Didn't mean to suggest in the last post that I don't actually like Don DeLillo, his writing, or the book Underworld. I think Don DeLillo is an awesome novelist and clearly I like Underworld, since I'm gonna finish it (I will say tangentially, however, that his play Love Lies Bleeding is a piece of garbage).
No, what I mean to suggest, or at least what I'm wondering, is that perhaps Underworld received all of its praise more for the achievement of the work than for anything else, for the structure and the skill of putting it all together than for the individual story. Again, I'm not finished with it yet, but I can say that a lot of it in the middle is inconsequential to what I would loosely term "the story".
Don DeLillo is amazing but in one respect, and probably in one respect only, I've got a leg up on him.
Brevity.
That's right, the 2nd Story festival is right upon us and in the next few weeks, I am a busy, busy storytelling hornet. You can catch me one week from tomorrow at the festival, that's Friday, April 24th, with a brand new story in which I chronicle my own personal history of dancing. In just under 12 minutes.
But, if you just can't wait that long, I'll be opening the matinee of this Sunday's Diversey Harbor, at 3pm. (On a side note, you should totally go see Diversey Harbor, and not just cuz I'm friends and colleagues with the producing company Theatre 7 of Chicago. A remount of their watershed show, it's a monologue play about being lonely and isolated and fucked-up and in your 20s and trying to live in a big city without being swallowed. It's four separate stories, all with connections to one larger story, and it's funny and moving and simply staged and well-acted and yes, they are my friends, but I suspect that Theatre 7 has big things in store for all of us. Plus, it's 50 minutes long. So there's that.)
My story is called "My Dancing Feet". Here's an excerpt:
I finger-snapped and spun around and then I could not be stopped. I hop-stepped wildly, kicking my legs in all directions. I wiggled and wormed. I plucked a handful of fake dice from the air, shook 'em and got rid of 'em, releasing them into the wild. I strutted around my date in a circle, cocking my head to one side and making the coolest face I knew how. Boldly, I thrust my right leg sideways, holding it bent in mid-air before shimmying to meet it. It was my moment and I performed all of the moves I had been perfecting in my bedroom for the past decade and pulled them off like I was the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex and the dance floor my own private Jurassic Park.
Hope to see you at the shows.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Reflections on Don DeLillo's Underworld while reading Don DeLillo's Underworld
I have had a tumultuous history with this book. Do you ever have that? Where a book enters your consciousness at an early age, never letting go, driving you mad, and no matter how hard you try, you just can't fucking finish it?
My affair with Underworld began in 1997, when it was first published. I remember reading a review in Entertainment Weekly (side note: looking back on it, I can't believe I chose EW for my literary suggestions. nevermind. yes I can.) that probably described it as the new Great American Novel, or something like that; I just remember the critic falling over with praise for the novel. And what's that? It opened with a scene about a baseball game and not just any baseball game, the most famous baseball game EVER, the one where the "Giants Win the Pennant! The Giants Wine the Pennant!". As it turned out, the first 80 pages about the game was the only part that interested me and I put it down; looking back on it, I'm glad I didn't force myself to read it then cuz I would have hated myself for it.
And in the 12 years since then and now, Underworld has taken on an almost mythic status; it turns up on countless lists and is probably responsible for cementing DeLillo's status as an American literary juggernaut (although Libra and White Noise couldn't have hurt). I knew I always wanted to find it again, but I wasn't really ready until last summer.
I was at the Printer's Row Book Fair, a glorious weekend in Chicago where a few streets in the South Loop get blocked off to make way for tents filled to the brim with books; that's it, just books but books of all kinds and styles and usually you can find some pretty fucking awesome deals on some pretty fucking awesome books. Anyway, I got to the Fair last year just as Chicago got hit with a monsoon. The sky opened up and starting pounding people with rain, heinous destructive rain, and although I knew it was probably safer for me to find safety, I needed to buy a book before it did. And that's when I saw Underworld, staring at me from across the tent. I reached out and grabbed it, flung some money at the annoyed book merchant and took off in the rain with the manuscript under my arm.
And now, I'm finally reading it. It's not without difficulty. I started this mofo in January and am still 250 pages away from being finished. It's massive, an 800 page epic that begins in 1951, goes all the way forward to 1997 and works it's way backward for the next 700 pages. I've set it down a number of times, put it aside and read something else, unsure if I would pick it up again and actually finish it. At this point, if I don't finish the sucker, I will feel like a piece of shit.
The prologue--the game scene--is exactly as I remember: beautiful and thrilled and filled with the conviction of the magnificence of the event. As someone who delights in sports as metaphors for life, and who especially recognizes baseball's prominent place in our larger cultural landscape, I am especially tickled by the following notion:
"Isn't it possible that this midcentury moment enters the skin more lastingly than the vast shaping strategies of eminent leaders, generals steely in their sunglasses--the mapped visions that pierce our dreams?. . . .This is the people's history and it has flesh and breath that quicken to the force of this old safe game of ours." (pg. 60)
And it's all downhill after that.
I don't mean to be glib, but the novel is never as exciting, as tense, or thrilling as the opening prologue. Isn't that a problem? Am I the only one who thinks this?
Now, I haven't finished the novel yet, but if someone were to ask, "Hey, what's that book about anyway?" I'm not sure I'd be able to answer. I'm not an idiot, I know that part of it is history as waste management (as a thing that finishes and disappears but never really goes away), but what actually happens? It's about Nick the waste engineer, his brother the weapons expert, Klara the painter, Moonman the graffiti artist, J.Edgar the fop, Lenny the wasted comic and the trajectory that the baseball takes through history. But it never really sits down anywhere; characters come and go with such alarm that you never really get scenes, only sketches drawn in brush strokes, moving from place to place like a jazz musician flits from note to note (which is pretty cool writing, by the way). Ultimately, as a reader you have nothing to latch on to beyond technique. So I have a hard time caring about anyone or anything they do (and while we're on the subject, DON, I know that you were born in the Bronx and you probably think that New York City is, like, the greatest place on the planet and that it's only equal in value can be found in the sparse opposite-ness of the West, but if your book really is "an aria and a wolf whistle to our half-century" like Michael Ondaatje said it was, then where the hell is everybody in between? just sayin'.)
And maybe by the time I make it through to the end, I will have a clearer understanding of all of this, like some great veil will be lifted and all the mystery will be revealed. But perhaps not.
I love a reading challenge, and this has been one of the biggest and best I've ever undertaken. The novel is hulking and magnificent and the prose is astonishing in spots. But for me, only time will tell. . .
My affair with Underworld began in 1997, when it was first published. I remember reading a review in Entertainment Weekly (side note: looking back on it, I can't believe I chose EW for my literary suggestions. nevermind. yes I can.) that probably described it as the new Great American Novel, or something like that; I just remember the critic falling over with praise for the novel. And what's that? It opened with a scene about a baseball game and not just any baseball game, the most famous baseball game EVER, the one where the "Giants Win the Pennant! The Giants Wine the Pennant!". As it turned out, the first 80 pages about the game was the only part that interested me and I put it down; looking back on it, I'm glad I didn't force myself to read it then cuz I would have hated myself for it.
And in the 12 years since then and now, Underworld has taken on an almost mythic status; it turns up on countless lists and is probably responsible for cementing DeLillo's status as an American literary juggernaut (although Libra and White Noise couldn't have hurt). I knew I always wanted to find it again, but I wasn't really ready until last summer.
I was at the Printer's Row Book Fair, a glorious weekend in Chicago where a few streets in the South Loop get blocked off to make way for tents filled to the brim with books; that's it, just books but books of all kinds and styles and usually you can find some pretty fucking awesome deals on some pretty fucking awesome books. Anyway, I got to the Fair last year just as Chicago got hit with a monsoon. The sky opened up and starting pounding people with rain, heinous destructive rain, and although I knew it was probably safer for me to find safety, I needed to buy a book before it did. And that's when I saw Underworld, staring at me from across the tent. I reached out and grabbed it, flung some money at the annoyed book merchant and took off in the rain with the manuscript under my arm.
And now, I'm finally reading it. It's not without difficulty. I started this mofo in January and am still 250 pages away from being finished. It's massive, an 800 page epic that begins in 1951, goes all the way forward to 1997 and works it's way backward for the next 700 pages. I've set it down a number of times, put it aside and read something else, unsure if I would pick it up again and actually finish it. At this point, if I don't finish the sucker, I will feel like a piece of shit.
The prologue--the game scene--is exactly as I remember: beautiful and thrilled and filled with the conviction of the magnificence of the event. As someone who delights in sports as metaphors for life, and who especially recognizes baseball's prominent place in our larger cultural landscape, I am especially tickled by the following notion:
"Isn't it possible that this midcentury moment enters the skin more lastingly than the vast shaping strategies of eminent leaders, generals steely in their sunglasses--the mapped visions that pierce our dreams?. . . .This is the people's history and it has flesh and breath that quicken to the force of this old safe game of ours." (pg. 60)
And it's all downhill after that.
I don't mean to be glib, but the novel is never as exciting, as tense, or thrilling as the opening prologue. Isn't that a problem? Am I the only one who thinks this?
Now, I haven't finished the novel yet, but if someone were to ask, "Hey, what's that book about anyway?" I'm not sure I'd be able to answer. I'm not an idiot, I know that part of it is history as waste management (as a thing that finishes and disappears but never really goes away), but what actually happens? It's about Nick the waste engineer, his brother the weapons expert, Klara the painter, Moonman the graffiti artist, J.Edgar the fop, Lenny the wasted comic and the trajectory that the baseball takes through history. But it never really sits down anywhere; characters come and go with such alarm that you never really get scenes, only sketches drawn in brush strokes, moving from place to place like a jazz musician flits from note to note (which is pretty cool writing, by the way). Ultimately, as a reader you have nothing to latch on to beyond technique. So I have a hard time caring about anyone or anything they do (and while we're on the subject, DON, I know that you were born in the Bronx and you probably think that New York City is, like, the greatest place on the planet and that it's only equal in value can be found in the sparse opposite-ness of the West, but if your book really is "an aria and a wolf whistle to our half-century" like Michael Ondaatje said it was, then where the hell is everybody in between? just sayin'.)
And maybe by the time I make it through to the end, I will have a clearer understanding of all of this, like some great veil will be lifted and all the mystery will be revealed. But perhaps not.
I love a reading challenge, and this has been one of the biggest and best I've ever undertaken. The novel is hulking and magnificent and the prose is astonishing in spots. But for me, only time will tell. . .
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Stagnated
I've been having a really tough writing time the last month or so. I could be wrong, but my most recent story (performed last month at 2nd Story) felt for me like a real pinnacle in my work, a place where craft and art and emotion meet and the overwhelming support that I received before, during and after the piece succeeded in furthering the notion that this is what I should be doing (or one of the things that I should be doing) with my life.
Since then, however, it's been a fucking struggle. I haven't even completed a full rough draft of my next story and I've been working on it for weeks. Usually, I can crap out a beginning, middle, end in no time and then get stuck in the re-writing. Right now, I'm having trouble just getting anything down (which is, incidentally, one of the main reasons I started blogging again; it forces me to write something). Why? What is happening?
1.) Pressure. I'm kinda feeling like, "Well, what my next trick?". If the last story was a pinnacle for me, I know I can do better and so I want so badly to keep pushing myself to get there. Simultaneously, I'm having a difficult time quieting that desire and just writing, without thinking about it.
2.) Vision. I can see this new story so clearly in my mind. I know what happens and how it happens and where it happens in the story, and how all of the parts fit together but for some reason, I can't get it down on the page. A number of this is sequence, not wanting to waste too much space in getting from moment to moment, place to place. Another is content; this story will invoke some larger themes that I've never really written about: race, adolescent cruelty, peer pressure. I want to write honestly about those facets, but not heavy-handedly, with the same mixture of light and dark. And I only have 12 minutes with which to work.
3.) Time. I'm busy. I've got a million different little things to accomplish between now and the opening of the 2nd Story Festival (12 Days, People! 12 Days). I can try to squeeze writing time in somewhere, but ultimately--right now--it takes a backseat. Plus, when I do have a full day free (like tomorrow), I need to have some fun (like going to the Red Wings-Blackhawks hockey game!). So there's that.
Now, I know that none of this is new in the life of a writer. But it is new to me; I'm not really used to dealing with this kind of writer-ly difficulty. I mean, this happens to every writer, right? Cuz I heard once that Don DeLillo wrote the prologue to Underworld without re-writing a single word and I know that he's DON DELILLO but he's still a human and that's not possible, right?
Is it?
Since then, however, it's been a fucking struggle. I haven't even completed a full rough draft of my next story and I've been working on it for weeks. Usually, I can crap out a beginning, middle, end in no time and then get stuck in the re-writing. Right now, I'm having trouble just getting anything down (which is, incidentally, one of the main reasons I started blogging again; it forces me to write something). Why? What is happening?
1.) Pressure. I'm kinda feeling like, "Well, what my next trick?". If the last story was a pinnacle for me, I know I can do better and so I want so badly to keep pushing myself to get there. Simultaneously, I'm having a difficult time quieting that desire and just writing, without thinking about it.
2.) Vision. I can see this new story so clearly in my mind. I know what happens and how it happens and where it happens in the story, and how all of the parts fit together but for some reason, I can't get it down on the page. A number of this is sequence, not wanting to waste too much space in getting from moment to moment, place to place. Another is content; this story will invoke some larger themes that I've never really written about: race, adolescent cruelty, peer pressure. I want to write honestly about those facets, but not heavy-handedly, with the same mixture of light and dark. And I only have 12 minutes with which to work.
3.) Time. I'm busy. I've got a million different little things to accomplish between now and the opening of the 2nd Story Festival (12 Days, People! 12 Days). I can try to squeeze writing time in somewhere, but ultimately--right now--it takes a backseat. Plus, when I do have a full day free (like tomorrow), I need to have some fun (like going to the Red Wings-Blackhawks hockey game!). So there's that.
Now, I know that none of this is new in the life of a writer. But it is new to me; I'm not really used to dealing with this kind of writer-ly difficulty. I mean, this happens to every writer, right? Cuz I heard once that Don DeLillo wrote the prologue to Underworld without re-writing a single word and I know that he's DON DELILLO but he's still a human and that's not possible, right?
Is it?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Turns Out I Actually Hate Sports
My excitement over Michigan State's presence in the Big Game was crushed in exactly 4 minutes, as in the time it took for North Carolina to announce their inevitable beat-down of my beloved Spartans. I had pushed aside plans, ended a workshop early, worn my green and white shirt all weekend, purchased High Life (i mean, it's champagne, people!), just for the pleasure of sitting in my recliner, pissed off and forlorn, like a little kid who just accidentally traded away his favorite baseball card. There were so many better things I could have been doing with my night, like working or writing or reading or going out to dinner or anything other than sulking over my favorite sports' team's imminent demise.
And I thought, not for the first time ever, how much I hate sports.
Okay, so let's push aside for the moment the fact that I absolutely adore sports and athletics, how I will always watch them in the hopes of the over-whelming joy they can bring me. And let's forget that I view them as the ultimate drama, each game with its own set of specific given circumstances, the conflicts and stories that arise from two men, or two teams, who want exactly the same thing and who must play each other in order to get it. And please don't remind me how sports have carved their own special place in my community of friends and family, into our whole community really, but mine specifically, my close friendships and hang-outs and discussions and arguments based around sports, and that sometimes this is how we best connect, my friends and I, my family and I.
Now, right now, I hate sports. I hate my compulsive attitude towards games and teams, stats and schedules, how I need to hear all the news as it's happening, watch the game highlights, talk strategy, justify my own teams endlessly and without regard for logical thought. But mostly, I hated how I felt last night, the small child who didn't get what he wanted. I hated how upset the game made me, how I took so seriously something so innocuous (except I don't think it's innocuous, do I? not really) and how I knew--even as my team was getting crushed--that I would be back next year, and every single season after that.
And I thought, not for the first time ever, how much I hate sports.
Okay, so let's push aside for the moment the fact that I absolutely adore sports and athletics, how I will always watch them in the hopes of the over-whelming joy they can bring me. And let's forget that I view them as the ultimate drama, each game with its own set of specific given circumstances, the conflicts and stories that arise from two men, or two teams, who want exactly the same thing and who must play each other in order to get it. And please don't remind me how sports have carved their own special place in my community of friends and family, into our whole community really, but mine specifically, my close friendships and hang-outs and discussions and arguments based around sports, and that sometimes this is how we best connect, my friends and I, my family and I.
Now, right now, I hate sports. I hate my compulsive attitude towards games and teams, stats and schedules, how I need to hear all the news as it's happening, watch the game highlights, talk strategy, justify my own teams endlessly and without regard for logical thought. But mostly, I hated how I felt last night, the small child who didn't get what he wanted. I hated how upset the game made me, how I took so seriously something so innocuous (except I don't think it's innocuous, do I? not really) and how I knew--even as my team was getting crushed--that I would be back next year, and every single season after that.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Big Monday
Boy oh boy, is tonight a big one. It's always a big one, every single year, the opening day of major league baseball and the conclusion of the college basketball tournament. As a sports junkie, it's a perfect symmetry: I get to mourn the ending of one season and celebrate the beginning of another. I look forward to it every year and can tell you--without hesitation--where I was the last ten of these nights and how much (or little) I was able to watch the Big Game (aka, the college basketball championship).
Tonight, however, is different. Because tonight my beloved Michigan State Spartans play heavily favored North Carolina in a match to determine supremacy and bragging rights. Now, without boring you with details, I can say that my passion for the Spartans is such that I can envision myself old and gray at Thanksgivings with the extended family, drinking bourbon on the rocks, recalling Spartans seasons the way pastors know the Bible. And when I speak of this year, I will get a little misty-eyed for sure, as I recount the struggles the team has gone through, the injuries, the illnesses, the loss to motherfucking Northwestern. I don't think anybody expected Sparty to be playing in this game tonight, nobody thought they could beat two (let alone one) team from the "mighty" Big East conference to arrive in the final contest. But here (or there, rather, cuz the game is in Detroit) is where they are, and the drama that has surrounded their trajectory to the top (or near-top) is the main reason I love sports. I watch to see the unexpected happen, while always hoping that my team is on the winning side of that good fortune. Tonight, hell the last few weeks, represents precisely why I am a fan. Because by the end, I hope to be able to say that my guys are better than your guys.
Win or lose, I'll be back tomorrow with a recap. Oh, who am I kidding, if they lose, I won't write a damn thing. Go Green.
Tonight, however, is different. Because tonight my beloved Michigan State Spartans play heavily favored North Carolina in a match to determine supremacy and bragging rights. Now, without boring you with details, I can say that my passion for the Spartans is such that I can envision myself old and gray at Thanksgivings with the extended family, drinking bourbon on the rocks, recalling Spartans seasons the way pastors know the Bible. And when I speak of this year, I will get a little misty-eyed for sure, as I recount the struggles the team has gone through, the injuries, the illnesses, the loss to motherfucking Northwestern. I don't think anybody expected Sparty to be playing in this game tonight, nobody thought they could beat two (let alone one) team from the "mighty" Big East conference to arrive in the final contest. But here (or there, rather, cuz the game is in Detroit) is where they are, and the drama that has surrounded their trajectory to the top (or near-top) is the main reason I love sports. I watch to see the unexpected happen, while always hoping that my team is on the winning side of that good fortune. Tonight, hell the last few weeks, represents precisely why I am a fan. Because by the end, I hope to be able to say that my guys are better than your guys.
Win or lose, I'll be back tomorrow with a recap. Oh, who am I kidding, if they lose, I won't write a damn thing. Go Green.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Tallest Man
The Tallest Man on Earth is a Swedish musician who sings simple folk songs like the whiskey got into him on his backwoods Kentucky farm. I've been diggin' on hollow, lonesome, solitary-sounding recordings for the last couple years (Joanna Newsom, Fleet Foxes, Neko Case, Bonnie "Prince" Billy) so it makes sense that I would latch onto his first album, Shallow Grave, released to Pitchfork acclaim last spring. Initially, you'll be struck by his flawless English and stream-of-consciousness story songs, but stay with it; this one's a grower.
Calling his music Dylan-influenced while probably apt (hearing "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" on Mad Men the other night, I actually thought it was Tallest Man), isn't entirely accurate. Just cuz some troubadour picks up a guitar and records in his basement or bathroom or background doesn't mean that we have Bob Dylan to thank for it, although we probably do. I don't mean to be confusing, necessarily, it's just that Dylan didn't invent folk music or the troubadour persona, he simply did it better or truer than anybody who came before or after. So yes, Tallest probably has a mountain of old folk recordings collecting dust on a mantle somewhere and is clearly well-versed in American roots music (although what clever Swede isn't). But there's something else here. Something that gnaws at the craw at four in the morning after a night of smoke and drink, as you fall asleep alone.
Many in my list above sound like they're playing to nature, to the trees that surround them, that they alone can call home. But try as they might, I know the Fleet Foxes with their electric instruments can never play in the woods. And harps are too delicate and expensive for anybody to lend to Joanna Newsom for an Appalachian Sunday. And too many obviously over-dubbed harmonies with Bonnie "Prince" Billy. So perhaps it's a question of practicality. The Tallest Man on Earth sounds completely alone. And when he yearns, "I ever get to slumber/ just a mole deep in the ground / hell I won't be found" he actually aches for that solace. And when you hear birds chirp on the title track, you think maybe it's not pop music we're hearing but a time capsule, an ancient relic from long ago. Even the vocal tracks snap and pop like an old phonograph.
But these are just hazy ramblings. Cuz of course he is a pop singer and a damn good one, a nimble finger picker with an accomplished voice. He's an enigma, though. I could barely find a picture of him online, let alone a back story. This aloofness is sadly what keeps the music at bay; we get no sense of the guy, his hopes, his dreams, his stories. Whatever the alchemy is that bridges the gap between music and emotion, Joanna and Fleet Foxes and Bonnie "Prince" have it and he doesn't. Which is why I gotta get to Schubas on Sunday; I want to see who this person really is.
Calling his music Dylan-influenced while probably apt (hearing "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" on Mad Men the other night, I actually thought it was Tallest Man), isn't entirely accurate. Just cuz some troubadour picks up a guitar and records in his basement or bathroom or background doesn't mean that we have Bob Dylan to thank for it, although we probably do. I don't mean to be confusing, necessarily, it's just that Dylan didn't invent folk music or the troubadour persona, he simply did it better or truer than anybody who came before or after. So yes, Tallest probably has a mountain of old folk recordings collecting dust on a mantle somewhere and is clearly well-versed in American roots music (although what clever Swede isn't). But there's something else here. Something that gnaws at the craw at four in the morning after a night of smoke and drink, as you fall asleep alone.
Many in my list above sound like they're playing to nature, to the trees that surround them, that they alone can call home. But try as they might, I know the Fleet Foxes with their electric instruments can never play in the woods. And harps are too delicate and expensive for anybody to lend to Joanna Newsom for an Appalachian Sunday. And too many obviously over-dubbed harmonies with Bonnie "Prince" Billy. So perhaps it's a question of practicality. The Tallest Man on Earth sounds completely alone. And when he yearns, "I ever get to slumber/ just a mole deep in the ground / hell I won't be found" he actually aches for that solace. And when you hear birds chirp on the title track, you think maybe it's not pop music we're hearing but a time capsule, an ancient relic from long ago. Even the vocal tracks snap and pop like an old phonograph.
But these are just hazy ramblings. Cuz of course he is a pop singer and a damn good one, a nimble finger picker with an accomplished voice. He's an enigma, though. I could barely find a picture of him online, let alone a back story. This aloofness is sadly what keeps the music at bay; we get no sense of the guy, his hopes, his dreams, his stories. Whatever the alchemy is that bridges the gap between music and emotion, Joanna and Fleet Foxes and Bonnie "Prince" have it and he doesn't. Which is why I gotta get to Schubas on Sunday; I want to see who this person really is.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Why Theatre
Last Friday, on a lark after work, I attended the World Theatre Day party at the Chopin Theatre. Though a little late to the festivities, both floors of the Chopin were packed with theatre artists, some of whom I knew well, many of whom looked vaguely familiar. I've been playing along the edges of the theatre community in Chicago for some time now, and constantly wrestling with the question "what the fuck am I doing with my life and does theatre play a role in it"? (I know. everybody asks that question). But seeing so many theatre artists and friends gathered in celebration of an art form that is loved by so few so passionately, I couldn't help but feel re-invigorated. I didn't stay long, but the energy in the room was enough to render me a little wondrous.
I can give you a number of reason why it's not a good idea for me to do theatre: it's the bane of my schedule's existence, it can't be accomplished alone, there's a sometime self-importance from its makers that I can't get past, a bad production of any piece theatre is to me worse than just about anything else I hate in the world, worse than the band Coldplay or the game of lacrosse, worse than Applebees and TGI Fridays and Two Buck Chuck and--unlike writing--you can't just put down a production that's not working, can't just put it in a desk drawer or Save As never to be seen again.
But. In the spirit of the World Theatre Day "Why Theatre" videos, I'd much rather pontificate on the positives.
For me, theatre is the only place where I can believe in magic, in miracles, in the impossible made possible. A close friend of mine sees God in snowflakes and falling leaves. I can't. I've never been able to give myself over to the unseen in a way that makes any logical sense for me. I can, however, get lost in a story. I can find myself enraptured by a set of circumstances that are real and unreal, truer and heftier than any and all of God's love.
Magic is the supernatural, you might say. I disagree. Magic is the doors being thrown open at the Building Stage during Jon last year, the outside world serving as the last backdrop of set. Magic is Deb Lewis' most recent performance a few weeks ago at Martyr's, a story of such weight and magnificence as to immediately launch a room of 200 people to their feet. I say again, magic is the impossible made possible right before your very eyes, and truly undeniable.
This is what theatre is for me. A world where I can place my faith.
I can give you a number of reason why it's not a good idea for me to do theatre: it's the bane of my schedule's existence, it can't be accomplished alone, there's a sometime self-importance from its makers that I can't get past, a bad production of any piece theatre is to me worse than just about anything else I hate in the world, worse than the band Coldplay or the game of lacrosse, worse than Applebees and TGI Fridays and Two Buck Chuck and--unlike writing--you can't just put down a production that's not working, can't just put it in a desk drawer or Save As never to be seen again.
But. In the spirit of the World Theatre Day "Why Theatre" videos, I'd much rather pontificate on the positives.
For me, theatre is the only place where I can believe in magic, in miracles, in the impossible made possible. A close friend of mine sees God in snowflakes and falling leaves. I can't. I've never been able to give myself over to the unseen in a way that makes any logical sense for me. I can, however, get lost in a story. I can find myself enraptured by a set of circumstances that are real and unreal, truer and heftier than any and all of God's love.
Magic is the supernatural, you might say. I disagree. Magic is the doors being thrown open at the Building Stage during Jon last year, the outside world serving as the last backdrop of set. Magic is Deb Lewis' most recent performance a few weeks ago at Martyr's, a story of such weight and magnificence as to immediately launch a room of 200 people to their feet. I say again, magic is the impossible made possible right before your very eyes, and truly undeniable.
This is what theatre is for me. A world where I can place my faith.
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