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Ideas, and accounts of life from my perspective, but no honking
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
http://filmforce.ign.com/articles/425/425492p1.html?fromint=1&submit.x=65&submit.y=15
See above for great interview with Joss Whedon, my main screenwriter. Whose career I bitterly envy. Oh, is it too late to be so productive, to have such integrity? No, I say! I'm going to write about The Blue Fairy today, just you wait. HC needs a new character, too. Two new people for J and I to play in "HC". (When I say "I" I mean myself, not some person whose name starts with the letter I.)
D at Zephyr Real Estate has been sending us e-mail listings of condos and houses for sale. So many are small, too expensive or just plain ugly. But a few are exciting! Sunday J and I looked at four places, one a BEAUTIFUL loft on Harrison. Fantastic iron work and hardwood floors, beautiful fit and finish. The one we might just be able to afford was already sold, and the next two more expensive ones were gorgeous. But too expensive, probably. Oh, we can dream! It inspires us to look further, maybe for a rougher unit of the same shape, one we can fix up a bit...or an older one, or slightly (not too much) smaller. We need a 2-bedroom, or a really big one-bedroom...but that would be really small. One bedroom with a sunroom? If we can have a seperate room for J's pilates and our office, we can write off one room as business.
D has this great phrase to describe the kind of luxury detailing that could price a place out of our range: "cherry/granit/marble/halogen/oak" - something like that. We might want to get a less beautifully finished place, and maybe we can get more space for the money. Space is so crucial! If we fix it up gradually after we but it, redo the kitchen and paint the walls, we could sell it for more than we bought it for. That and market appreciation could net us euqity rather quickly, in the first five years or so. Then maybe we could tunr around and sell it, and buy something bigger.
That is my dream.
Tomorrow we look at a small house in the Outer Mission. Too much, but we should look at higher than our range and lower, so we can know exactly what is a good deal when we see it, and what the step below ours would look like.
See above for great interview with Joss Whedon, my main screenwriter. Whose career I bitterly envy. Oh, is it too late to be so productive, to have such integrity? No, I say! I'm going to write about The Blue Fairy today, just you wait. HC needs a new character, too. Two new people for J and I to play in "HC". (When I say "I" I mean myself, not some person whose name starts with the letter I.)
D at Zephyr Real Estate has been sending us e-mail listings of condos and houses for sale. So many are small, too expensive or just plain ugly. But a few are exciting! Sunday J and I looked at four places, one a BEAUTIFUL loft on Harrison. Fantastic iron work and hardwood floors, beautiful fit and finish. The one we might just be able to afford was already sold, and the next two more expensive ones were gorgeous. But too expensive, probably. Oh, we can dream! It inspires us to look further, maybe for a rougher unit of the same shape, one we can fix up a bit...or an older one, or slightly (not too much) smaller. We need a 2-bedroom, or a really big one-bedroom...but that would be really small. One bedroom with a sunroom? If we can have a seperate room for J's pilates and our office, we can write off one room as business.
D has this great phrase to describe the kind of luxury detailing that could price a place out of our range: "cherry/granit/marble/halogen/oak" - something like that. We might want to get a less beautifully finished place, and maybe we can get more space for the money. Space is so crucial! If we fix it up gradually after we but it, redo the kitchen and paint the walls, we could sell it for more than we bought it for. That and market appreciation could net us euqity rather quickly, in the first five years or so. Then maybe we could tunr around and sell it, and buy something bigger.
That is my dream.
Tomorrow we look at a small house in the Outer Mission. Too much, but we should look at higher than our range and lower, so we can know exactly what is a good deal when we see it, and what the step below ours would look like.
Monday, June 23, 2003
Okay, J and I are trying to figure out what our monthly budget is, so I'm keeping track of everything I spend, starting today. We want to know how high of a monthly payment we could afford for a mortgage.
6/23 -
transportation: rode bike to work $0
lunch: brought pb&j (see grocery budget)
So far didn't spend nothin' and it's already 10:56am.
In other news, I did a new glute excersise that J showed me, making a heiroglaphic shape on the floor and swinging my leg. Seems to work! Left leg has a bit of troubled keeping the glute activated, however.
More later.
6/23 -
transportation: rode bike to work $0
lunch: brought pb&j (see grocery budget)
So far didn't spend nothin' and it's already 10:56am.
In other news, I did a new glute excersise that J showed me, making a heiroglaphic shape on the floor and swinging my leg. Seems to work! Left leg has a bit of troubled keeping the glute activated, however.
More later.
Monday, June 16, 2003
While J was at rehearsal I spent a restless evening by myself, playing old casettes of music I used to love. Music compilations from the 80's and earlier. Sound patterns that have worn pathways into my brain. The Who "It's Hard", Elvis Costello, Kate Bush "The Kick Inside", Nick Lowe.
God, what a jolt of adrenaline used to hit me when these songs played! It was a reliable rush. When I came home from an anxious day at high school, later in my dorm room at college, all the time I was living alone in a studio apartment in West Virginia, when I first moved to San Francisco and had few friends. The familiar chords would sound and my body would respond with crazy, dorky dancing. It was righteous.
But these days the old songs don't do it for me. Maybe my nervous system has dulled with maturity, maybe there's a Law of Diminishing Returns that states "the 300th time you hear Won't Get Fooled Again is less thrilling than the 10th time." Maybe fast-edited TV commercials have ruined my attention span for even 3 1/2 minute recordings. In any case, the other night when I was seeking diversion song after song gave me an initial jolt of nostalgic pleasure and then wore out its welcome before the 2nd chorus. I began fast-forwarding through albums and tracks, impatient with all but the juiciest parts.
The old magic no longer works. Damn.
I should just throw away all these deteriorating 20-year-old cassettes. If I ever need to hear these songs again they are available on CD, most of them. More importantly, they are forever etched in my brain and incoporated in my experience of music. They won't be lost. Maybe it's time to clear out the physcial vessels of my youthful adrenaline delivery system and make way for something new.
Lament: An aquaintence of mine has become a rather sucessful playwright. And he's younger than me. He just sent me another e-mail notice of his latest production. Last week he got a good capsule review in the Guardian.
As I listened to the old, no-longer-satifying music, it pained me to speculate on what different path I should have taken ten, fifteen years ago to become a successful artist.
When I first met my successful friend, he was a student in a playwriting program and I was a temp office worker 6 years out of college, volunteering at a theater and experimenting with solo performance. We both responded to an ad in Callboard magazine for comedy writers and met at the initial gathering of hopeful participants. My friend submitted a sketch that was a direct steal from the old SNL mock-tv commercial for the "Meat Wagon" slot car set for kids. Nobody called him on it, until I did later, in private. He seemed a little embarassed, but I think he appreciated my discression.
That group dissolved pretty quickly. My friend then formed a theatre company with his college buddies, with a vague artistic statement about "producing plays that comptemporary audiences can relate to". Oh well, he was young. After he graduated he began writing plays for local production. I particpated as an actor in some of his readings, and went to see several readings and early low-budget shows.
I remember telling him a story one day, about how it didn't really hit me that Jim Henson was dead until the next time I saw Kermit the Frog on TV, and Kermit was speaking with a slightly different voice. Wham. That beloved character, who enlightened my childhood on Sesame Street and introduced me to the dynamics of comic timing, really was dead and gone. I didn't know Jim Henson, but apparently he was the soul and spark of Kermit the Frog, and that spark had been snuffed out.
My friend said Wow! What a great story!, and asked if he could use it in a play, and I think I said sure, go ahead. I wasn't going to use it. I only have a vague inkling of a memory of this, but I suspect he asked and I said okay.
Some time later I attended another of his play readings, which turned out to be a tiresome 2-act about 20-somethings and their romantic travails, in a style imitative of sitcoms. I was particularly struck with how nasty the male characters were in their attitudes towards women. At one point, the two guy protagonists sat on a bench and had a rueful bonding moment, and suddenly one of them was telling my story about Kermit the Frog. It was clumsily inserted, to no effect, spoken by a character I loathed.
When my friend asked me later what i thought of the play I was polite but probably unhelpful. I didn't mention recognizing my Kermit story. He said that there had been comments from women that the women characters were badly treated in the play, and what did I think about that? I know what I think; I don't remember what I told him.
Why didn't I just tell him it was ugly crap and I felt offended by his use of my experience? I would now.
My friend made me a cassette tape of all the very best of Nick Lowe, music I'd loved and lost from the late 70's and 80's. It was a really nice gift to get that music back in my life, meticulously catalogued and labled (something I had a hard time doing with my cassettes, most of which had just the album title scrawled on the tape case). My friend loved Nick Lowe. He was particularly delighted with a Nick song that was getting airplay on KFOG at the time, All Men Are Liars. Having misheard it without seeing a lyric sheet I was under the impression that one of the lines went: "There once was a singer named Rick Ashtly/He had a big head; it was so ghastly." My friend laughed and corrected me, "...he had a big HIT, it was so ghastly! Never Gonna Give You Up, Never Gonna Let You Down?!"
A few weeks later I heard he'd had a falling out with his college buddies. It was all very mysterious.
The next play of his that I saw, at least a year later, was a farce comedy, staged at a cafe' in the Castro. It was a soap opera parody and was getting very good reviews. The house was packed, lots of flamboyant and butch individuals, lots of leather daddies. They loved the play, hooting and cheering. I loved it, too. I actually thought it was great! Really witty, each punch line landing a boffo laugh. Lots of daring references to closeted celebrities, inlcuding Pat Benetar and Keanu Reeves. Really good comic acting. The big finale was the whole cast dancing wacky to Pat Benetar's Love Is A Battlefield.
When I came up to congratulate him after the show, my friend was dressed much more stylishly than I'd seen in the past. Cool shirt, slick new Buddy Holly glasses.
It was clear to me he was gay, and had recently come out of the closet like gangbusters. I didn't point this out to him, because it seemed an awkward conversation to have in public. Since then he's written several well-received plays, some of them with queer characters and addressing queer sexuality. His plays are produced around the country, he's had grants for writing and residencies, and he's won some minor awards. He's really found his voice. He doesn't have to pretend anymore. Maybe he still borrows, but I suspect not so much.
Last year he moved to LA, to break into screenwriting. Maybe that was the plan all along. Anyway, he's successful.
What should I have been doing all this time, in order to be successful?
I am mourning for lost possibilities.
My father's recent death, and my looking back at his life and career as an artist, drives home the need to realize my potential. An urgent voice wails that I am far, far too late, that most writers and performers are well into their careers by now.
But a quieter voice insists that I was never ready to take any of these chimeric opportunites. I never had the discipline and patience to do any serious work until recently, and even now it's a struggle. That for my happiness I much more urgently needed to do what I did: to learn to live with integrity as a human being, to find love and intimacy, to become part of a community of friends.
This is true. I may occasionally have an intense yearning to have followed another path, to be a TV/Screenwriter and live in Los Angeles. But the odds are slim that it would have been successful and happy for me. And I suspect that the process of working in such an environment, on such material, would have led to a different me. Maybe not such a nice guy. Maybe it would have ruined me for the subtler art that I practice now. I can't imagine feeling as good as I do, if I were a lonely, unsuccesful wanna-be pop culture hack with no audience, no community, no accomplishments.
I am so very lucky, so very happy, right here and right now.
God, what a jolt of adrenaline used to hit me when these songs played! It was a reliable rush. When I came home from an anxious day at high school, later in my dorm room at college, all the time I was living alone in a studio apartment in West Virginia, when I first moved to San Francisco and had few friends. The familiar chords would sound and my body would respond with crazy, dorky dancing. It was righteous.
But these days the old songs don't do it for me. Maybe my nervous system has dulled with maturity, maybe there's a Law of Diminishing Returns that states "the 300th time you hear Won't Get Fooled Again is less thrilling than the 10th time." Maybe fast-edited TV commercials have ruined my attention span for even 3 1/2 minute recordings. In any case, the other night when I was seeking diversion song after song gave me an initial jolt of nostalgic pleasure and then wore out its welcome before the 2nd chorus. I began fast-forwarding through albums and tracks, impatient with all but the juiciest parts.
The old magic no longer works. Damn.
I should just throw away all these deteriorating 20-year-old cassettes. If I ever need to hear these songs again they are available on CD, most of them. More importantly, they are forever etched in my brain and incoporated in my experience of music. They won't be lost. Maybe it's time to clear out the physcial vessels of my youthful adrenaline delivery system and make way for something new.
Lament: An aquaintence of mine has become a rather sucessful playwright. And he's younger than me. He just sent me another e-mail notice of his latest production. Last week he got a good capsule review in the Guardian.
As I listened to the old, no-longer-satifying music, it pained me to speculate on what different path I should have taken ten, fifteen years ago to become a successful artist.
When I first met my successful friend, he was a student in a playwriting program and I was a temp office worker 6 years out of college, volunteering at a theater and experimenting with solo performance. We both responded to an ad in Callboard magazine for comedy writers and met at the initial gathering of hopeful participants. My friend submitted a sketch that was a direct steal from the old SNL mock-tv commercial for the "Meat Wagon" slot car set for kids. Nobody called him on it, until I did later, in private. He seemed a little embarassed, but I think he appreciated my discression.
That group dissolved pretty quickly. My friend then formed a theatre company with his college buddies, with a vague artistic statement about "producing plays that comptemporary audiences can relate to". Oh well, he was young. After he graduated he began writing plays for local production. I particpated as an actor in some of his readings, and went to see several readings and early low-budget shows.
I remember telling him a story one day, about how it didn't really hit me that Jim Henson was dead until the next time I saw Kermit the Frog on TV, and Kermit was speaking with a slightly different voice. Wham. That beloved character, who enlightened my childhood on Sesame Street and introduced me to the dynamics of comic timing, really was dead and gone. I didn't know Jim Henson, but apparently he was the soul and spark of Kermit the Frog, and that spark had been snuffed out.
My friend said Wow! What a great story!, and asked if he could use it in a play, and I think I said sure, go ahead. I wasn't going to use it. I only have a vague inkling of a memory of this, but I suspect he asked and I said okay.
Some time later I attended another of his play readings, which turned out to be a tiresome 2-act about 20-somethings and their romantic travails, in a style imitative of sitcoms. I was particularly struck with how nasty the male characters were in their attitudes towards women. At one point, the two guy protagonists sat on a bench and had a rueful bonding moment, and suddenly one of them was telling my story about Kermit the Frog. It was clumsily inserted, to no effect, spoken by a character I loathed.
When my friend asked me later what i thought of the play I was polite but probably unhelpful. I didn't mention recognizing my Kermit story. He said that there had been comments from women that the women characters were badly treated in the play, and what did I think about that? I know what I think; I don't remember what I told him.
Why didn't I just tell him it was ugly crap and I felt offended by his use of my experience? I would now.
My friend made me a cassette tape of all the very best of Nick Lowe, music I'd loved and lost from the late 70's and 80's. It was a really nice gift to get that music back in my life, meticulously catalogued and labled (something I had a hard time doing with my cassettes, most of which had just the album title scrawled on the tape case). My friend loved Nick Lowe. He was particularly delighted with a Nick song that was getting airplay on KFOG at the time, All Men Are Liars. Having misheard it without seeing a lyric sheet I was under the impression that one of the lines went: "There once was a singer named Rick Ashtly/He had a big head; it was so ghastly." My friend laughed and corrected me, "...he had a big HIT, it was so ghastly! Never Gonna Give You Up, Never Gonna Let You Down?!"
A few weeks later I heard he'd had a falling out with his college buddies. It was all very mysterious.
The next play of his that I saw, at least a year later, was a farce comedy, staged at a cafe' in the Castro. It was a soap opera parody and was getting very good reviews. The house was packed, lots of flamboyant and butch individuals, lots of leather daddies. They loved the play, hooting and cheering. I loved it, too. I actually thought it was great! Really witty, each punch line landing a boffo laugh. Lots of daring references to closeted celebrities, inlcuding Pat Benetar and Keanu Reeves. Really good comic acting. The big finale was the whole cast dancing wacky to Pat Benetar's Love Is A Battlefield.
When I came up to congratulate him after the show, my friend was dressed much more stylishly than I'd seen in the past. Cool shirt, slick new Buddy Holly glasses.
It was clear to me he was gay, and had recently come out of the closet like gangbusters. I didn't point this out to him, because it seemed an awkward conversation to have in public. Since then he's written several well-received plays, some of them with queer characters and addressing queer sexuality. His plays are produced around the country, he's had grants for writing and residencies, and he's won some minor awards. He's really found his voice. He doesn't have to pretend anymore. Maybe he still borrows, but I suspect not so much.
Last year he moved to LA, to break into screenwriting. Maybe that was the plan all along. Anyway, he's successful.
What should I have been doing all this time, in order to be successful?
I am mourning for lost possibilities.
My father's recent death, and my looking back at his life and career as an artist, drives home the need to realize my potential. An urgent voice wails that I am far, far too late, that most writers and performers are well into their careers by now.
But a quieter voice insists that I was never ready to take any of these chimeric opportunites. I never had the discipline and patience to do any serious work until recently, and even now it's a struggle. That for my happiness I much more urgently needed to do what I did: to learn to live with integrity as a human being, to find love and intimacy, to become part of a community of friends.
This is true. I may occasionally have an intense yearning to have followed another path, to be a TV/Screenwriter and live in Los Angeles. But the odds are slim that it would have been successful and happy for me. And I suspect that the process of working in such an environment, on such material, would have led to a different me. Maybe not such a nice guy. Maybe it would have ruined me for the subtler art that I practice now. I can't imagine feeling as good as I do, if I were a lonely, unsuccesful wanna-be pop culture hack with no audience, no community, no accomplishments.
I am so very lucky, so very happy, right here and right now.
Friday, June 13, 2003
At a half-way point in the working day.
I've been e-mailing back and forth with others on the board of a theatre group about the imagery on a publicity postcard we will send out in the next two weeks. One board member says that the black and white image of hands floating over a lawn looks like mime hands, and we should colorize it. Because who likes mimes? No one, at least according to Shakes the Clown. Mimes haven't been cool since Bob Goldwaith & Co. were shown kicking silent ass in that 80's movie. There was also one episode of Cheers that featured an annoying mime that all the cool people hated, and Sam Malone eventually shoved the mime out into the alley. Not the "Kirsty Alley", this was during the Dianne years. And our show isn't really about mimes. I agree that we don't want to allow people who see the card to think that they are in for a mime-fest. But I also have an adverse reaction to the idea of colorizing flesh tones in a b@w photo. It reminds me of that neuvo-reich philestine who bought a mansion in Beverly Hills and painted all the marble statuary "caucasian nude", except for the disturbingly bright red nipples.
J and I are working on a theatre piece that needs much more writing and development. I've been pretty taken up recently with dealing with my Dad's death, not being inspired and delighted by theatre ideas. But now I'm starting to get interested again. Seeing some really daring performances recently has been inspiring. This piece we're working on is a musical comedy that is so far a collection of scenes and vignettes attacking the idea of American hegemony. I need to decide what the plot is and discipline these various parts, and any other parts we come up with, into a sharp, clear and satisfying plot.
In the past I have worked by writing ideas of 3X5" cards and moving them around on a table top. This helps me see what all the parts are, where the holes are and to try various ways of fitting things together. But since I've had a computer which can store and arrange huge ammounts of information I haven't used the 3X5" card method much. I'm kind of stuck now, so I think it's time to go back to the old way.
Our next step is to find a director who will help us develop this material. We're wooing a good one whose work we very much admire. She may be interested, but her schedule for the coming year might not allow it. (That's just what i would tell someone if I wanted to politely refuse to work with them, but it may also very well be true, too.) We'll probabaly meet with her in July and discuss, which is a friendly, no-commitment kind of first step.
I should have an outline by then and more scenes written, at least.
More later.
I've been e-mailing back and forth with others on the board of a theatre group about the imagery on a publicity postcard we will send out in the next two weeks. One board member says that the black and white image of hands floating over a lawn looks like mime hands, and we should colorize it. Because who likes mimes? No one, at least according to Shakes the Clown. Mimes haven't been cool since Bob Goldwaith & Co. were shown kicking silent ass in that 80's movie. There was also one episode of Cheers that featured an annoying mime that all the cool people hated, and Sam Malone eventually shoved the mime out into the alley. Not the "Kirsty Alley", this was during the Dianne years. And our show isn't really about mimes. I agree that we don't want to allow people who see the card to think that they are in for a mime-fest. But I also have an adverse reaction to the idea of colorizing flesh tones in a b@w photo. It reminds me of that neuvo-reich philestine who bought a mansion in Beverly Hills and painted all the marble statuary "caucasian nude", except for the disturbingly bright red nipples.
J and I are working on a theatre piece that needs much more writing and development. I've been pretty taken up recently with dealing with my Dad's death, not being inspired and delighted by theatre ideas. But now I'm starting to get interested again. Seeing some really daring performances recently has been inspiring. This piece we're working on is a musical comedy that is so far a collection of scenes and vignettes attacking the idea of American hegemony. I need to decide what the plot is and discipline these various parts, and any other parts we come up with, into a sharp, clear and satisfying plot.
In the past I have worked by writing ideas of 3X5" cards and moving them around on a table top. This helps me see what all the parts are, where the holes are and to try various ways of fitting things together. But since I've had a computer which can store and arrange huge ammounts of information I haven't used the 3X5" card method much. I'm kind of stuck now, so I think it's time to go back to the old way.
Our next step is to find a director who will help us develop this material. We're wooing a good one whose work we very much admire. She may be interested, but her schedule for the coming year might not allow it. (That's just what i would tell someone if I wanted to politely refuse to work with them, but it may also very well be true, too.) We'll probabaly meet with her in July and discuss, which is a friendly, no-commitment kind of first step.
I should have an outline by then and more scenes written, at least.
More later.
At a half-way point in the working day.
I've been e-mailing back and forth with others on the board of a theatre group about the imagery on a publicity postcard we will send out in the next two weeks. One board member says that the black and white image of hands floating over a lawn looks like mime hands, and we should colorize it. Because who likes mimes? No one, at least according to Shakes the Clown. Mimes haven't been cool since Bob Goldwaith & Co. were shown kicking silent ass in that 80's movie. There was also one episode of Cheers that featured an annoying mime that all the cool people hated, and Sam Malone eventually shoved the mime out into the alley. Not the "Kirsty Alley", this was during the Dianne years. And our show isn't really about mimes. I agree that we don't want to allow people who see the card to think that they are in for a mime-fest. But I also have an adverse reaction to the idea of colorizing flesh tones in a b@w photo. It reminds me of that neuvo-reich philestine who bought a mansion in Beverly Hills and painted all the marble statuary "caucasian nude", except for the disturbingly bright red nipples.
J and I are working on a theatre piece that needs much more writing and development. I've been pretty taken up recently with dealing with my Dad's death, not being inspired and delighted by theatre ideas. But now I'm starting to get interested again. Seeing some really daring performances recently has been inspiring. This piece we're working on is a musical comedy that is so far a collection of scenes and vignettes attacking the idea of American hegemony. I need to decide what the plot is and discipline these various parts, and any other parts we come up with, into a sharp, clear and satisfying plot.
In the past I have worked by writing ideas of 3X5" cards and moving them around on a table top. This helps me see what all the parts are, where the holes are and try various ways ofd fitting things together. But since I've had a computer which card store and arrange huge ammounts of information I haven't used the 3X5" card method much. I'm kind of stuck now, so I think it's time to go back to the old way.
Our next step is to find a director who will help us develop this material. We're wooing a good one whose work we very much admire. She may be interested, but her schedule for the coming year might not allow it. (That's just what i would tell someone if I wanted to politely refuse to work wiht them, but it may also very well be true, too!) We'll probabaly meet with her in July and discuss, which is a friendly, no-commitment kind of first step.
I should have an outline by then and more scenes written, at least.
More later.
I've been e-mailing back and forth with others on the board of a theatre group about the imagery on a publicity postcard we will send out in the next two weeks. One board member says that the black and white image of hands floating over a lawn looks like mime hands, and we should colorize it. Because who likes mimes? No one, at least according to Shakes the Clown. Mimes haven't been cool since Bob Goldwaith & Co. were shown kicking silent ass in that 80's movie. There was also one episode of Cheers that featured an annoying mime that all the cool people hated, and Sam Malone eventually shoved the mime out into the alley. Not the "Kirsty Alley", this was during the Dianne years. And our show isn't really about mimes. I agree that we don't want to allow people who see the card to think that they are in for a mime-fest. But I also have an adverse reaction to the idea of colorizing flesh tones in a b@w photo. It reminds me of that neuvo-reich philestine who bought a mansion in Beverly Hills and painted all the marble statuary "caucasian nude", except for the disturbingly bright red nipples.
J and I are working on a theatre piece that needs much more writing and development. I've been pretty taken up recently with dealing with my Dad's death, not being inspired and delighted by theatre ideas. But now I'm starting to get interested again. Seeing some really daring performances recently has been inspiring. This piece we're working on is a musical comedy that is so far a collection of scenes and vignettes attacking the idea of American hegemony. I need to decide what the plot is and discipline these various parts, and any other parts we come up with, into a sharp, clear and satisfying plot.
In the past I have worked by writing ideas of 3X5" cards and moving them around on a table top. This helps me see what all the parts are, where the holes are and try various ways ofd fitting things together. But since I've had a computer which card store and arrange huge ammounts of information I haven't used the 3X5" card method much. I'm kind of stuck now, so I think it's time to go back to the old way.
Our next step is to find a director who will help us develop this material. We're wooing a good one whose work we very much admire. She may be interested, but her schedule for the coming year might not allow it. (That's just what i would tell someone if I wanted to politely refuse to work wiht them, but it may also very well be true, too!) We'll probabaly meet with her in July and discuss, which is a friendly, no-commitment kind of first step.
I should have an outline by then and more scenes written, at least.
More later.
Good morning!
It is Friday and I hit the ground running at work. Much bustle, faxes and phone calls, confusion and a general bouyant energy because, hey, it's Friday and everybody's workin' for the weekend. Tonight J dances and I'll probably go see another show, something different. Maybe the "Revelation" show at The Marsh, which looks pretty cool. I'm usually interested in theatre that works with the Bible in challenging ways.
J and I started looking on-line for homes in San Francisco. There are listings on Realtor.com for several condos and a few small houses we could afford that look promising! We will call a few of the agents and see if we can come 'round and take a look. Wouldn't it be great to own our own place in SF?
I have plenty of e-mails to send, to Mom and my sister and various friends. More later!
It is Friday and I hit the ground running at work. Much bustle, faxes and phone calls, confusion and a general bouyant energy because, hey, it's Friday and everybody's workin' for the weekend. Tonight J dances and I'll probably go see another show, something different. Maybe the "Revelation" show at The Marsh, which looks pretty cool. I'm usually interested in theatre that works with the Bible in challenging ways.
J and I started looking on-line for homes in San Francisco. There are listings on Realtor.com for several condos and a few small houses we could afford that look promising! We will call a few of the agents and see if we can come 'round and take a look. Wouldn't it be great to own our own place in SF?
I have plenty of e-mails to send, to Mom and my sister and various friends. More later!
Thursday, June 12, 2003
At last, I have the energy-matter/time-space to write!
J and I were running a sleep deficit for weeks, and we both had lots to think and worry about, so posting to the blog site never seemed like a priority. Now, at last, I have mental space to turn around and take a look at myself, and share a few experiences.
What I've been doing:
A) Writing obituaries, death notices and condolence letters
My father died April 30th, unexpectedly. He had gotten wired in the last few years and had enthusiastically caught up with long-lost friends from Bergenfield High School, the Navy in WW2 and from various places he'd lived and worked in his life. When I flew home for the memorial service and logged onto his account, there were still e-mails coming in from all over the country from correspondents who hadn't heard of his passing.
I e-mailed and wrote several of his old friends, many of whom wrote back expressing shock and sorrow, which led to further correspondence. I was moved by the many, many tributes and good memories of Dad that people shared with my mother, my sister and me. It is a comfort to realize Dad was loved by many and will be missed.
This BLOG is not supposed to be "a journal of the year after my father's death", although it inevitably will include many thoughts and memories of him. I want to write about other things, too, because I already spend so much time and emotional energy remembering Dad. It's not exactly what I want to share with he world on a BLOG, although I'm not ashamed of it. I just don't want to define myself as "the guy in mourning".
If you want to read an excellent account of someone's year of grieving and healing after a loved one's death, I highly recommend C.S. Lewis's A Grief Observed. It is bracingly honest, beautifully written and surprisingly easy going for such a downer subject. I couldn't promise any of those qualities if I were to chronicle my grieving process!
In any case, I have a little more on this track for right now. While I was home in upstate New York (now I'm back in San Francisco, 5 weeks later) I heard that a girl I knew in high school - a woman for 15 years without me knowing her, I guess - had died recently. Last week I spent many hours writing and rewriting a letter of condolence to her mother. It was difficult, because I wasn't so close to S although we were in several plays together, and I wanted this letter to be graceful and comforting in some way. I knew very well that a mourner is sensitive to insincere bullsh*t - the bullsh*t meter is primed for false sympathy . I ended up recounting several of S's best performances on-stage, from when we were in grade school through high school, and how saying how much I liked and admired her. All true. I hope this letter is some comfort to her mother when it arrives next week.
What else I have been doing:
B) Performing/Rehearsing
My wife J is doing a spectacular amount of good work as an artist, dancer and choreographer these days. I'm a in a group piece of hers that we're rehearsing for an August show, and she's also creating a conceptual performance piece about ergonomics for an art show in July, AND she's dancing in Mary Armentraut's show at The Lab. It is beautiful to see her dance. She slides around her partner like a sea-otter, which is especially impressive since they are dancing on dry land.
I have been facilitating a theatre workshop, which was interrupted by my father's death but is now back on, and developing a short solo theatre performance. It started as something I came up with quickly for The Lysistrada Project back in February, which was a world-wide theatre event protesting the war in Iraq. The idea was to create a performance that was inspired by Aristophanes's ancient play Lysistrada, in which the women of Athens protest the war by refusing to have sex with their husbands. My piece was called The Pledge, in which a character makes various oaths of loyalty and comes to realize the moral consequenses. Three days before I was to perform this piece in public, Fred Rodgers, of Mister Rodger's Neighborhood, died. It seemed like his simple message of caring and neighborliness was the much-needed antidote to the fear and aggression we were caught up in as a nation at that point (and still are). I quickly changed the ending of the piece into a tribute to Fred Rodgers. In the performance, I invited the audience to sing along with me "It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood", and many of them did. Thanks, Fred.
I will perform this piece again August 1,2,8 and 9, at the Noh Space in San Francisco.
What else I have been doing:
C: Watching Movies/Reading Books
Oh, I could go on and on about this! I LOVE bad movies, and even more I love GOOD movies.
J and I are watching "Mad Max" on DVD. It's so viscerally exciting, so much better than "The Fast and The Furious" and its bombastic, fast edited, computer-assisted ilk. Damn if Mel Gibson isn't young and emotionally vulnerable in this, such a tender tough guy. He reminds me of a friend from college, a sensitive, likable guy and restless adventure-seeker who joined the army and later became a New York City cop. Back in the dorm we called him "Peaved Joe", in honor of his personal indentification with this film. I've never seen "MM" all the way to the finish, and J and I stopped watching it a few nights ago and a point halfway through that seems like the end of a peaceful idyl just before terrible things happen. I can't wait.
My friend D loaned me a VHS tape containing a rare, Holy Grail-class bit of pop culture cheese: the made-for-tv-movie "Nick Fury, Agent of Shield", starring David Hasselhoff. It recently replayed on the Sci-Fi channel. Oh my God, this is divine material. Hasselhoff plays the cigar-chomping, butt-kicking Nick Fury with huge zest and many great one-liners. Imagine him snarling around that stogey (almost a character itself) and spittin out "Aw, I'm just blowing smoke up yer hoo-haa." At one point (unless I was hallucinating) he meets a secret agent in a cladestine redevous in Berlin, indentifying himself by speaking the code phrase "I wandered lonely as a cloud". And then he keeps going with more lines of the poem while his co-spys just stand there, gaping. Did I dream this? I'll have to look at the tape. This film features such bad acting in the other parts that DH himself comes off as a confident, witty professional. I must see this again and write down the many, many lines of dialogue too delicious to forget. Better yet, YOU see it.
Last night I finished reading The Innkeeper's Song by Peter S. Beagle, who long ago wrote The Last Unicorn. Well, if you are a fan that older book or of fantasy writing, Innkeeper's Song is a rare treat. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Yes, it is better than Last Unicorn. I think J is going to read it herself soon and we can discuss it over coffee. It has been a thrilling world to dip back into over the past few weeks, before bed, after work, on the bus, during my lunch break. Such a great experience, to be in the middle of a book that calls you back! A true pleasure.
More later. b' bye.
J and I were running a sleep deficit for weeks, and we both had lots to think and worry about, so posting to the blog site never seemed like a priority. Now, at last, I have mental space to turn around and take a look at myself, and share a few experiences.
What I've been doing:
A) Writing obituaries, death notices and condolence letters
My father died April 30th, unexpectedly. He had gotten wired in the last few years and had enthusiastically caught up with long-lost friends from Bergenfield High School, the Navy in WW2 and from various places he'd lived and worked in his life. When I flew home for the memorial service and logged onto his account, there were still e-mails coming in from all over the country from correspondents who hadn't heard of his passing.
I e-mailed and wrote several of his old friends, many of whom wrote back expressing shock and sorrow, which led to further correspondence. I was moved by the many, many tributes and good memories of Dad that people shared with my mother, my sister and me. It is a comfort to realize Dad was loved by many and will be missed.
This BLOG is not supposed to be "a journal of the year after my father's death", although it inevitably will include many thoughts and memories of him. I want to write about other things, too, because I already spend so much time and emotional energy remembering Dad. It's not exactly what I want to share with he world on a BLOG, although I'm not ashamed of it. I just don't want to define myself as "the guy in mourning".
If you want to read an excellent account of someone's year of grieving and healing after a loved one's death, I highly recommend C.S. Lewis's A Grief Observed. It is bracingly honest, beautifully written and surprisingly easy going for such a downer subject. I couldn't promise any of those qualities if I were to chronicle my grieving process!
In any case, I have a little more on this track for right now. While I was home in upstate New York (now I'm back in San Francisco, 5 weeks later) I heard that a girl I knew in high school - a woman for 15 years without me knowing her, I guess - had died recently. Last week I spent many hours writing and rewriting a letter of condolence to her mother. It was difficult, because I wasn't so close to S although we were in several plays together, and I wanted this letter to be graceful and comforting in some way. I knew very well that a mourner is sensitive to insincere bullsh*t - the bullsh*t meter is primed for false sympathy . I ended up recounting several of S's best performances on-stage, from when we were in grade school through high school, and how saying how much I liked and admired her. All true. I hope this letter is some comfort to her mother when it arrives next week.
What else I have been doing:
B) Performing/Rehearsing
My wife J is doing a spectacular amount of good work as an artist, dancer and choreographer these days. I'm a in a group piece of hers that we're rehearsing for an August show, and she's also creating a conceptual performance piece about ergonomics for an art show in July, AND she's dancing in Mary Armentraut's show at The Lab. It is beautiful to see her dance. She slides around her partner like a sea-otter, which is especially impressive since they are dancing on dry land.
I have been facilitating a theatre workshop, which was interrupted by my father's death but is now back on, and developing a short solo theatre performance. It started as something I came up with quickly for The Lysistrada Project back in February, which was a world-wide theatre event protesting the war in Iraq. The idea was to create a performance that was inspired by Aristophanes's ancient play Lysistrada, in which the women of Athens protest the war by refusing to have sex with their husbands. My piece was called The Pledge, in which a character makes various oaths of loyalty and comes to realize the moral consequenses. Three days before I was to perform this piece in public, Fred Rodgers, of Mister Rodger's Neighborhood, died. It seemed like his simple message of caring and neighborliness was the much-needed antidote to the fear and aggression we were caught up in as a nation at that point (and still are). I quickly changed the ending of the piece into a tribute to Fred Rodgers. In the performance, I invited the audience to sing along with me "It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood", and many of them did. Thanks, Fred.
I will perform this piece again August 1,2,8 and 9, at the Noh Space in San Francisco.
What else I have been doing:
C: Watching Movies/Reading Books
Oh, I could go on and on about this! I LOVE bad movies, and even more I love GOOD movies.
J and I are watching "Mad Max" on DVD. It's so viscerally exciting, so much better than "The Fast and The Furious" and its bombastic, fast edited, computer-assisted ilk. Damn if Mel Gibson isn't young and emotionally vulnerable in this, such a tender tough guy. He reminds me of a friend from college, a sensitive, likable guy and restless adventure-seeker who joined the army and later became a New York City cop. Back in the dorm we called him "Peaved Joe", in honor of his personal indentification with this film. I've never seen "MM" all the way to the finish, and J and I stopped watching it a few nights ago and a point halfway through that seems like the end of a peaceful idyl just before terrible things happen. I can't wait.
My friend D loaned me a VHS tape containing a rare, Holy Grail-class bit of pop culture cheese: the made-for-tv-movie "Nick Fury, Agent of Shield", starring David Hasselhoff. It recently replayed on the Sci-Fi channel. Oh my God, this is divine material. Hasselhoff plays the cigar-chomping, butt-kicking Nick Fury with huge zest and many great one-liners. Imagine him snarling around that stogey (almost a character itself) and spittin out "Aw, I'm just blowing smoke up yer hoo-haa." At one point (unless I was hallucinating) he meets a secret agent in a cladestine redevous in Berlin, indentifying himself by speaking the code phrase "I wandered lonely as a cloud". And then he keeps going with more lines of the poem while his co-spys just stand there, gaping. Did I dream this? I'll have to look at the tape. This film features such bad acting in the other parts that DH himself comes off as a confident, witty professional. I must see this again and write down the many, many lines of dialogue too delicious to forget. Better yet, YOU see it.
Last night I finished reading The Innkeeper's Song by Peter S. Beagle, who long ago wrote The Last Unicorn. Well, if you are a fan that older book or of fantasy writing, Innkeeper's Song is a rare treat. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Yes, it is better than Last Unicorn. I think J is going to read it herself soon and we can discuss it over coffee. It has been a thrilling world to dip back into over the past few weeks, before bed, after work, on the bus, during my lunch break. Such a great experience, to be in the middle of a book that calls you back! A true pleasure.
More later. b' bye.
