Best Laid Plans ...

      So okay, I admit it – At some things I’m a colossal failure.

      Believe me, I start out with every good intention. I do! I’m gonna decry theatre altogether – devote all my energies to writing – move to a mountain top, live on goat cheese and wild berries, grow a beard, commune daily with raw nature …

     So okay, I grew the beard. Big deal. I stopped shaving.

     So okay, here’s the problem; I am totally free and over the age of consent. (Decently into the age of descent, thank you very much for pointing that out.) BUT … in order to dissent, it becomes necessary to list those particulars from which it is desirable to abstain, and in so doing, create a rhetorical doppelganger of the very system being held up as undesirable …

     Huh? You getting any of this, Bunkie? The harder I try not to conform to one system, the more I seem to gravitate toward another.

     My head hurts.

     Here’s an example. I decided that any writer worth anything should live in a cave. I mean, that’s what serious writers do, don’t they? They live in caves. So I found a cave. It was wet. And cold. And dark. And the bathroom facilities left something to be desired. So I decided that instead of being a part of the angry generation, I could be quite content just being mildly unpleasant. (And beside, the peacock feathers are inspirational – everyone will tell you that.)

     I would show you the upstairs but the bed isn’t made and for the world I would hate for you to get the right impression.

     Now for the unvarnished failure part.

     I told you I was done with theatre, right? Done. Finished. Kaput. Gonna write. Theatre just gets in the way. Not gonna direct any more plays. Not not not.

     Yesterday I was offered the opportunity to direct the stage version of “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

     I said yes. And meant it.

      I have all the resolve of spilled buttermilk.     

The writers prompt

     At our last writers group meeting, we were asked to provide answers to a prompt. To be honest, I’ve never much cared for prompts – generally I find them restrictive. But this one was pretty good. So I present it to you – along with my responses – in the hope that it will invoke a similar posting from you.

     Question: Name ten things you have always wanted to do, and why you have not done them.

      1. I have always wanted to visit all 50 of the United States. I have ten to go. Along the same lines, I’ve always wanted to visit Prince Edward Island. It’s only a few clicks north of a state on my “to do” list, so why not?

     2. I have always wanted to ride an elephant. I had a chance some years ago, but my (then) wife thought it would be undignified. She is now history. Anybody know where I can find a really big saddle? (And of course … an elephant?)

     3. I have always wanted to fly a plane. Seriously. I took lessons until a physical exam revealed that I was cataleptic (translate: had fainting spells). At the time “they” decided that fainting was not a positive image thing for pilots. But that was years ago. Time, I think, to give it another shot. What’s the worst that can happen?

     4. I want to win the Pulitzer Prize for literature. I have accumulated a plethora of dust collectors over the years. It would be nice to win something that actually amounts to something. (The secret here is to write something that fits that criteria.)

     5. I want to visit Volgograd in Russia. The Russians I have known (not a true sampling, to be sure) have been both charming and melancholy in nature. As a student of history, the battle of Volgograd was the turning point of World War II. I would like the opportunity to study both, firsthand.

     6. I want to go into space – to travel from here to breakfast in a weightless condition – to suck globules of Tang as they drift by my snack plate, and watch the earth rise behind the moon.

     7. I want to spend more time with children. Their perception of life is refreshingly less jaded than my own. Along with that, I want to spend more time with the people I love and who love me right back. Along with that, I want to meet new people. I need fresh material.

     8. I want to ride in a rodeo parade again – to be a part of a mounted caravan, to smell polished leather and see the glint of silver roundels on traces. Later I want to take my favorite horse and wander deep into the desert in late Spring – one more time.

     9. I want to be an ex-president of the United States. Ex-presidents appear to garner respect simply by having survived being president. (My only desire to be a president would be because - as I understand it - the kitchen is open 24 hours a day, and I could have a hot fudge sundae at 3:30 in the morning if I wanted to, and that probably isn’t a good enough reason to want to be the president.)

     10. I want to love more, to cry more, to laugh more, to taste, touch, see and smell more, to become far more intimate with God and His imaginative creations.

j.

    

Today I Got My First Hate Mail

      For those who came in late, I was hired to direct AIDA for one theatre later this summer and ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA for another theatre organization in the fall. Since I had a long break between the last show and the next one (always a dangerous time for me), one dark and stormy night I got an epiphany. It went something like this;

      (1)  Directing plays is not the grand fun it used to be. Directing plays is becoming 

more like work with only occasional satisfactions, usually if or when an actor “gets it.”

     (2)  Directing plays is becoming more a form of escape. For a few hours each night I get to yell at actors. And, while there is a marked degree of satisfaction in doing this, these are actors after all, and not real people.

     (3)  Directing plays has become an excuse for not writing. I wish I could make some cute or caustic comment to blunt the truth of this statement, but I can’t. It is what it is.

     (4)  I should avoid any epiphany I get on a dark and stormy night. I just know it’s never gonna be fun.

     So. In December I contacted both theatre groups, informing them that I would not be available to direct for them this season after all, citing with deep regret that, because of personal problems, I could not give these two shows the attention they deserved.    

      Everything I had said was true and certainly heartfelt. These two plays had become very dear to me, and I was saddened with the knowledge that the visions I had created in my mind would never see the light of day. Still, after almost literally casting off this mantle, I felt a great sense of relief. I could actually go about my day and NOT think of blocking, abstract set designs, and spectacular lighting effects. My emails dropped instantly from 60 a day down to a quite delightful 4. (I was being shunned.)

      And now, my friend, we are up to date – or at least up to this morning.

     “I spent a year preparing for this play,” the email began, “a YEAR! I set everything aside, my whole life, just to play this role.”

     At this rather dramatic point in the narrative, I must point out that I only vaguely know the person who sent me the email. And, although I am not at all opposed to pre-casting, I really prefer it to be known before auditions, and determined by me, rather than by the person who is auditioning, or is thinking of auditioning, or is planning to secure the role in question by other and hopefully aesthetically pleasing means.

     I will spare you the more terse (and colorful) portions of the missive in question. In essence I was informed that she considered my unexpected withdrawal as an attack on her personally, that as a result I may have permanently damaged the relationship between her and her family (no kidding, she said that.), that I most certainly must be evil incarnate, and – if she has anything to say about it – I would no longer be welcome in any theatre anywhere in the known world.    

      And I must tell you, friend, I was singularly impressed. Although she was juvenile in the extreme, it didn’t negate the fact that she was thorough. She didn’t actually invoke the wrath of God, but she certainly pointed out that He had screwed up the day I was born.

     As for me, I consider this as just another milestone in my life, and points to the fact that I made the correct decision in stepping aside for awhile. I have not a doubt in the world that should I direct a play at some point in the future in which she is interested, all of the present rancor will simply be a fading and unimportant memory …

     … to her.

     j   

It's Done!

 

               I am no longer a theatre director.   

     Honestly, I look at those words and still get a chill. Directing plays for a number of theatres in middle America has not only been my main source of income for years, but has also provided warm enjoyment in the form of both identity and tact authority. In only two weeks my emails have dropped from sixty a day to four.      

     Pretty drastic, that. I feel like I have purposely thrown myself off the edge of the earth. And perhaps I have.

     But I had to do it. I consider myself a writer, but the last play of mine to be produced was two years ago. And it was one I had written twenty years before …  

     “Are you going to go see it,” my agent asked.

     “I’ve seen it a gazillion times,” I replied.

     “There’s an extra couple of hundred in it for us if you attend on opening night.” Note the word US.

     “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I replied. In the back of my mind I hear, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends …”

     “Is it a long drive,” I ask.

     “It’s in Glasgow, Scotland.”

     “That’s a long drive,” I concede. I live in Ohio. I can’t even SEE Scotland from here.

     So. I am out of the directing business and back into writing. I have a play in progress that I think will be the best thing I have written. It has been sitting twenty pages from completion for over a year now.

j

     And I have taken a perverse enjoyment in watching the piranha-like fight over the two plays from which I have walked away. I will miss you, my friends – miss you dearly. My consolation will be that I will be no longer directing what I should be writing.

    

For the people I care about, far and near.

Transitions

     I am being called again ...

     I look over the past few years and realize with a growing clarity that I have missed my mark. I don't know how it happened. My goals certainly were clear enough, and for a period of time I was meeting them on a regular basis.

     Perhaps that was the problem. I never had a real struggle - doors always opened for me, and I had a lust for achievement that sent me down a number of most interesting paths.

     And I still lean heavily toward those activities in my life that have always been enjoyable, notably, directing stage plays. I joke - and it's true - that the best therapy in the world is to yell at people and constantly tell them where to go ... and they thank me for it. Apparently I have skill to some degree. I have one room filled with awards, certificates, engraved commendations, and on and on and on. Nice, but constantly in need of dusting.

     Would you like to know my secret? I'll tell you my secret - actually three secrets.  And I will give them to you - no charge.

     When you cast a show, bring in the very best people you can find, and then have the good sense to stay out of their way while they do what they are supposed to be good at.

     In herding actors around the stage, make pretty pictures with people.

     Never ever ever ever bore your audience. Pace a play fast, so that the people watching your production will still have time for a drink or two after the show.

     That's it. All my secrets. Now go out there and direct something!

     ... because I won't. Maybe I'm finally growing up. I went to see a show the other night that had several talented friends in it. I couldn't wait for it to end so I could leave and ... and ...

     Ah, the mark I missed. I am directing plays I should be writing. I have a number of works in progress, inching painfully forward. It occurs to me that since I bill myself as a writer, perhaps I should actually take some time and write something.

     And there is a chance that I will.

     j
     

ANNIE, OVER AND OUT.

Okay, so ANNIE opened this weekend. In the span of less than a week it went from being still dismally God awful to marginally acceptable. Like an elephant in a tutu it lumbered around the stage for two hours pretending to be Tinker Bell. The dozens of stage mothers were entranced. Their small unwashed spastic and tone deaf  children had been magically transformed into small unwashed spastic and tone deaf stars of the stage. With the exception of a few seats available on opening night, the entire run is sold out! The theatre is making a $1,500 profit per performance.

It's not fair. It's just not fair.

Rotten orphans.

I'd love to give you more details, but I've been nursing a cold now for a week, lovingly given to me by a chemical weapon in pigtails.

j

ANNIE

I'm acting as an unofficial coach (for want of a better word) on a production of ANNIE. I figure that if I have to suffer thru this, you should too. 

OF MICE AND MEN final

I kept five of the slats that made up part of the wall in the barn. They now hang in my living room.

j

j

 

from j

The future ...?

This I could afford ...

j

What Kind Of Fool

      About a year ago I started experiencing a vague restlessness. I recognized this was not my normal wanderlust – I have always been drawn to what is around the next corner, over the next hill. This was not even my companion desire to slip away; to avoid the very repetition in which others find comfort.   

      This was something new – a slowly growing “awareness” of my surroundings as if I had been living for years in a fog, and for no purposed reason on my part, that masking grey shroud was lifting.

      When did adequate become acceptable? When did mundane become marvelous? It occurred to me that I’ve been directing more and more plays of late. I thought I had been moving toward something. But what? True, the work is enjoyable, but the thrill only comes now when the shows are bigger and bigger and bigger …

      I’ve become jaded, complacent. Blindfolded.

      Last weekend my eyes were opened. For the first time I realized that I had been settling for considerably less than I could have. I had dreams once, and a very keen appreciation of more than manufactured truth and beauty.

      The dreams eroded. Can’t blame anyone but myself. I sold myself cheap. 

      The dreams came back. Inspiration unexpectedly handed to me; a gift.

      What shall I do? What will I do?

      I shall take inspiration by the hand and look for bright horizons.

     This time I will settle for nothing less. 

     j        

Writer Retreat



In spite of popular belief, our Writer Retreat was not strictly for the birds.

j

Suzie! Please! Tell me it's not true!

j.