Playwriting vs. The Untied States of Catatonia
Posted: February 20, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS | Tags: Athol Fugard, Edward Albee, Hurt Village, Kathleen Turco-Lyon, Katori Hall, Pershing Square Signature Theatre, political plays, Tony Kushner Leave a comment »Playwriting vs. The Untied States of Catatonia
by 15th Floor member Kathleen Turco-Lyon
Hey. So… what do you think constitutes ‘political’ theatre these days?
My query comes from having attended a talk recently, at which two playwrights (young-ish ones;celebrated ones) each stated they do not write “political” plays.
Um, wait…. what ??
During the talk, the subject passed rather quickly, (it was only mentioned in passing, actually), and the Q&A portion of the evening was crammed with questions on other matters, so what those particular playwrights meant by the comment is still not known to me. Neither can I find any online commentary from either on the subject.
So, I wonder:
What’s a ‘political play’ anyway? Does it mean:
~ the use of political subject matter? ~ characterizing or naming real or fictional politicians? ~ setting a play during a certain auspicious moment in political history? ~ dealing with controversial/topical subject matter? ~ using agitprop forms of presentation?
What about the act of playwriting itself? –Is that inherently political? More and more, I think it is.
South African writer Athol Fugard says: 
“Today’s dramatists are failing to confront issues of injustice, writing instead for attention spans of 10 minutes between adverts”.
So… confronting issues of injustice and writing scenes that last more than 10 minutes. Ok. That makes sense to me. That says something about having to stay awake. (I know what makes some members of an audience have 10-minute attention spans. But what’s a playwright’s excuse? Falling asleep is the only thing I can think of. )
I love what Tony Kushner said in this 1997 interview:
“There’s a kind of weird idea that politics isn’t about psychology, or that politics isn’t about family, or that politics isn’t about daddies, and mommies, and brothers. Of course, politics is just another aspect of human behavior. And I think one of the great things about American democracy is the way in which it has carved out space in the American soul. It’s a political ground, across which all sorts of human issues—sexuality, gender, fear of the other, identity pride, hope—traverse. …politics is an inseparable fact of life, and all plays talk about it in some way or another. Some plays do it more overtly than others. And I think there’s this weird thing— probably originates, I think, in the McCarthy era—when there was a determined effort to try and rid American theatre and American film of its political, left-political, content. I think that people were traumatized and frightened to death by that, and I think that that’s probably why, in a way, political theatre became a dirty word. It’s also a reactionary response to the sixties, when everything was enormously solidified and very political.”
Hmmm. I wonder if the two playwrights I sited at the beginning of this post (both in their early 30’s) would even entertain the possibility of thinking themselves inheritors of this McCarthy era trauma.
Edward Albee is quoted as saying:
“There is a misunderstanding about what political theater really is. …when I write a play, I’m interested in changing the way people look at themselves and the way they look at life. I have never written a play that was not in its essence political. But we don’t need an attack on the specific or the conscious. We need an attack on the unconscious.”
“…an attack on the UN-conscious.” That’s fantastic, isn’t it? An attack on dough-witted, mudge-brained, loose-ended, un-awakened states; on those brain parts that crave the anesthesia of the truly banal fluff that’s allowed to fill a weekend, or even a few hours, or an available day or evening.
It seems that a big part of writing involves this struggle to keep awake when (sometimes) all one really wants, is to have a huge snooze-fest in Catatonia. That’s political isn’t it?– The act of wrestling with that? It’s a provocation, for sure, and if there’s engagement, it will incite change. (And what about keeping this ingredient handy: Engage with people who actually believe Catatonia (in all its variant States) is a TERRIFIC waste of time. This could be a SUPER pro-active political act; it would probably open up more brain space and provoke more ‘awake’ time to write.
The other night, after the lights went down at the end of Albee’s The Lady From Dubuque, (at Signature) a fairly old, white, expensively educated (he let people know) gent behind me said, quite loudly, and to no-one in particular: “Albee wrote that in the 70’s. You can tell. You can hear it in those references to women’s liberation, and the racial comments…. Those were very political back then.”
What, WHAT???
Ok. In that moment, I made a really sleepy choice, which I regret. I should have mustered enough grace to speak to ‘His Pontificance’ in real time, and remind him of the fight raging across America right now on the reproductive rights of women, or the always abundant racist language poisoning whatever semblance of political discourse we have left; language soon to go into overdrive with the coming election, I’m sure. Albee’s answer to all of it is in The Lady From Dubuque: members of The Establishment are still assuming that it’s STILL all about them, and we, the audience, learn that it’s NOT all about them, and by attrition, they are losing their Almighty Voice.
So, Albee had two sleepy patrons that night: ‘His Pontificance’, fast asleep in The Untied States of Catatonia, and me, Debra Delay, sitting right in front of him, who stayed wide awake during the play, but afterward kept her mouth closed, and her napkin folded. Which, to my mind, is just as lame. Yes, the same folks who brought you The Great Catatonic Sofa Bed for Sleeping, also make DeLay-Z-Girl Catatonic Recliner for Snoozing. Gimme a v.t. and pass the clicker. (zzz…)
But here is my take-away: in spite of that digressive snooze-fest (crap, I wish I’d said something!!!) I understand that seeing plays like The Lady From Dubuque, and productions like Hurt Village, and any other works by awakened playwrights being produced today, compels, incites, and holds the rest of us accountable to try, as best we can, to write what we see, and what we want to see, and to do this as soon as possible. If that’s not political play-making, I don’t know what is.
But, please… leave a comment if you are so inclined, ’cause I’m taking notes!
Lastly, this:
Three times in the past ten days I’ve visited the extraordinary and wonderful new Pershing Square Signature Theatre. If I could only choose one perfect, physical home for theatre, this would be it. If you haven’t gone yet, RUN! See all the plays. Revel in the extraordinary Frank Gehry atrium; a Temple for the common woman: Unpretentious. Open. Simple. Welcoming. Accessible-as-all-get-out. It is the height of practical elegance. And there’s a swell bar, (single malt this time, please. Neat, with a water back), and something like 13 stalls in the women’s bathroom! TIckets to all shows, for all performances: $25.00.
And check out this link: http://www.signaturetheatre.org/explore/index.aspx Scroll down and watch the video of Katori Hall and HURT VILLAGE director Patricia McGregor addressing the Signature company. Then…. GO-SEE-THIS-SHOW !!!
Step by Step to The Greatest Love of All by Rob Rosiello
Posted: February 16, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS | Tags: 15th Floor, gratitude, Houston, playwriting, Rosiello, theatre, Whitney Leave a comment »
I am pissed. It has taken me a few days to admit it, but I am mad. “Madder than a wet hen” as my grandmother would say. And while I have never seen a ticked off and soaked chicken, I have a pretty good idea what she meant. I am angry and frustrated and feel very let down. And I am finally able to pinpoint the reason why….
Tennessee Williams said, “In memory, everything seems to happen to music.” Until this past Saturday Night, I never realized how much of that soundtrack to my own life had been supplied by one Whitney Elizabeth Houston. Years of special occassions, break-ups and coming of age moments- I never knew how many of those life events had a song of hers attached to it. Now don’t get me wrong- there are plenty of other artists and musical moments that make up the tapestry of my life- but suddenly, Whitney’s stand out for all the obvious reasons.
It is very easy to judge in this lifetime. Easy to judge others and judge yourself. Often very harshly. I do it all the time to myself. And to others. I suppose saying I am pissed off at Whitney Houston for dying is harsh. But this is how I feel. And perhaps it is to mask the true feeling- because I’m so very sad.
Nothing frustrates me more than wasted talent and wasted potential. I am sad that after SPARKLE this summer, we will never see Whitney in another movie. I am discouraged that there will never be a breath-taking, heart-stopping Grammy moment with her. I would personally give anything to be a singer, to have a “Voice.” Anyone who has driven with me in a car and heard me sing would probably give EVERYTHING for me to have a “Voice” as well. But if I did, the songs I would sing, the roles I would play on stage, the dance remixes I would churn out! I would sing the shit out of song after song- every one would be a show stopper. If I had a “Voice.”
But I do. Silly me. I have a most distinct “Voice.” My voice does not come on a stage with an orchestra backing me up. My “Voice” comes in the worlds I create, the characters I nurture, the words and lines and scenes and stories I put together and present to the world. The gift I have been given is that of a writer. And I know there are people out there who would give anything to be able to write, and I often forget that.
It’s easy to judge those who have descended into the nightmarish world of addiction, co-dependence and domestic abuse. We’ve all done it- towards Whitney and others. I know I have. But it is one thing to judge from the outside and another to make that descent into the afore mentioned nightmarish world. I have personally made that horrifying descent more than once. There have been years when I have not stepped foot on stage, not written a single word. There have been times when I have allowed others to take away my “Voice,” allowed them to do so and the despaired at where I have been and where I think I “should’ be. There have been times when I have thought about walking away from it all- never writing again. Throwing away what I think isn’t worth my time or anyone else’s. I have thought about giving up. But….I haven’t. And I have put pen to paper, literally and figuratively, and started writing again. I lament the time I wasted and the time I lost as a result. But this has been part of my journey. And when I have made the ascent out of that dark world, I do so slowly. It isn’t easy. I can recall one such ascent from the darkness as I drove through the desert in a convertible doing about 90 with the radio blaring and at the top of my lungs singing that “It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay.” And I knew it was. Or was going to be.
And I am taking it Step by Step.
Yes- I went there.
And in taking it Step by Step and Day by Day, I also have to remind mysel,f every single da,y that the greatest gift I have been given, the Greatest Love of All that I have, is this precious talent-
Regardless of who hears my Voice or who chooses to miss the chance-
My Voice is MY most precious gift. So I will continue to write, I will continue to create. I cannot deny the gift I have and selfishly deny it to others.
And I firmly avow that I will continue to share it until it is time for me to finally, and ultimately, Exhale.
I Am Like a Dog. Spinning. by Micheline Auger
Posted: February 10, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS | Tags: 15th Floor, Hyperbole and a Half, Micheline Auger, playwriting, Steven Pressfield, The War of Art, Writing Leave a comment »
This blog was “supposed” to be done Monday the 6th. I’m doing it now because I’m procrastinating working on a play. I’ve already organized my desk, returned the phone calls, balanced my checkbook, Facebooked, filed my nails, got a snack, looked in the mirror, petted the cat, googled shit, watered plants, got another glass of water, and contemplated my mortality vis a vis the glass of water. “Why am I so thirsty?! Is there something wrong? Maybe I’m dehydrated? Is that why I’m so tired? Am I always tired? Will I be tired forever?” I take another sip of water, text someone and sweep the kitchen. That’s when I realize that what I’m doing is preparing to write. I am like a dog. Arf.
I am like a dog that spins around in circles and then settles down to sleep and then realizing it’s not quite right, spins around a little more, settles down once again and there he is. He’s found his place. I am finding my place. At my desk. Amongst my stuff. Spinning round, touching, rearranging until whatever is unsettled is settled enough to start writing. It’s like foreplay. Or a dog spinning before sleep. Mixed metaphors but whatever. And now that I’m done spinning, I’ll start the play.
Or no, I won’t because- (shit, more spinning) It’s been a week and a half since I wrote and this is what you get. A nasty voice inside your head saying, “this is what you get” and anxiety and procrastination. Sa-weet. I forget that I love to write. I like the surprises. The puzzling, the flow, the whatever, and now I feel like I have to barf. If you haven’t read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield then you should, or I should, again. He talks about all the ways we avoid making art. It’s a small but comprehensive (and motivating) book that kicks ass. I should go out and buy it right now. What happened to my copy? Did I borrow it? Did I lend it to someone? I have to stop lending people books. Or maybe I’ll start putting my name in them. Or writing it down somewhere. Or just let it go. Ok. (Done spinning.)
Almost… because I hope that if you are procrastinating doing something you will do it now, too. We can do it together. In fact, that is what I am going to tell myself. That while I’m jumping off the cliff of knowing/not knowing and entering the fucked-up world of my characters, you too will jump off the cliff and make art or do something you love but have been putting it off for too long. Because if you put it off another day, a little part of you dies. Or at least loses respect and spits on your grave and now I’m being dramatic but you know what I mean. Come. Let’s go. Time to stop spinning. Time to settle down. Time to do it. Together. 
Ready? One. Two. Three. Go.
Arf.
Art by Allie who is a rock star. Check her out.
F.A.C.T. Company’s WORDS & WINE; NYC Playreading Series
Posted: February 3, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS Leave a comment »
“ASSISTED SUICIDE or THE SEDUCTION” a short play in verse
by KATHLEEN TURCO-LYON (NY, NY)
Extramarital Affairs, Murder and Revenge!
(left to right) VALERIE DAVID (stage directions), STEVEN HAUCK* (John Webster), ELIZABETH BOVE* (The Ghost of Vittoria Accoramboni) with 15th Floor Playwright KATHLEEN TURCO-LYON
F.A.C.T. Company’s WORDS & WINE Series. New York City, Jan 29, 2012
Guest Blog – Teaching Artist by Kate Bell
Posted: January 31, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS 1 Comment »
Welcome to the 15th Floor blog and welcome to Kate Bell, our first guest blogger! We consider this to be a playground for writers to get inspired, learn and discuss and we’re happy Kate has joined the party.
Teaching Artist. Sometimes those two words seem at war with one another, because both teaching and making art can be so all-engrossing. Both things want all of my time, and thus the constant struggle to find the perfect balance (which perhaps doesn’t really exist, and trying to make it happen often frustrates me silly). Maybe what’s more important is that I try to remember that my teaching practice, or especially my practice of creating theater with young people, has helped me to learn more fully what theater is, what a play can be and do, and what it really means “to play.” So, a little homage to two of my former students who helped me to learn, and in the long run, write better plays:
Keyla played “Mother Courage” in Brecht’s masterpiece when she was fifteen years old. She told me she memorized her lines by saying them into the mirror to see if she could look herself in the eye and believe her performance. Her parents came on opening night to see their youngest daughter in a two plus hour performance they didn’t fully understand because they weren’t fluent in English. What I asked her the next day what her parents thought of the play, Keyla said, “They’re looking at me different. I feel different. This morning Papi had cooked breakfast and had it ready for me before I came to school. That was crazy!”
Jeffrey played “Swiss Cheese” in the same production of Mother Courage. He’d spent the first three semesters of high school (and probably a good chunk if not all of his childhood) being moved around to different relatives, sometimes group homes, once a shelter. Mother Courage was the only full production I ever got to work on with him because he moved to Pennsylvania after his sophomore year, to live with yet another relative, and I hope found more stability there. He is the only student I’ve ever done theater with who showed up for a performance after it had started. Jeffrey never had a phone that worked (nor did any of his legal guardians), so there was no way to get in touch with him if he didn’t show up. But he always showed up, always on time. When he wasn’t there for that final performance, I was really scared, and the rest of the kids, of course, were freaking out. I told them and the audience that we were missing an actor, and we hoped he was okay, but that the performance would go on, and I’d be standing in on book for him. And that’s how it went, until the middle of the first scene, when Jeffrey walked on stage and took his place and I walked right off, like we were a part of some theater relay team. None of the kids stopped. No one broke character at any point. No one missed a beat. And Jeffrey was okay, and is okay. My phone rang last year and an older-sounding Jeffrey was on the other end. I hadn’t heard from him in four years. He wanted me to know he’d graduated from high school and was taking classes at a community college, and that he still thought about our theater group often. “I’ve been trying to find somewhere to be in a play again, Kate, you know, like I want to keep doing theater. Those plays were good.”
I have to stop myself there, but I could talk about so many more kids, so many more memories. Things they said and did, their amazing performances, and their sometimes totally enraging adolescent crap. It runs the gamut. But what’s essential is that they inspire me in so many ways. We that work with kids have to constantly be talking up “dreams” and “working hard toward your dreams,” but in truth, the adult world so often encourages people to stop dreaming and work in ways that aren’t particularly meaningful. And even though my work has plenty of meaning, I still have this problem of wanting more time to write, and the crazy fight for balance. I need to nourish my own dreams, or else I’m just being a hypocrite with these kids. And they’re passionate. They’re inspiring. They’ve helped me to rediscover so many times why theater is important, what’s exciting onstage, that so many things can work well, can come to life. And their stories are phenomenal. Teaching can be a deep study on the human condition, and each students hangs around in my head for many years, and they turn up in my plays in unexpected ways. So, I will continue to fight for the balance, even when I’m exhausted and it sucks. I will make the words “teaching” and “artist” love each other. I will try to live up to my students. I will dream.
The F.A.C.T. Company’s reading of ‘Assisted Suicide or, The Seduction’ by 15th Floor member Kathleen Turco-Lyon
Posted: January 22, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS Leave a comment »
Quantum Dancing…
Posted: January 16, 2012 Filed under: WRITERS Leave a comment »Quantum Dancing
by 15th Floor member Kathleen Turco-Lyon
Years ago I happened into the now famous book by physicist Fritjof Capra; ‘The Tao of Physics’. Though written for the lay person, much of it took me so long to digest that I never got though it, but his essential thesis stayed glued to me forever after. I was lifted by Capra’s description of what led him to write the book; his ‘aha moment’:
“I was sitting by the ocean, feeling the rhythm of my breathing when I suddenly became aware of my whole environment as being engaged in a gigantic cosmic dance. Being a physicist, I knew that the sand, rocks, water, and air around me were made of vibrating molecules and atoms, and that these consisted of particles which interacted with one another by creating and destroying other particles… but until that moment I had only experienced it through graphs, diagrams, and mathematical theories. As I sat on that beach my former experiences came to life; I “saw” cascades of energy coming down from outer space, in which particles were created and destroyed in rhythmic pulses; I “saw” the atoms of the elements and those of my body participating in this cosmic dance of energy; I felt its rhythm and I “heard” its sound, and at that moment I knew that this was the Dance of Shiva, the Lord of Dancers worshiped by the Hindus.”
In chapter four of ‘2012; The Return of Quetzalcoatl’, author Daniel Pinchbeck sites Capra’s book, as well as physicist Amit Goswami’s advancement of his ideas.
“…Goswami proposes that the paradoxes of quantum mechanics—nonlocality, action-at-a-distance, quantum uncertainty,…can only be resolved through the hypothesis that consciousness [my underline] not matter, is the fundamental reality of the universe…. there is absolutely no split between mind and matter; subject and object, and this consciousness is the “ground of all being”.
“Consciousness” Goswami says, “is unitive”. He goes on to observe that the human ego is nothing but “an assumed identity” a habit we put on in order to have (the safety of) a reference point. Our ‘snapshot’ if you will, of ‘how things are.’
We all seek the safety and comfort of habit, of self-identification, but it’s proven now, that far from Cartesian theory, subatomic energy (and therefore, our human energy) is always in transition. It takes the form of neither particle nor wave. We are ‘ALL’ at once. Unitivity.
So, I am interested in the circumstances and characters who ‘seem’ to the audience one way or the other, knowing that is contingent upon when the playwright and director and actors ‘snap the shot’. Learning the craft of making ‘snapshot’ choices to best reveal the play’s story, and the characters’ journeys, seems, well– a UNITIVE way to proceed, and I’m dancing with these tasks. Right now, it seems, I have two left feet. (Aha! Another snapshot!)
So then, this:
Can observing ‘the snapshots’ we use to define ourselves help us into conscious ‘awake-ness’ of our true and ‘Unitive’ selves? Can it lead us, like an audience at a play, back to Shiva’s Dance?
Ok, then.
And one, and two, and…..
“Art is power….
Posted: December 21, 2011 Filed under: WRITERS Leave a comment »
“Art is power. It can influence perception, opinion and values. And the artist who creates,uses his paintbrush to focus on a moment in time… recording those things that touch the heart.” ~Nina Baldwin
I’m sure for most of us that when we announced to our families that we were going into the field of Arts & Entertainment that we were met with silence. Probably outrage when our parents found out that they would be paying for our degrees in Theatre, Film or …*gasp* WRITING PLAYS?!
“What do you intend to do with that?” “How will you support yourself?” “What’s plan B?” “There is no money in it.” “The chances of you “making it” are astronomical.” “Grow up and get a real job that makes a difference in the world. A service that people will be willing on which to spend their hard earned money.”
I could go on. But I won’t because those negative voices need to be silenced; especially since they don’t know what the hell they are talking about.
The oldest play is, The Persians by Aeschylus 480 BCE. It was a political play commenting on the Greco-Persian Wars of that day. Funny how something so “worthless” can last thousands of years.
Because of the social consciousness of Greek playwrights; Greek society reexamined their views on child sacrifice, war, religion, class, political corruption and women.
We still learn from playwrights long dead to this day…such power.
Athol Fugard said to The Guardian; “Today’s dramatists are failing to confront issues of injustice, writing instead “for attention spans of 10 minutes between adverts.” http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/aug/30/fugard-attacks-modern-dramatists
I’m not saying that all of us should write the same or create the same art in our respective medium. I want to encourage us to boldly go forth with this power that has been bestowed upon us, regardless of genre, style or tone. As long as we create honestly and from the heart our work will last and make a difference.
Even Tyler Perry’s work has value. In my workshop on relieving stress I was told by a participant that when she gets depressed from watching too much news on tv or reading too many newspapers or internet articles she’ll watch a Madea dvd to laugh and make herself feel better. I prefer this action to taking Zoloft…and I’m not a fan of Perry’s work.
I knew the arts were my vocation when I was monumentally moved by what I saw I as child, and I knew I had to be a part. However, now when I am given the opportunity to act, or write, or sing or dance; I sometimes find myself dogged with the feeling of inadequacy. I hear my parents’ voices echoing in my mind about wasting my time or my work being worthless. Or I see pittying faces of people who ask me at parties, “What do you do?” when I answer, “I act and write.” “What have I seen you in?” “Is that show still on?” “How many times have you been published?” “Yeah okay but what do you do for money?” Hearing and seeing those things time and time again will convince you that fame and fortune are the only legitimizing agents to your career.
Don’t. Fall. For. That.
I could make an exhaustive list of plays, novels and films that have changed our world for the better. And more likely than not those party goers couldn’t name any of the authors, playwrights or artists from whose work they have greatly benefited.
Which brings me to the photo that I have embedded in this post. Vaclav Havel.
It is one thing to be torpedoed with doubts of self worth but it is quite another thing to be stripped of your position in society, excised from school at the age of 15, forced into soul sucking labor, then finding theatre and contributing to it and your society in a clever, politically absurdest way only to be thrown into prison repeatedly for your words, combat depression for 20 years and then miraculously emerge as President of a country that now accepts your ideas as foundations for it’s society.
See?
Power.
Don’t stop writing. Don’t listen to the monsters.
Even as am I writing this post, feelings of doubt of this post’s worth are trying to torment me. And the fact that I have been combating internet issues while trying to publish this post has not been beneficial.
But I keep writing Not just for myself but for whomever reading this that will change the world for the better with their work. The soon to be known playwrights, artists, actors, musicians, dancers, directors, Artistic Anti-Depressants, Muses, Nobel Prize Winners, UN Ambassadors, and Presidents.
Rest In Peace Mr. Havel. Your life was more inspiring than you realized.
Thank you.
Running from the Horizon- 20 Years Later and I’m Still Running by Rob Rosiello
Posted: December 5, 2011 Filed under: WRITERS | Tags: 15th Floor, playwriting, Rob Rosiello, Trevor Project Leave a comment »
Picture it: December 5, 1991. Trenton State College, Cromwell Lounge, 8pm. A healthy audience has come in and is seated, waiting for the lights to go down. Love Shack by the B-52’s is playing. It is opening night of another show by the student run All College Theatre. Relegated to performing in alternate locations all over campus and in some cases off campus while the college’s theater was undergoing a multi-year renovation, All College Theatre is proudly debuting the work of a new playwright, their very own Vice President of Publicity. The cast is assembled behind the makeshift stage and the playwright has just arrived. He is accompanied by TSC faculty member Kay Potucek and they are joined by an adjudicator from The American College Theatre Festival. The playwright, who also has served as the play’s director, is dressed in a makeshift tuxedo. In addition to his playwriting debut, this is also his directing debut. He is a sophomore Theatre/Communications major and this is a truly triumphant night. He excuses himself to speak to the cast backstage. After some hugs, words of reassurance and smiles, he takes his seat with the audience as the light dim and the sounds of REM play and the room fills with the song Losing My Religion. The show has begun
The show’s title- Running from the Horizon.
The show’s playwright- me.
They say you always remember your first. And I still do remember my playwriting first. I had dabbled over the years in small ways but this was my first big venture. As it was a student production, I had a budget of $500. And I came in under budget AND the show made a profit. It performed for only three nights, but each night saw the audiences grow. Friends and family attended over the course of the three nights. My journey to get there was something of a serendipitous one. The slot where Horizon landed that December of 1991 was supposed to have been filled by a professor who unexpectedly retired over the summer, leaving a gaping hole in the 1991-1992 season for A.C.T. I had been working on a play all summer and when the opportunity arose for a student directed production to fill that December slot, I jumped at the chance. The play wasn’t even done when I submitted it and yet it was still selected. I wouldn’t have had the time to direct it or finish writing it had I been cast in the first show of the ACT season that year. And despite everyone’s conviction that I would be cast (including my own), I was not and this suddenly opened my schedule and my sights wide open. The title of the show came out of a joke my roommate at the time had made when he was half mocking me and another friend discussing the Academy Awards the previous spring. The title stuck in my head and I began creating quotes around that title and characters. The creation of a title before all else is something that I still adhere to today. The subject matter and storyline of the play developed that summer.
The story is a tale where nothing is as it appears to be. There are nine characters and each one, in some regard, is on the run from something. The main story centers around a battered movie star on the run from her husband and a broken hearted comic book artist on the run from his sorrow. They are joined in a Schwabs-like drug store on Hollywood Boulevard by a teenage hooker, a desperate mother, a faded yet razor sharp beauty queen and a bitter socialite. The layers and secrets are peeled away one by one until the end when the comic book artist’s secret is finally revealed- the real season he came to the drug store. He had come in looking for sleeping pills to kill himself. Unable to stand the pain of what had become his life, he came in with one thing in mind, and leaves at the end of the play, not with the pills but with something more potent- hope.
Needless to say the comic book artist in most regards was me, and I had gone through a very similar experience that very summer. Minus the faded beauty queen and battered movie star, of course. I had hit an emotional rock bottom the summer of 1991 and when I did not give in and fold, I took that experience and used it to fuel my first play.
So celebrating December 5, 1991 and its significance and the significance of Running from the Horizon is very important to me for so many reasons.
Long before there was a Trevor Project and the “It Gets Better” Campaign, I stood on that dark precipice as a troubled and sad gay youth.
But I did not take that final leap.
Instead, I hung on for dear life.
And I wrote.
And I continue to write.
To say theatre and playwriting saved my life might be a tad dramatic-
But there is some truth and accuracy to that statement.
Actually, a lot of truth.
Had I given up that summer of 1991 I would never have seen Running from the Horizon come to life. I would never have seen the staging of three more of my plays or the creation of nearly a dozen more. I would have missed graduate school, and my time in Angels in America. I would have missed many, many things along the way.
One of the characters in the play says to the comic book artist- “Running from your problems is like running from the horizon, no matter how hard you run, every time to you look back, it’s all still there.” Those words still ring true for me to this very day.
I have considered a substantial re-write of Horizon over the years. Have tried to turn it into a book. Have tried re-writing it over and over. It even spawned two sequels in what I like to call the Horizon Trilogy along with A Damning of the Doves and The Dance of the Midnight Angel. But I can’t. Not now, anyway. Not yet. Like any playwright, I fantasize that when I am finally “discovered” there will be a wild call for all my plays and the “rediscovery” of my early work. Maybe then a re-write will be warranted. I will have to wait with eager anticipation to see. That play was written at a particular time in my life for a particular reason. And I must honor that. For now.
Over the years I have been tempted to give up on the writing. For good. And both times I can now see it was also times when I was ready to give up on myself. But I kept going- both artistically and personally. I’m not ready to throw in that towel just yet- not by a long shot!
As far as that ACTF adjudicator, she met with me and the cast afterwards and gave us some great feedback. We did not make it to the regional ACTF competition that year with the show. I did, however, emerge with something better- something that has endured a little longer…
Some of the best friendships of my life have come out of the theatre, and specifically out of that play and those who supported it and me-
Many of whom are still in my life to this day-
Thank you Facebook!
That magical cast of characters is pictured here- Becky Crowe, Michael Keith Manning, Christine Perkins, Johnny Burling, Ben Palombo, Mary Ammann, Bitsey Garza, Jenny Morris and Joy Glover. As is an impossibly young picture of me and my two leads, Keith and Perkins. My college nickname “Sparky” was borne the second night of the production and has stuck ever since.
December has been something of a lucky month for me when it comes to productions of plays, both my own and plays I have acted in over the years: the most recent being a staged reading of a commissioned work last year honoring Ben Franklin’s amazing wife Deborah Read Franklin in Dear Deborah…
Today- am I where I thought I would be twenty years ago? Nope. I am somewhere far more delicious than I ever could have dreamed or expected. As far as running from the horizon- I’m still running but instead of running from it, I run right towards it as often as I can. It ain’t over til it’s over. So here’s to twenty more fabulous years of writing and friendships and that magical thing known as theatre.
It does get better.
It gets down right fabulous.
Baby’s On Fire (Putting the Play Back in Play Development) by Micheline Auger
Posted: December 2, 2011 Filed under: WRITERS | Tags: Diana Oh, Micheline Auger, New Play Development, The Well Within Leave a comment »
Baby’s on fire, better throw her in the water…” – Brian Eno
There are so many babies on fire right now and they don’t need no water. I was just talking to Diana Oh about her new Filling the Well Artist Retreat. She, like many artists, is on fire, yet the fire flows like water. Actually, “shooting energy from your fingertips” was the language she used. And that’s the language I like. Let the rant begin.
There’s a certain type of language that makes my artistic boner go limp and creative juices go dry. Take whatever sexually provocative, gender-specific language you like because IT IS ABOUT LANGUAGE. You want me to get juicy with my play, don’t hand me a dry stale piece of toast. Hand me a big fucking cheeseburger with bacon and Gorgonzola and lick your fingers while you’re at it. Don’t ask me what my goal is. Don’t ask me about my intention (which is another pseudo-groovy way of saying goal). I didn’t go to business school to write a play so keep your business language out of my art.
Not to say that I don’t have goals and intentions (some of them good), but I don’t sit down to write a play because I have a goal or intention, per se. I sit down because I have “energy shooting from my fingertips”, or from my brain, ass, stomach, heart or cunt – and yeah, sometimes I wish heart was first on that list but sometimes it’s ass or cunt, and it’s funny that the minute I wrote cunt my cursor stopped working for a bit and made me think I should have written vagina instead, or maybe even pussy, but I’m sticking with cunt because it is a fun word. Cunt. Fun. Goal. Not.
If you are interested in the development of my play, you need to use your groovy imagination and come up with some better language. Or a better entry point. Lets talk about the sounds of the play or the imagery - dobermans biting at a 
metal fence, a tetherball chain whipping itself in a desolate playground, a car starting. Sounds and images are great entry points to a capital J Juicy conversation about the play which invites the play into the room so it can be part of the conversation. It wants to be part of the conversation. Like it really, really wants to.
When you say goal, the play thinks it’s a spreadsheet and is full of self-loathing and wants to file itself somewhere. When you ask me to explain my play in two sentences, it confuses itself with a suicidal haiku and wants to commit Hari Cari. When you ask me what my intention is, it thinks you want to rope it into an unhappy marriage where there’s no sex and only dishes. Don’t do that to my play.
My play want to play with you but are you playful too? I think you are. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Let’s stand on our heads and talk about my play. Tell me a secret joy and I’ll tell you about my play. Be my play’s lover. Love it with the love you have for babies. And then be on fire with it. Don’t throw it in the water.
