The best soprano I've ever heard

A New Play

I'm working on a new play - a man running for re-election, and filled with self doubt. Here's the first few pages:

SCENE

AT RISE: Evening. Dark brooding shadows blanket the walls, with only defused light from distant windows to make the darkness uneven. Overhead lights cast unflattering pools of lights intermittently  around the portico floors. At rise MISTER PRESIDENT is standing quietly, lost in thought. CHARLIE enters.  

CHARLIE

(Speaking into a walkie-talkie.)

I found him. South Portico. No, it’s ok, we’re coming.

(To MISTER PRESIDENT)

Mister President? Excuse me, sir.

MISTER PRESIDENT

What is it, Charlie?

CHARLIE

We need to go back in.

MISTER PRESIDENT

I have my coat. It’s ok.

CHARLIE

They want to go over your speech one more time.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Oh. Well that’s nice.

CHARLIE

You’re on the air in twenty minutes.

MISTER PRESIDENT

I know.

CHARLIE

Twenty minutes.

 MISTER PRESIDENT

“Fellow Americans. Good evening. Buenas noches. Erev tov. Masa el-khair. This is your President speaking, and I’m taking this opportunity to formally announce that I am running for re-election. Now there’s a surprise. And why am I doing this? That is the question, isn’t it? Because the past four years have not been as bad as everyone predicted they would be, and the consensus of opinion now suggests that with me in office the next four years will more than likely be just about the same – and that’s not a bad thing, now is it? Because I’ve looked over the other candidates – I’m sure you have, too – and wondered just what rock most of them crawled out from under. I’m doing this because it’s expected I would do this.

(a pause)

 Because to do anything else would be to admit defeat - for some obscure reason a journalistic underling will create - in his spare time - on a Sunday afternoon fifteen years from now. I’m doing this because I enjoy bleeding – especially in public.” Did I say it right?

CHARLIE

I think you said it all.

MISTER PRESIDENT

I haven’t even started.

CHARLIE

You don’t really feel that way.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Sometimes, Charlie. Sometimes.

CHARLIE

You don’t intend to say anything like that on television, do you?

MISTER PRESIDENT

Probably not. No. Of course not.

CHARLIE

We should be going in.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Do you know what someone asked me the other day?

CHARLIE

When?

 MISTER PRESIDENT

The, uh, the national vegetable something festival. The kids? You remember.

CHARLIE

We should be going in.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Charlie. Humor me.

CHARLIE

I remember.

MISTER PRESIDENT

So there we are, sailing along smartly if I do say so myself, and they never once suspected the only way I recognize corn is because it says so on the can. I mean, I was born and raised in Detroit, for God’s sake, what did they expect?

(A pause)

And if you tell me one more time we should be going in, I will fire you on the spot.

(a pause)

So – anyway – we’re sailing through the Q and A section – yes, I have a dog, yes, his name is Herman, no, he does not sleep with me, and this little poop holds up one hand – red hair? Freckles? Looks like Howdy Doody? Google it. Anyway, I can already taste the dirty martini that’s waiting for me, when “Why do you want to be President again?” And this stops me dead in my tracks. Why did I want to be President again? Do you know who our greatest President was? Don’t answer that – I’ll tell you. George Washington. Thoughts?

CHARLIE

None I’d care to share at the moment.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Wise decision. Now I am aware that in saying that, scholars will most certainly disagree, and categorically declare Jefferson as our greatest President – or Lincoln, Roosevelt, whomever, and they will give you every reason in the world to support their assumptions. And they would be wrong. Washington was the man. And why? Because he served his term and then quit. He did his best in the time allotted to him by the Constitution and then packed up his bags and went home. The man could have been king! Certainly half the country wanted a king. But he knew – for the good of the nation he helped create – when it was time to step off the stage.

CHARLIE

Are you saying that’s what you should do?

 MISTER PRESIDENT

Thinking about it. Howdy Doody got me thinking about it. Why did I want to be President again? For that matter, why did I want to be president in the first place?  Four years ago I could tell you – did tell you. I want to be President because I have a vision for America – a passion. And the course of action is – was – so very very clear. Four years later the vision is not so clear. I want to … finish what I started. Something like that. Do you know the White House has a cook on staff twenty-four hours a day?

CHARLIE

Yes.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Honestly. I want to be re-elected because I hate the thought of giving up hot fudge sundaes at three-thirty in the morning. Real fudge – home made. Where do they come up with it? I don’t know. How’s that for incentive? Not only that, but – are you bored?

CHARLIE

No sir. Not a bit.

MISTER PRESIDENT

You yawned.

CHARLIE

No I didn’t. Sir. Respectfully.

MISTER PRESIDENT

If I’m boring you, the Governor of Pango-Pango is still complaining because he hasn’t found someone to clean the goose droppings off the capital steps on a regular basis. Say the magic word and the job is yours.

CHARLIE

Mister President …

MISTER PRESIDENT

(HE holds an imaginary cell phone to his ear and speaks into it.)

Hello Air Force? Do you have anything that on a good day might make it to the American Samoa Islands? Perfect. Thank you.

(HE puts the “phone” back in his pocket.)

CHARLIE

Mister President …

MISTER PRESIDENT

You’re in luck – booked first class on the Amelia Earhart Special. Non-stop. Well, …

CHARLIE

Paul …

MISTER PRESIDENT

Now that’s a low blow.

CHARLIE

Why are you doing this?

MISTER PRESIDENT

What?

CHARLIE

Bushido. Death before dishonor. You do it every time you run for office.

MISTER PRESIDENT

(I’m) Clueless.

CHARLIE

“If I’m not elected, I can claim I didn’t want the job in the first place.”

MISTER PRESIDENT

Charlie, Charlie …

CHARLIE

Forgive me, Mister President, but that’s the truth.

MISTER PRESIDENT

Mister President? What happened to “Paul?”

CHARLIE

A mistake. Won’t happen again.

Thoughts?

Five Plays

At the moment I am in the process of writing five plays simultaneously.

I never planned to do that - who would?

Two of the plays are on commission. Fortunately they are both short - twenty minutes each. One is about politics, the other is open to whatever I want (so it's about politics as well. The first company will get a choice.)

Play three is actually one my wife and I wrote together six years ago, and has spent its life sitting on a shelf. Her book, PAINTING THE RAIN, is a novelized version of the play. In short, people started asking about the play, so it is being dusted off and polished.

Play four is another co-author deal. I have a friend (another contest winning playwright), and we are writing a play together about elves. (Not Elvis - elves!) Since she lives in another state, we email dialogue back and forth in Dropbox. So far this has been quite enjoyable.

And play five is, I suppose, another political. A man is running for President, and bit by bit you discover he is in an asylum and mentally ... uh ... insecure. The point here being that anyone who runs for President (and has any clue at all in regard to what's going to happen to him) cannot possibly be entirely sane, Cute idea. I hope it works.

That's it for now. More later.

j

First Printing

My wife's book did so well on Kindle we have advanced into hard copies! (The small chateau in the South of France is getting closer ...)

A theatre experience

     Ok, I have a story to tell you. Many years ago (MANY years ago) I was in an Equity waiver production of “Wonderful Town,” written by Leonard Bernstein. (“Equity Waiver” meaning the leads were Equity, the supporting cast was whatever was capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time. Yes – I was one of them.) We were opening in Ft. Wayne Indiana at a quite respectable theatre when we got work that Bernstein himself might come to see our show. (We were one of the first groups outside of New York to actually produce this musical.) On the night he was scheduled to attend, we outdid ourselves … (What if he likes me? What if HE likes ME?) I mean, he was doing SOMETHING in Cleveland at the time. What if …?) But he didn’t show. Instead, he sent a 21-year-old LACKY to see OUR show and EVALUATE IT to the great maestro. I remember, greatly disappointed, standing backstage and listening to this character sing our praises – that we had done good, that he would tell Bernstein that we had done him proud – yeah yeah yeah. Bullshit. Most of our cast dispersed. (There was a bar two blocks away we called home.) I felt sorry for this guy – obviously he had made a 200-mile-trip for a less than enthusiastic response. So as the cast departed, I invited him to join us. “I can’t,” he responded, “got to get back to Cleveland.” We shook hands in parting. “Jack Petersen,” I said, “glad to meet you.” “Steve,” he responded. “Steve,” I asked. “Sondheim,” he responded, “Steve Sondheim.”

64 SQUARES

     With the encouragement of my wife, I've decided to attempt to write a story (I'm far more comfortable with writing plays.) So, for your consideration, here is a small section. The character "speaking" was born in India in 1930, so the time now would be about 1946. 

     Sometime in the sixteenth year of my life my father came to me with the following offer. “Son, I think it’s time to buy you a new suit.”

    ‘Thank you,” I replied. I was both pleased and honestly perplexed. Unless he wanted something, my father rarely spoke to me. And the thought that he wanted to participate in some aspect of my life was quite beyond my comprehension.

     “Would you like to know why?” My father was being both tenacious and purposely vague. And he was enjoying every moment of our conversation.

     Yes, thank you, I would.” If this conversation reads as somewhat stilted, it’s because I honestly don’t remember it. Nor do I recall much of what would happen in the next few days. However, because the events occurred, it seems probable this conversation occurred, as well.

     “It’s for your wedding day.”

     This snippet of information shouldn’t have come to me as any great revelation. In the caste system practiced throughout India, my place was quite near the bottom of the social food chain. The way of life was well laid out, and had been refined over many generations. You were born, worked, married, worked, produced children, worked, and died. It was that simple. Life was orderly and without surprises. Everyone seemed quite content.

     Well, almost everyone. I believe with an almost certainty that all human beings are basically optimistic. I believe that disaster will strike someone else before it strikes me. The fallacy in this logic was that I didn’t know anyone else, so when my turn came it caught me completely by surprise.

     My mother gushed. “Her name is Alisia, and she’s definitely above your station.” I’m not sure I truly appreciated my mother when she gushed. This was in fact the first time I had ever seen her do it, and I’m sure I didn’t appreciate it.

     “I had to work hard for this match. It wasn’t easy. Her grandfather is a true Brit, I certainly hope you understand what that means!”

     I waited for my mother to pause for breath. It would prove to be a long wait.

     “No, you don’t. I can tell by your expression that you have no idea what this could mean for your future. Well. Believe me, I’ll be pleased to tell you. It means that … and that … and that … not only in this life, but in several lifetimes to come! So you just think about that!”

     She said other things. I know she did. Her voice began to echo in my head. The tone of her voice became deeper until it was nothing more than a grumble of sound, not unlike that of distant thunder. At the same time, the edges of my vision darkened, and it appeared that moving objects were slowing down.

    

     My mind withdrew to some safe place, and the processing of information became questionable. I moved hypnotized through the next few days. I know there were people around me. I know there was a ceremony of some sort - I can vaguely remember a blur of orange and white.

     Awareness returned to me in a snap. One moment I was in our small kitchen, talking to my mother. In the next moment I was in my own room, and across from me was … the enemy.

     She was sitting on my only chair. I was sitting on the bed. She was thin. I was thin. She stared at the floor. I stared at her. Her hands were folded in her lap. My hands were folded in my lap. She was wearing her one-and-only sari. I was wearing my one-and-only suit. Her eyes were red, her nose was running, and she had a nervous cough. I had … my one-and-only suit. Great. She was already ahead of me on points. Neither one of us spoke a word. Eventually I fell asleep. I think she did the same.

     That was our wedding night.

About MONEY

     For an artist, inspiration starts with a gnawing hunger. No hunger, no inspiration, no art.  Culture defines civilizations. Art defines cultures.

     Okay, here’s where I’m going with this thought process. A friend bemoaned the fact that people in the dramatic arts are paid less than their counterparts working in Walmart. And, unfortunately, I believe this to be true in the broadest sense. Actors have the only unions where ninety percent of the membership is unemployed at any given moment. Art is a luxury. Food and shelter come first (as they should). Yet art defines us. Look at any generation. What comes to mind ? Music? Movies? Clothing styles? It’s all art. Even architecture falls under someone’s artistic impression (or lack thereof.) During World War Two Winston Churchill was criticized for not cutting the Arts budget for England. His reply? “If we do that, what are we fighting for?”

    So Art is appreciated. Established Art is appreciated. Something – or someone – has to be around long enough to attract an audience. There are places everywhere (and IN XANADU is no exception) where “followers” are courted. Have enough followers and you win a prize. (I’m still waiting.) The point is, an artist is acknowledged. That is, he or she has put together enough of a body of work to create a style to which audiences gravitate.

     So we have been talking about someone who, after years of perseverance, has “made it.” Well and good for that person.

     But what about the poor shmuck working equally hard, who has yet to be discovered? (And, isn’t this the majority of us?) Regardless of the potential for rewards, a person in arts needs to express beyond what ‘normal” life will allow. If you have never been there, it’s like a drug. However, because the need to express is an end goal, the need to be understood and appreciated falls into second place. Because of this, when the dust settles, the artist realizes that he or she has placed a low price on him or herself as a commodity. It’s a psychological Catch-22. Lower the price, reach more people. Raise the price, reach fewer. Like race horses, artists have traditionally been supported by the very rich, and I suspect for many of the same reasons …

     Will this change at any time in the future? I doubt it. Look around. The value of an individual artist’s work usually only increases dramatically after he or she has been dead for a period of time. 

Another Contest

Shameless Plug time ...

I know, I know.

It's been awhile. Again.

It started when I became a major winner in a playwriting contest in Indiana. At the same time my agent dropped off the face of the earth. The two events together started me in a new direction. Since my wife is a published novelist on Amazon, I got the idea of doing the same thing - publishing plays on Amazon. Sixteen of 'em, all re-written in Amazon-speak. Took months.

Anyway. After looking at all this stuff put together, I was impressed. Never had "collected works" before.

Here they are. I'd love for you to look around, give me your impression. Click here.

j