Pamela Feghali and her stage manager’s kit.

If you’ve never been involved in the production of theatre, there’s a good chance that you’ve never even heard of one of the most important people in the process: the stage manager.

Essentially, the stage manager is the cog at the centre of the production, who ensures that it runs as the director intended it to run. The director provides the artistic vision. The stage manager ensures that vision is realized each performance.

Because the stage manager is involved with and ultimately responsible for all aspects of a production, s/he is the go-to person for any and every problem. The best stage managers have an unnerving ability to be ready for anything that may come his or her way.

The physical manifestation of this “ever readiness” is the stage manager’s kit, in which, depending on the scale of the production, just about anything can be found.

In this short clip, Jen and Pamela take a a playful look at Pamela’s stage manager kit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufBX-y-cFPQ&feature=youtu.be

Until now!

Shannon Rose of Shannon Rose and the Thorns wrote a song inspired by my play “Never Fall in Love with a Writer.”

In this short clip, Jen talks to Shannon about the song and Shannon plays it live.

The best part about it all is that I like the song and, in particular, I’m impressed by the lyrics. She’s faithful to the script and yet puts her own spin on it. Very cool.

You can also listen to the song on Soundcloud.

Please like the band’s page on Facebook, follow her on Twitter, and check out their website. Actually, before you do all that, watch this video, too. You will thank me.

And if you are wondering, yes, I will take catalyst over cash any day of the week. When art is for art’s sake, there’s no finer gift than art inspired by your own work.

The play, “Never Fall in Love with a Writer,” premieres at the 2013 Ottawa Fringe Festival in Studio Leonard Beaulne (University of Ottawa).

Show Times:
June 20 10:00 p.m.
June 22 9:00 p.m.
June 25 8:00 p.m.
June 27 5:30 p.m.
June 29 4:30 p. m.
June 30 7:30 p.m.

The raw footage was shot today. I’m looking forward to what he comes up with! Judging by his concept, it should be good.

Jen as an early version of Amy.

For me, what I love most about the rehearsal process is the development and evolution of a character from a cold read outline to a full bodied being.

It’s an incredible transformation that the audience rarely gets to see.

In keeping with my decision to write “Never Fall in Love with a Writer” with my pants down, Jen and Wayne are going to try and give you a sense of how a character develops and evolves over the rehearsal process.

To do this, we’re going to shoot three short videos at different stages of the rehearsal process, which will feature each character speaking an important line from the script.

This first video was shot on Friday, May 3.

At this point in the rehearsal process, Wayne and Jen are still very much exploring the characters, asking questions, and testing ideas. When the script is still in hand, nothing is set in stone.

Keep your eye out for two more videos and, if you want to witness the full transformation, come see the show. It premieres at the 2013 Ottawa Fringe Festival in Studio Leonard Beaulne (University of Ottawa).

Show Times:
June 20 10:00 p.m.
June 22 9:00 p.m.
June 25 8:00 p.m.
June 27 5:30 p.m.
June 29 4:30 p. m.
June 30 7:30 p.m.

“What if I had been born a prince,” he often asked himself. “Or a shepherd? Or a woodsman? My life might have been better, it might have been worse, but, at least, it would have been different.  Oh, what would life be like, if it were different?”

Because Charles had such a powerful imagination, sitting in his sandbox or playing in the woods, he could imagine these different lives with such intensity and clarity that his actual life, however good, always seemed pale in comparison, even when he imagined his life being much worse. The imagined difference was tantalizing.

“Life can’t be like this forever,” he’d think to himself, during class, as the teacher droned, or at recess, as the other children ran in ceaseless circles around him. “I’m sure, one day, somewhere, it will be different than this.”

Eventually, Charles grew up to be a very unlucky man. Despite the best efforts of his parents, teachers, and just about any adult who had the chance to try, he never lost his powerful imagination.

“Yes, this is love,” he would tell the woman he loved, “but I can imagine another kind of love, a different kind of love. Better or worse, I must find it!”

“Yes, this is fine work,” he would tell his employer, “but I can imagine another kind of work, a different kind of work. Better or worse, I must find it.”

“Yes, this is a fine place to live,” he would tell his friends, “but I can imagine another place to live, a different kind of place to live. Better or worse, I must find it.”

One day, in a tiny village on the other side of the world, while Charles was living the simple kind of life he had always imagined would be so beautiful, but he now found somewhat stifling, Charles imagined what it would be like not to have a powerful imagination. He imagined this life with such intensity and clarity that he understood, for the first time, the life he had been living was very strange.

“Most people are satisfied with their lives,” he thought to himself, “or they are, at least, struggling to be satisfied with the life they have. I, instead, am always chasing some other, different kind of life, and it’s all because of this powerful imagination of mine.”

Determined to rid himself of his powerful imagination, to see what life would be life without it, he visited the old woman who lived at the outskirts of his village, at end of an old trail, next to an ancient well.

“Old woman, do you have anything that will cure me of my powerful imagination,” he asked.

The old woman replied, from within the shadows of her cellar, “It is rare for someone as old as you to have a powerful imagination, but there are equally rare medicines that can help.”

She moved among her very many jars, pinching a bit of this and adding a touch of that, until she was satisfied with the contents of the small burlap bag she carried with her.

She gave the bag to Charles and said, “Use this to make a tea. Drink it every day. Your imagination will go away.”

Charles did as he was told and, very soon, his imagination ceased to be powerful. Shortly after that, it was so weak he couldn’t even imagine what it was like to have a powerful imagination. From that point on, his life became pleasant and, when it wasn’t pleasant, he was happy to work to make it pleasant again.

There was, however, beneath it all, a curious absence — a lack — of which he could not quite rid himself.

Unable to imagine what this lack might be, he returned to the old woman, who lived outside the village, for more medicine.

“There is no medicine that will cure you of this lack,”  she said and she placed a long bony finger on his chest, where his heart beat. “Medicine treats only the symptom and not the cause.”

“What can I do,” asked Charles.

“You have a choice,” the old woman replied. “Continue to drink your tea and the part of you that longs for possibility will always go hungry. Give up the tea and your satisfactions will be forever fleeting, but you will have the power to feed the hunger that is the heart of your being.”

Unable to imagine what his life would be like without the tea, Charles had no choice but to allow his imagination to return — at least a little. He could not make the choice any other way.

On the third day without the tea, Charles found himself imagining what his simple hut might be like, if it were less simple. Then, he found himself imagining what it would be like to live in a simple hut in some other part of the world. Before long, he was imagining what it would be like to live in a luxurious house in an opulent land far far away from where he was. Although his imagination was not yet powerful, it was strong enough that he could almost taste the air of his luxurious home, and his hunger for change, difference, and possibility growled.

With his imagination partly restored, Charles reflected on what the old woman had told him. “I can drink this tea each and every day, be content with my life as it is on the whole, but carry with me an unfulfilled longing for possibility, or I can stop drinking this tea and my satisfactions will be fleeting, but I will be able to feed my hunger for possibility.”

Charles turned to his stove and put some water on to boil. He brewed a cup of tea and drank it down quickly, because, before that cup of tea, he had just enough imagination to imagine a life where the lack disappears, like so many others things, simply because it is ignored it long enough.

Wayne and Jen made an important discovery last week. Like many discoveries, it started with a mistake.

Wayne writes,

During this rehearsal, I made a mistake. Trying to unravel some problems between character transitions, I began to give Jen movement instructions. This is called blocking and, I realize now, we were too early in the process for it.

In this short clip, Jen talks about the most important thing to focus on at this point, which will ultimately make the show a success. A good reminder for both of us!

Have you learned from a mistake recently? Let us know!

In this short video, Wayne outlines the challenge of producing “Never Fall in Love with a Writer” as a one woman show. He also  highlights what he and Jen will work on to address these challenges.

Comments on the play and the rehearsal process are very welcome. They will help Wayne and Jen’s work.

I fully understand why captive primates masturbate. When I am my most bored, I am also my most horny, a fact which may also help to explain the sexual turbine that is high school.

I am bored now and it doesn’t help that I am marking final exams. I’m trapped by work that I have no choice but to finish as quickly as possible, extremely bored by it, and aroused by the pungent mix of perfume and pheromones young women sometimes leave behind on their handwritten exam booklets. One exam, in particular, is so strongly scented that it’s difficult for me to believe that it wasn’t intentional.

I discover that I have been playing with myself unconsciously, squeezing my erection between my thighs, as I churn through the booklets. It’s late and I’m alone in the office, so I unzip, and pull my erection out. Once one has had sex in the office more than a few times, masturbation in the office seems like child’s play.

I always masturbate to a montage of the greatest hits of my sexual past. I sometimes throw in a few new and totally original fantasies, like the well scented young woman, whose exam I was marking a moment ago, bent over a desk, with me driving hungrily into her. However, like any good touring band, as much as I enjoy the new songs, I play the hits that made me famous.

Sophia always plays a prominent role in these montages. Images of Sophia, I should say. Images that are one part photo, one part short movie, and one part dream. Little perfect sexually explicit moments that replay in short tiny loops, as my hand moves in time. By now, I’m sure I’ve had more sex with my memory of Sophia than I had with her.

I also often replay perfect moments I had with Madelyn, but they are never from the stories I tell about her. Instead, I sample from our much more conventional encounters, when we had time to relax into each other’s body, and our thrill came not from the scene around us, but the sex itself.

I try not to think of Ashley, who I haven’t seen for days, and who responds to my texts less and less promptly as each day passes. The lack of her causes an ache in me that I am surprised to find, but her body and our scenes together are too fresh not to dwell on for a moment or two or three or four or five.

Then, as I often do, I remember Sarah, and the first time we had anal sex. The lead up to penetration was so playful and fun that the intensity of her experience took me by surprise and was, for this reason, all the more acute. This was also, at her insistence, the first time we had sex without a condom. I focus on the moment right before her orgasm and repeat it over and over and over as my hand moves.

I’m not sure if I cum before I hear the footsteps or because I hear the footsteps. A surprising amount of cum erupts out of me, with an unexpected intensity and pleasure. Uncharacteristically, I moan.

As the steps come closer too quickly, I decide it was a good a thing that I didn’t bother to pull my pants down, and only unzipped. Unfortunately, it also means that the front of my pants, along with my left hand, is now covered with cum. Thankfully, if I stay seated, with one hand inexplicably on my lap, everything should be well hidden by my desk.

“Gregor, why are you here so late?” Linda asks, as she pokes her head through the crack of my open door.

“Marking exams, of course,” I feel like I am on fire and I’m sure the smell of cum must be wafting through the room, too strong not to be noticed. “What are you doing here? I thought everyone had left a while ago.”

“I fell asleep for a couple of hours,” she steps into my office and leans back against the frame of the door, crossing her arms. The cum on my hand and dick, which had been burning hot seconds ago, is now ice cold and on the move. “Thank god, we don’t have to give the booklets back, otherwise, I’d worry about the drool I left on the one I was marking.”

“You must be about due for a smoke,” I interject. The longer this conversation carries on the more likely I am done for. “I was about ready for one myself. Why don’t you put your coat on?”

“When did you start smoking again?” she asks, stepping forward, coming closer. I sit stock still. If I move at all, the fact that I have one hand in my lap, as if posing for an unseen portrait artist, will seem all the more odd. Fortunately, the only light in the room is from a desk lamp and there are plenty of shadows.

“Marking does it everytime,” I reply. “Why don’t you go grab your coat and I will meet you at the elevator. I’ve got to finish this one exam and then I will catch up.”

“Sure thing.” Linda disappears behind the door. She adds, “I’m about due.”

I spring into action. I grab tissue from the box on my desk and wipe my hand clean. Next, I wipe the bulk of the cum off my dick and put it away. Once zipped, I dab at the cum on the front of my pants, trying not to smear it. Fortunately, my parts are dark, so the wet will be less visible. My winter coat will also, thankfully, cover it.

Linda throws open the door and says, “Bring your lighter. I can’t find mine.”

With a fist full of cum filled tissue, I do the only thing I can to justify having the tissue in my hand. I blow my nose, and I remember the time my mother taught me how to housebreak Caesar, a dog we eventually gave away because he could not be housebroken, and I am sure somewhere Freud is very proud of himself.

Read Ep. 1: Freedom.

Nadine was a superb fighter, but, in a dimly lit courtyard, she was no match against a shadow that she could barely see. She was a hornet’s nest of swift limbs, fists, and feet, but, with a nearly invisible and almost intangible target, she was highly vulnerable.

Faces had no choice, but to tickle her.

“Faces! Is that you,” Nadine squealed through her agonized laughter. “What hell are you doing?”

Faces shrugged off the morph, and returned to his human form. “Backing you up, of course. Why are you so on edge?”

“Because I’m not supposed to have any backup tonight,” she pointed a long finger into his face. “This is my night off.”

“No, it’s not. It’s Thursday.”

“I switched shifts with Kean,” Nadine took hold of his chin and shook it. “Check the schedule!”

“Why wasn’t I alerted?” Faces pulled out his phone and checked the schedule. “When there’s a change in shifts, I’m supposed to be alerted.” The blood drained from his face. “Oh, Jesus. Kean is on Bate Island, meeting a French werewolf, and on his own.”

“With no back-up,” Nadine stammered.

“With no backup,” Faces repeated, as his mind raced through the possibilities of what had gone wrong. Why wasn’t I alerted?

“We’ve got to help him,” Nadine insisted.

“I’ve got my car.” Faces turned and bolted in the direction of where it was parked.

Nadine followed and they called out to each other in unison, “We better stop at a liquor store.”

Neither of them noticed the creature that followed them.

To be continued…

Read Episode 1

The script, our first prop, and Jen.

The notion that God-the-son became human — that divinity became flesh — is one of the most important doctrines of the Christian faith.

At Sunday school, growing up, I don’t recall having any particular fascination with this mystery, which is sometimes characterized as the “word becoming flesh,” but it is with this mystery that I make sense of the unique delight I take in writing for theatre.

Theatre transforms words into flesh.

Poems, stories, and novels, even when read aloud, are not fleshy. Film and television requires living breathing people to embody a writer’s ideas and words, but it is not a fleshy experience for the viewer. Only theatre (and some theatrical dance) transforms a writer’s words and ideas into a flesh that must be directly experienced to be appreciated fully.

“Never Fall In Love With a Writer” is now ready to be made flesh.

There’s nothing terribly mysterious about how theatre transforms words into flesh, but it may sometimes seem mysterious because the process normally happens behind very closed doors. Jen and Wayne very soon will launch the incarnation process for “Never Fall In Love With a Writer” and, with a little help from social media, we’ll try to keep the door propped open as much as possible.

In the meantime, feel free to read and comment on the play. It may be of some use to Wayne and Jen.