holy crap!  That should be in a movie!"   Like the time I saw a guy poop his pants on the subway. That was very theatrical.  But I don't think that's what they were going for.   The question immediately made me think of several moments I have either seen or was a part of on stage- and I thought I'd share them with you.

First moment- the day Thunder and Lightning joined the cast of Julius Caesar.   The production was part of the 1998 season of Shakespeare in the Park(ing) Lot.  I was playing Cassius.  We had been getting a lot of attention- including a cover story in the week-end section of the New York Times, with a gigantic picture from the show featuring me,  up front and center.  It was my first photo in a major newspaper, and I was over the moon.  For those unfamiliar with the Parking Lot Shakespeare- it's an annual summer series, presented in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, free to the public- dirty, loud, and quite an experience.  So the show is going along in front of a big crowd.   The sky had been threatening rain all evening.  As the play went along, clouds gathered, turned blue, black, purple. The electricity in the air was making the hair on my arms stand straight up.  The show itself is going like gangbusters.  People are leaning into it- audience and cast alike.  The clouds are getting thicker, which adds to the sense of excitement.  It gets to the scene where my character, Cassius, is convincing Casca to kill Ceasar.  In the script, it's supposed to be storming.  Casca comes upon Cassius walking the streets with his shirt open, challenging the heaven's.  Casca says "Who ever knew the heavens menace so?"  At that point, I would laugh kind of crazily, rip open my shirt, and exclaim, "For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, submitting me unto the perilous night, and, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone!"  On this night of nights, right after that line, there was a huge CRACK of thunder over head.  I mean shake your bones and make you instinctively cover your head kind of crack.  The audience oohed and awed.   The artistic director, who during performances always stood behind the audience, ready to come out and either postpone or cancel the show in just such a case, edged halfway through the audience.  I looked at Casca hoping he would see in my eyes that we were going to go on with the show,  and continued with the scene, saying "And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open the breast of heaven, I did present myself even in the aim and very flash of it."  At which point, there was huge FLASH of lightening, followed almost instantly with another huge roll of thunder.   Everyone froze- actors on stage and off, audience members, and artistic director- still in the middle of the audience.  Then the rain starts.  Not slowly, but all at once.  A deluge.  The artistic director starts to walk onto the stage.  I keep eye contact with Casca, but raise my hand towards our artistic director, hoping she gets the idea that the show must go on and indeed is going on, and that she needs to get off of the stage.   And the scene continues.  And the rain comes down.  And one by one, audience members pull out their umbrellas, and lean further into the show, and start to applaud- and we kick that scene, and the rest of the performance, in the ass.  There are times in life, few and far between, when you feel like a god, unstoppable and magic and like you are doing exactly the right thing.

More 'best moments ever' to come...

MUSE OF FIRE ASCENDS

So the letter of from the Fringe comes, and I take a deep breath, then open it.  It starts with "Congratulations".  I'm in.  Muse of Fire has been accepted into the 2003 New York International Fringe Festival.  Holy Shit.

I am one of those people who doesn't really know how to take success, on any level.  It never seems quite real, or what I thought it would feel like.  Never.  In my mind, there should be music playing, fist pumping, slow motion leaps in the air, and a sudden, clear understanding of the Universe, and my place in it.  But still, it does feel pretty damn good.  What am I saying?  It feels friggin' fabulous!  Time to call friends, family, acquaintances, and tell them that I have been chosen from over one thousand entrants to be in this summer's festival.

Now I really have to get to work on the script.  The story is going nicely- I have my two muses, Dion and Polly, going down to Earth, to the Theatre Dept. at San Jose State University, and they come upon the girl they need to turn into a great writer.  Everyone ends up in a production of "As You Like It", and valuable lessons area learned by one and all.  I've changed the girl's name to Emily (middle name of my college sweetheart), and the boy she's supposed to fall in love with to Mick (one of many nicknames I had in college).  I realize, as I plot along, that the world of the play is the world of live theatre, and all the insane, funny, noble, and magic things that come with it.  Things start coming fast and furious- characters materialize, full blown, with specific voices- references to pop culture, mythology, and the Dumbarton Bridge all seem to flow and make sense.  Script feeling strong, it's time to get the production itself going.  I have several things I know I want, certain actors for certain parts- but there are other parts I haven't a clue about- and on top of that, it is always a good thing to have an open audition- you never know who you might meet, and what might come from that meeting.   So we have auditions.  Lots of folks show up. I have it all clear in my head, except for the part of Emily.  It gets down to two actresses, both really awesome in different ways.  So I have them read with Brett Christensen, who is cast as Mick.  And Jackie Kamm kicks the part of Emily in the ass, lights up the stage, and I think makes Brett's brain explode.  It is one of the great, rare joys of theatre, to witness an audition that catches fire, that makes it clear to everyone in the room that these people, and no others, must play these parts.   The entire cast is as follows- Dion: Jack Halpin, Polly: Sara Thigpen, Carlos/Hal: R. Paul Hamilton, Emily: Jackie Kamm, Cassandra: Heather McAllister, Phil:  Jerry McAllister, Mick: Brett Christensen, Lenny: Vinnie Penna, Jessie:  Christine Goodman, and the show is stage managed by Matthew Rankin.  They are all super geniuses, and amazing artists, and if you even come across them in this life, hang on to them and figure out a way to work with them.

So the show is cast, and we start rehearsing.  My company, hope theatre inc., is producing the show.  We'd formed a few years before, to present the American premiere of Shakespeare's Edward III, once part of the apocrypha but now recognized by some in that strange realm known as Academia as at least partially written by old Will.  We stayed together to produced Last Call, and now here we are, with show number three.  I am directing my own play.  I think this will be fun- and it is, but also a great pain in the ass.   I keep adding stuff to the show- interpretive dances at a cast party, love affairs, and a new way to end the show.  Instead of having Emily just fall in love with Mick, she has to lose him- and I don't mean they break up.  I mean Mick has to die- that his death is what is supposed to spark Emily's greatness as an artist.  And when Dion and Polly learn this, they have to figure out what to do- make a great artist, or save a young man's life.  I add a scene where Mick and Dion drive to the beach.  Dion knows Mick is supposed to die, but can't say anything.  They talk about Billy the Kid and the song "Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi.  It's one of my favorite scenes in the play.

Anyway.  The cast is good, the script is good, and then we find out we are going to be presenting our show at the Cherry Lane Theatre.  If you've never seen this place, let me tell you- it's beautiful, historic, and exactly what you think a theatre in Greenwich Village should look like, right down to the cobble-stone street in front.   This is a theatre that had O'Neill, Albee, and Shephard in it.  I mean the playwrights themselves.  This place is a dream come true.  And I get to premiere my play in it.  This is a dream come true.  This is one of the great moments of my life.

Opening night arrives.  It's a full house.  The play begins.  As usual, I feel like throwing up for most of the performance.  But people are laughing in the audience.  A lot.  And then they're crying.  And at the end of the show, there's a lot of applause.  I have to stay after the show, to clear all our stuff out so that the next  play from the Fringe can load in for their opening, which happens one hour later.  Jack Halpin, who plays Dion, and I haul ass, get everything put in its proper place, and walk outside.  The street seems to be completely full of people- and they all cheer for us.  I come up to an actress I know, Aida Lembo, and she's crying and laughing, and she she's me and says "you're beautiful".

The show sells out its run, even with the great blackout of 2003 happening in the middle of the festival.   Nytheatre.com gives is a rave review- God bless them. On the last night, my mom flies out from California to see the show, and ends up sitting next to a critic from The New Yorker magazine, who is there not to right a review, but to check up on a new writer.  Somehow, I am on their radar.  Not sure how I got there, but I like it.  And now, the script is available online as part of Indie Theater Now, the new digital library of plays that is like the iTunes for plays.

So, like I said, I don't take success well.  But I think I can get used to it.

MUSE OF FIRE

So it's almost Valentine's, 2003, and I need to submit something to the Fringe.  The deadline is the 14th.   I had a pretty good go at the New York International Fringe Festival last summer with Last Call (added performance, Excellence in Playwriting Award, Publication in Plays and Playwrights 2003, etc.), and lots of people think I should do another one.  I  agree with them.  I really like being called a playwright, and having people read my stuff, and think I've found my life's calling.  I take Errant Muses, my unfinished play from a play writing class I took at SJSU, and dust it off.  Could I make a new play out of this old thing?  Should I?


A lot of it is pretty bad- lots of obvious exposition, two dimensional characters, and cliches.  But there is the germ of a good idea in it, so I start to tinker with it a bit.  I take the idea of two muses who are stuck working with each other but have diametrically opposed ideas of what art is about and keep the first scene, scrap most of the rest.  I make one of the muses female, and change their names from Tom and Dave to Dion (after Dionysos) and Polly (after Apollo).  And the reason I do that is because of the song Hemispheres by Rush, which I listened to a lot when I was about 13.  No lie.  In that song, Dionysos is the God of Chaos, and Apollo is the God of Order.  In the play, Dion is chaotic and loves how art makes him feel alive, while Polly is angry, and wants art to have meaning and purpose and be used to make the world a better place.

I also decide to change the title.  Errant muses just sounded clunky to me.  At the top of the show, Dion is alone in the muses apartment, reciting the prologue from Shakespeare's Henry V, the one that starts with "O, for a muse of fire...".    It hits me clear as a bell- name the play "Muse of Fire".  And so I do.

One of the great satisfactions for me is taking a play and twisting it and turning it and trying to find the magic inside- the stuff that seems to have been written by someone else, or better yet, seems to have not been written at all, but dictated by...what ever it is out there in the void, the infinite waters of mysticism.

The plot of Errant Muses was as follows- the muses are given a job, namely to help a young girl named Anne become a great writer.  She is a drama major at San Jose State University.  The muses have lost the report given to them by their superiors, which has all the details, including exactly what it is they are supposed to do- but fearing retribution, they don't tell anyone they've lost the report, head down to earth, meet the girl, figure out that she needs to fall in love with Will, another drama major.  Hilarity follows, and of course it all ends happily (and yes, I named them Anne and Will after Anne Hathaway and William Shakespeare).

Also, I had just read The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell.  Very cool book, and one I had wanted to read ever since I was a kid and heard that it had influenced George Lucas when he made Star Wars (or as the Philistines call it, Episode 4: A New Hope).  In the book, Cambell outlines the basic hero story found in all cultures.  First, there is the young hero.  He or she gets a call to action, sometimes from a frog who comes out of the infinite waters, then there is a series of trials, then the final battle, where the hero has to sacrifice herself/himself in order to further the greater good.

I decide to incorporate the mono-myth into Muse of Fire.  The hero will have two faces, Dion's and Polly's.  The frog becomes Carlos, a god like being who calls himself the Toad of Infinite Waters.   And I start to get into it.   Writing is funny- you write and write and write some more, and it feels like drudgery, like punishment for wanting to be creative or something.  And then, all of a sudden, and usually un-noticed, you slip into the world of the story, and lose all sense of time and place and just go to that other place- then you look up sometime later, and there's page after page of story, and it's later, and you have no idea what happened and no memory of actually typing anything.

So I'm cruising along with the play, finding new characters and situations almost daily.  My mind is in the world of the play pretty much every waking moment.  I'd be a working a lunch shift at Bryant Park Grill, and in my mind I'm thinking "yes, the director will be named Cassandra- but in reverse, because she's crazy and spouts lunacy but everyone believes her!"  I ride the subway home and watch young lovers, eavesdropping and fishing for dialogue.  I read somewhere that there were nine muses in Greek mythology- so I decide there will be nine actors in the show.   I pretty much throw anything and everything I am experiencing and have experienced into the script.   I get as much done as I can, and send off the application to the Fringe.

And wait for May and notification.

To be continued...

And I quote...

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our selves, that we are underlings". That's from Julius Caesar, and it's one of my favorite lines from Shakespeare, and also from modern American history. See, Edward R. Murrow used most of that line while talking about McCarthyism. i remember being a young man of 14 or so and seeing some documentary about that, and i was so impressed with the whole thing- Murrow, his style, his gravitas, and his ability to quote Shakespeare like that. How cool that a quote hundreds of years old could be so pertinent to the here and now. For some reason, that moment resonated with me. i wanted to be able to quote things like Murrow did. It was the same admiration i felt for Bobby Kennedy the first time i heard a recording of the impromptu speech he gave the night Martin Luther King died and he quoted Aeschylus. There is something inherently comforting in the idea of human beings from long ago saying things that are still timely today- some sort of implied order to this chaotic world, and whenever i come across those moments of quotation, i feel like less of a quotidian. Sorry, i couldn't resist the alliteration. So, the other night, Stephen Colbert went on this riff about which Shakespearean characters the candidates resembled- and i was in heaven. First, he likened McCain to the Scottish Laird- a man of honor who loses all that is good about himself to achieve power. Then Colbert compared McCain to Prospero- a cranky old man living on an island with a creature that nobody liked (at the mention of the creature, a picture of Lieberman can on the screen). If you want to see the whole thing, go here.
What is most interesting to me, as a writer, is that i take more comfort in pertinent quotes in times of trouble than when things are going well. And right now, what with all that's going on economically, politically, and environmentally, you have to admit things are pretty scary. Yet, old quotes make me feel better. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". Ah, Yes! Thank you Mr. Dickens! "May you live in interesting times"- oh, damn you old curse. "These are the times that try [peoples] souls." Amen. We need to know that others have been through something similar to what we have gone through- it's comforting. It's human. In fact, it seems to me that what truly gives comfort to most of us in the hard times are the humanities- music, poetry, stories- and of course love. All those material things we have sort of lose their stature- I mean, when you read about the stock market crashing, do you go out and stare at your car and think "boy, it's all right- I've got a hybrid!"? No- it's when you remember something you heard once in a story, or said by someone you loved or looked up to, that you start to feel okay.
Okay, I feel a little rambly right now- what I mean to say is just this- money really can't buy you shit, in the long run. Money is a lie, a made up system for trading stuff that can vanish far quicker than a dream you have in those last minutes of sleep after you've already hit the snooze button. And unlike that dream, which may come back to you from time to time, when money goes- it's gone. Poof.
So, here's your assignment for today- think of some quote- it can be from a song, a movie, a poem- whatever- that somehow relates to you at this very moment in time. Say it out loud. Carry it with you for the day. Share it with someone. And wonder and how great and mysterious it is to be a human being.