A Playwright In Search Of Motivation: Cheshire and Kat Need Your Help!

For me, writing is a bit like creating a puzzle and then trying to solve it. Sometimes, if I solve the puzzle in my head before I finish it on the page, I have a hard time finishing the piece of writing.

I lose the drive to finish it because, for all intents and purposes, it is essentially done. It becomes a little too easy to say “mañana” and move the “solved” project to the back burner because the tough / fun work is already finished.

Without the puzzle, for me, writing is almost akin to data entry. And who the hell wants to do data entry with so many other puzzles to solve!?

Such has been the fate of Cheshire and Kat: Lovers In A Dangerous Time.

Four of the five acts are pretty much done — including the final act.  I even know what happens in the fourth act but I haven’t been able to find the motivation to finish the damn thing.

This is my attempt to rekindle my motivation.

Please click here to read Act 1.

Please read Act 1 and let me know your first impressions. Do you want to find out what happens to these characters or are you not too fussed either way?

If people are intrigued, I will serialize the acts. This should, I think, motivate me to finish the damn thing.

Your help, as always, is deeply appreciated.

For more of my plays, click here.

Money For Nothing And My Chicks For Free: The Begging Bowl!

As my friend Corrie will tell you, when it comes to travel, I’m a big fan of pointing myself in the general direction of a destination and sorting it out as I go along.

In keeping with this spirit, and as a follow-up to my call-to-arms post, I’m officially pointing my nose in the direction of an imagined future and I am ready to sort it out as I go along.

Hopefully, you will want to come along for the ride!

Remember, you won’t actually be at any risk of sleeping in a seedy hotel because all the good hotels were booked by sensible people who plan ahead when they take road trips.

If there are bed bugs to be had, I will be the only one to have them!

So, over the next little while, I’m going to be testing some ideas out. Your feedback is the most important contribution you can make. Please let me know what you think as we blaze this trail together.

And here is the first idea I want to test: today, I officially launch my Begging Bowl.

Check it out and let me know what you think.

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Short, Simple, And A Pain To Put On Video: Perennials

When I’m on a roll, I tend to roll on. Not unlike Proud Mary. Especially when a semi-competitive game like song-tag is involved (thank, Dave).

This short simple song wrote itself fairly quickly but for some reason it was kind of a pain in the ass to get on video. At one point, I actually muttered why my brain wasn’t working properly. I now think I should have saved the out takes. That might have made for an amusing short video, not unlike Don Music from Sesame Street. What is life indeed!?

Songwriting note: the little break is inspired by Lady Rose’s note that it might be a good idea to break up the flow now and again.

Recording note: in honour of Nadine, this video was recorded entirely pants-free.

Enjoy:

Perennials
You are sorry
so damn sorry
you just had to call

And your story
tearful story
made my heart run raw

And I won’t let you down
I’ll go another round
I’ll try to fill your heart with gold

Gauge me, change me
rearrange me
I will do it all

Tend me, bend me
reinvent me
yes, I”ll do it all

And I won’t let you down
I’ll go another round
I’ll try to fill your heart with gold

For more of my original songs, click here.

The Union of My State: Happiness Is A (Warm) Unexplored Possibility

Have you ever had this kind of experience?

You suddenly find yourself in the bedroom. You don’t know how or why you got there. A minute ago you were focussed on something important in the living room. Now you aren’t sure where your pants are or what exactly you are planning to do with the lemon. Or the screwdriver.

Two weeks ago, I came very close to taking a job I didn’t want or need.

For my job search, I set very precise “wage-slave” criteria. On the one extreme, I will work in the arts and take whatever pay I can get. On the other, I will work in another field if it pays a lot, tough it out, and save some money for my artistic projects.

The job on-offer fit neither of these criteria. Yet, I was a hair’s breadth from taking it.

What was I thinking? To be honest, I really don’t know.

My best guess is the situation emerged the same way the final line in a game of telephone emerges: from a number of minor but accumulating miscommunications. Like the last kid in a game of telephone, I knew I was about to speak nonsense but the logic of the situation dictated I say it anyway.

“Keep burger in margarine because pancakes make timely honey.” Or, “yes, I accept the offer. I can start tomorrow.”

Fortunately, I talked to Wayne (of the Many Faces). He convinced me that I should at least negotiate a better contract. I imagined the circumstances under which I could happily accept the position. I made a counteroffer.

When I woke up the next morning dreading the possibility that my counteroffer had been accepted, I realized this job wasn’t for me. As luck would have it, my offer was not accepted and the company broke off negotiations.

The happy result of this near disaster is that it reminded me of the value of talking to friends about important decisions. Even I need some external input every once and awhile — probably more often than I think.

It also helped clarify something important for me: I don’t want a fucking job.

Now, let me be clear: I don’t mean I don’t want to work. I probably do more work than 95% of the people out there who have jobs.

What I mean is that I don’t want to waste my time warming a desk, punching a time card, or pretending I care. I don’t want to be forced to ask permission to take a long lunch or to work late. I don’t want to spend my life waiting in line for the chance to perch atop an institution that is already asphyxiating under its own weight.

I want to write, perform, create, and contribute to my community on my own terms. I want to eat, drink, and shit the fruits of labor that I actually give a damn about. I want to help other people do the same. I want to live artfully.

The internet and social media changes everything. We are living in a historical moment of unprecedented opportunity. We can reinvent theatre, the arts, everything — even our very understanding of community.

I want to make the most of this opportunity.

Now economic reality may set it. At some point, I may need to get a job-job. That’s fine. By treating it as a measure of last and final resort, I open a world of unexplored possibility and opportunity. And that makes me happy.

So, who’s with me.

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New, By Returning To The Old: Changeling

New (ish) song!

This little ditty is a case in point — assuming you recall my last song post.

I stumbled across this simple little riff and melody back on Waiheke, NZ, right around the time I was very excited about music software. I tried to to program the riff a couple of times but could never get the right feel. As a result, I abandoned it.

Last weekend, emboldened by your support, I dusted it out and had the lyrics done in a couple of days. I’ve had some audio difficulties and my guitar still sounds like poop over this Mac internal mic and it’s not the strongest vocal performance buuut it will give you the idea of the song. Perhaps, later, I will dress it up properly.

Enjoy:

And as requested, here are the lyrics:

Changeling.

Memory catchs me slowly
Filling the womb of my mind
Reflecting the mood of the morning
I forget my place in time

I can feel it coming
I can feel the rain
Lovers lie bleeding
When will the story change

History waits for no one
Killing time with each moment’s pass
Rejecting the organs of stasis
I return to my place in time at last

I can feel it coming
I can feel the rain
Soldiers lie bleeding
This story must change

The future comes in a moment
The past dies at night
Waiting is an excuse for no one
I know now the time is right

I can feel it coming
I can feel the rain
The hungry lie bleeding
I know this story will change.

Impressions? Thoughts? Musical replies?

For more of my original songs, click here.

From Ottawa to Phoenix Via Twitter: What’s Your Social Media Success Story?

I’m not sure when I first followed @marebiddle on Twitter. I think I remember the moment but it may be a false memory I’ve created because I really want to think I remember the moment.

The memory — real or not — is something like this: “Phoenix? Really? Why? Oh well. She’s a playwright too. What do I have to lose?”

I do, however, remember clearly the first time @marebiddle’s on-line activities impacted me.

Von Allan, an Ottawa comic artist and friend, posted a link to an interview he had given on a local community TV channel. It was a good bit and I wanted to help a friend. So, I RT’d it.

Within a few minutes, @marebiddle tweeted me that she had watched the interview, was impressed by it, and had been to Von’s site to donate some money.

I was stunned.

Had this really happened? Had a local Ottawa community TV interview reached a woman in Phoenix? Had it really motivated her to help an artist north of her border. Really? Within minutes? Wait. Really?

Wow, I thought, Twitter is amazing! What an incredible tool! Social media changes everything! Everything! Power to the people! Power to the –

Oh yeah! Right! People!

Eventually, once I finished re-imaging the future, I thought, “who is this @marebiddle?” I took a closer look at her blog and I was impressed.

Overtime, thanks to exchanges on Twitter, then on email, “@marebiddle” eventually became Mare (rhymes with “air” BTW).

She’s given me some of the most conscientious and thoughtful feedback on my scripts I’ve ever received. Her feedback on my novella convinced me it isn’t finished and it helped me see how to finish it. One of our email discussions helped break my song-writing logjam.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. She also introduced my play, Tangelico, to someone in Phoenix she knew would like it and, when he asked for a second play to go with it, she wrote A Cube With A View. Just cuz that’s how Mare rolls.

If she believes in something, she will make it happen. Whatever. And the result is a Double Feature at Space55 in Phoenix.

And see that’s the crucial thing: Twitter, blogs, and other social media are tools — and like all tools — they are only as good as the people who use them. Twitter is an amazing tool because it offers the opportunity to connect with amazing people. In many cases, people with whom it would have been impossible to connect before these tools came along. Like Mare.

So, yes, thanks Twitter. But, most of all, thanks Mare.

Anyone else have any Twitter / Social Media success stories they’d like to share? I’d love to hear them!

If you want to read Mare’s side of the story, be sure to check out her blog.

If you want to learn more about our story, listen to our Skype-facilitated chat with Dave Charest (another great Twitter contact).

For more posts like this, click here.

Beauty, Art, Community: What’s Your Three-Word Portrait?

I think I can summarize myself with three words: beauty, art, community.

Here goes:

Beauty breathes through me and I bask in its diffused expansiveness. Beauty is everywhere.

Art is an artifact, a token, and a conduit of beauty. In making art, I make sense of myself. By sharing art, we make sense of each other.

Community is catalyzed by art and art is catalyzed by community. Together, you are beautiful.

So! What’s your three-word portrait?

When I started writing this post, I hadn’t intended it to be so philosophically-poetic. Don’t feel you need to mirror my style (which I seem dangerously close to developing).

Basically, I’m curious to learn what three words people would use to describe themselves and why?

For more posts like this, click here.

Yet Another Flavour of Blog: I Accidentally Wrote A Song Today

I accidentally wrote a song today.

I’ve had a hard time writing songs recently. There is a long answer and a short answer.

The short answer is that I’ve been thinking about it too much and not forcing myself to finish songs.

I also had the thought that I should stop fiddling with (virtual) knobs and get back to what I know and enjoy. Pounding out simple songs on guitar.

Here is a simple song pounded out on guitar.

I will make a habit of writing, recording, and posting songs as they come — warts and all. If people like one song more than another than I will refine it. I will also likely do You Tube versions of the other songs I have in that box widget up to the right.

So, let me know what you like or what you want to hear more of!

For more of my original songs, click here.

History Keeps Getting Older: Mother Courage Stays The Same Age

As an undergraduate, I really liked the idea of Brechtian epic theatre: direct-audience address, narration and song, juxtaposition and contradiction, actors changing character and costume in full view of the audience, simple props and set design, and an emphasis on issues and action rather than character and emotional attachment.

The notion of destroying the artifice of theatre in favor of the clear examination of social and political issues was intoxicating!

Unfortunately, in practice, when all of Brecht’s ideas are thrown on stage with one of his scripts, it makes for pretty boring theatre. I can’t recall a single production of Brechtian epic theatre that I enjoyed.

Peter Hinton and the National Acting Company do their best to make their production of Mother Courage enjoyable. They nail a lot of the humour, a fleet of upright pianos is cleverly employed for set-design, and they throw Brechtian purism to the wind and use stage-lighting to dramatic effect.

Even so, when all is said and done, the production isn’t terribly engaging because Mother Courage isn’t a terribly engaging script. Most of the conventions of playwriting employed to engage an audience are jettisoned intentionally by Brecht because he thinks this helps the audience focus more clearly on the issues addressed by his play.

And what issues are addressed?

In Mother Courage we learn people are often duped into thinking war is glorious when it’s not. We are shown that in times of war people often act despicably and are praised for it. Finally, and perhaps, most importantly, we see that people who profit off war are very likely to be harmed by it in the end.

Perhaps, in the early-20th Century, the issues addressed in Mother Courage were groundbreaking enough to be engaging. Today Brecht’s lessons are uncontested platitudes and their Brechtian presentation does not illuminate anything new.

More problematically, the realities of warfare have changed dramatically since Brecht first wrote and refined Mother Courage. Today, a tiny minority of the population wages wars on our behalf in foreign lands with little or no impact on our daily well-being. Like so many of our other industries, we’ve out-sourced and externalized war’s true costs.

Because the face of contemporary warfare is so different than the one depicted by Brecht, again, Mother Courage really has nothing relevant to show us.

Moreover, Brecht’s claim that those who try to live off the war will eventually be harmed by it is naive — even for his time. History shows time and again: the profiteers of war are almost never harmed by the wars from which they profit. They make money off the war, their kids get posted somewhere safe, and then they make more money rebuilding the destruction they helped sow.

We now live in a era of Orwellian perpetual war precisely because the profiteers — us among them — either directly benefit from it or don’t directly experience its full costs. A Brechtian examination of that fact would be far more engaging and relevant to today’s audiences. Indeed, any contemporary theatrical analysis of this fact would be more rewarding to audiences.

Mother Courage’s contemporary irrelevance is ultimately rooted in Brecht’s approach to theatre. Issues are historically situated; as history changes so do the issues that concern audiences. Brecht’s issues are not our issues. Without any emotional attachment to the characters or action, there is nothing for the audience to care about.

Which forces me to ask, why is anyone — the NAC included — producing Mother Courage?

Any additional thoughts on this NAC production of Mother Courage? If you found it more engaging than I did, please let me know. Has anyone seen a production of Brechtiam epic theatre they enjoyed?

For more posts like this, click here.

A Voice Of Venus: Feel It, Express it, Release it

On Tuesday, I went to Nadine’s featured spoken-word set at the female-focussed (but friendly to all) Voices of Venus (at Umi Cafe). This was my third time attending the monthly event which includes an all woman open-mic set followed by a set featuring one woman poet. Each time I’ve attended, I’ve enjoyed myself and encountered plenty of quality spoken word, storytelling and / or singing.

Nadine is charismatic, talented, sincere, intelligent, and a seasoned performer. Accordingly, her set was engaging, thoughtful, and fun.

She also read a poem that almost made me cry my eyes out in public.

It may come as a surprise to some people but I am an unrepentant cry-baby. Just about anything can make me cry: happy, sad, sentimental, poignant, whatever.

What’s more: I like crying. Once I got over the notion that crying is a bad thing, I discovered a good cry always makes me feel better. Sometimes, I cry simply because I’m feeling cranky and I know it will make me feel better.

This attitude towards crying may come as a surprise to some people because I rarely — if ever — cry in the presence of others. I don’t cry around other people because their reactions to crying rarely serve my aims in crying. I want to feel the feeling, express it, and release it — not deal with other people doing onto me as they would have me do onto them.

So, despite my cry-baby tendencies, I’m pretty good at keeping a cork in the water works until I can find a time to do it productively.

But this poem almost popped the cork:

Poem For My Son
You,
The smallest human in the world
In the fastest moment I’ve known
Became the biggest thing in my life.
I held you.
You smelled
Like mine.
I closed my eyes
And I made a silent,
Selfish wish
That you could be my baby
Forever.

I opened my eyes.
Your eyes
Wide and round,
Deepest brown,
Were a gift.
They told me
Now
Was the time
For unabashed adoration,
Silly smiles,
And songs
For finding
Delight in
Your soft baby skin.
My heart within
My chest
Inflamed,
Achingly tumescent
With love that grew
Almost too quickly.
You were always you
And for too short a time
You were also
All mine.

Wild days.
I shut my eyes
When you fall
Hard and swift.
I see it coming
I can’t let it happen
If I watch.
It’s my small gift
To let you falter
And fall
And get back up again.
And again.
I make the silent, useless wish
That I could protect you from everything.
That you could live free
From harm,
From hardship
From pain.
Yet keeping you from pain
Is keeping you from life.
I want you to live
I want you to fight
To survive.
I pray these bumps
Will help you grow strong
Enough to weather life’s storms.
And when you come home,
And I will kiss your tears
I will be the safe port.

Crazy day.
I steel my gaze,
I temper my rage
When you try gage
My limits
And push
Every. Single. Button.
I have.
Today
I KNOW that I love you
Because I haven’t sold you
To gypsies.

Deep breath.
In the breath
Of the swiftest moment I’ve known
You’re transformed
From a trial
Into the sweet child
With the mile-wide smile
That tells me
This is the time
For forgiving
For forgetting
For unabashed hugs
And flinging your
Little arms
Around my neck
Making my heart swell
Almost too quickly.
I love you so much
It hurts.

You are hardest
Best work
I’ve ever done.
The price of this love
Is frustration.
The price of this love
Is exhaustion,
Irrational apprehension
About strangers
And street traffic
And surprise zombie invasions
I would go to
My grave for you
And yet
I’ve never felt such responsibility
To stay alive.
I’ve never had such
Motivation to thrive,
To try.
You’ve inspired me
In ways I can’t describe.
Loving you
Awoke something inside
That was dormant.
Loving you
I finally see
The way to the
Woman I’ve always wanted to be.

You
The smallest human in the bookstore
In the most tender moment I’ve known,
Watched my face,
Your eyes
Wide and round,
Deepest brown
Pondering
Perhaps wondering
Why I wept as I read
The words of Robert Munsch
Who
In one short verse
Had written my truth:

I love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be

There are a couple of reasons that explain why this poem effected me.

First, because Nadine is a friend, I can’t dismiss her words as the rosy-coloured exaltations of some insincere stranger. I know she means it.

Second, after a lot of hard work, I’m finally at a place where I am happy enough and sure enough that I can reflect honestly on my childhood and recognize it for what it was. And, as of late, I have been reflecting.

So, when my friend Nadine spoke these words, the cork almost popped because I know growing up, I never felt anything like the love she expresses for her child from either of my parents.

I’m not even sure how to describe what this knowledge feels like. It’s not hurt. It’s not sadness. It’s not envy. It’s not bitterness. It’s some kind of unfulfilled pre-linguistic mammalian need akin to hunger or thirst. If I were a cat, I’d probably take a blanket between my teeth and start pushing at it with my paws.

To be diplomatic, I should say explicitly my parents (who separated when I was six) kept me watered, fed, clothed, and sheltered. They never physically abused me. They always encouraged me to read and do well at school. They bought me plenty of toys. We always had pets. I was even sent on an exchange to France once. I’m also sure they received much worse parenting than I did and, when all is said and done, they probably did the best they could given their own personal histories.

Unfortunately, for me, it doesn’t change the fact that they were emotionally negligent, manipulative, and even hostile. I learned pretty early on that my parents couldn’t and shouldn’t be trusted and without trust, there can be no love.

By the time I stopped talking to them, I didn’t even really like them that much. It’s the smartest decision I’ve ever made.

It may seem paradoxical to some but realizing and recognizing that I grew up in an uncommonly unhealthy emotional environment is a tremendously good thing. For most of my life, I told myself and everyone else that my childhood was no big deal and that my parents weren’t all that bad. It wasn’t a case of me lying to myself. I didn’t know any better.

Thanks to some loving animals, some great teachers, and some incredibly caring and patient friends — and a bit of hard work — I now know better. And in knowing better, I can feel it, express it, and release it. What can I say? I’m a fortunate guy.

Thanks for the poem, Nadine.

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