It's about time

A United Nations report today called on the United States to immediately close the detention center for suspected terrorists at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and to either release its inmates or bring them before an impartial tribunal. But will this make a difference? Bush doesn't seem to care about the UN or about human rights or about people. When will we stop interning people while we are at war? It's atrocious and it takes the freedom away that we are supposedly fighting for. People are supposed to be innocent until proven guilty in the US. They should be charged with a crime or let go. Did Cheney shoot someone so this wouldn't be the top news story or am I being a little paranoid? "The UN story didn't come out yet, sir" "OK well don't tell anyone I shot him yet."

My 10 min play snow performed by Blue Box this fri at 9 and next thurs and fri also at 9 at the DR2 in NYC.

a short story told in the bent ear of a friend

She was a girl who liked to hold her breath. She liked to see her face turn blue before it all went black. He was a boy who liked ever more piercings on his face and on his body. He liked to say he could never feel a thing when the metal went in. Blueskin met Metal in a bar in DUMBO. Blueskin was lighting matches off her teeth. Metal was finding oblivion in marathon shots of Jack. Each of them was quiet and each of them was alone. Blueskin started a small but uncontrolled napkin fire. Metal helped her put it out it with a glass of water. They liked the way their eyes glinted in the moment before the fire was doused. What’s that old saying? “There’s nothing like a fire to break the ice.” They talked like words were dollar bills laid on the bar. In the spaces, in the silence they pondered their similarities. They both liked the taste of salt overload and the sound of Velcro coming apart. She liked to bury her head in her pillow each morning to avoid the sunrise. He always shaved the right side of his face before the left. She always painted her toenails the color of her mood. He never asked for anyone for anything. Except for that night when he asked her for her phone number. Except for that night, they never saw each other again.

On Fridays

I have a jumping class. At least that's what I call it. It's really some sort of dance aerobics with lots of jumping and some punching and crunches and pushups. It's ridiculous and I don't really still know the moves. The actors I am told are required to take it every morning and we would be allowed to take it too at 9 am if we wanted. But I have to work then. And the only time I can make it over there is Friday evening. So consequently all week long I get no exercise and drink beers and eat hamburgers and sit in various theatres and then once a week on Fridays I exercise strenuously for an hour.

crazy

I don't know what I'm writing next and I'm totally on edge because of it. Lots of ideas, none of which I know enough about. Gonna go crazy soon. crazy

Don't forget this weekend Among other short plays, Snow by Adam Szymkowicz, directed by Neil Hellegers, starring Robert Hancock,* Stacy Rock,* Ana Valle & Barry Roth (02/10, 02/17, 02/23, 02/24) If you're in LA, you'll have to wait until Feb 21 for Snow (the play what I wrote) but once it starts, it'll play for a month.

Laura Axelrod writes in a recent post "Suffice it to say, secrecy plays an integral role in my writing process. Maybe more so than it should. Keeping things hidden and keeping a blog is a strange dichotomy to maintain. I do notice that the times I've been more "public" are usually the times that my work has been lighter and less intense. " I've been thinking about this recently. Laura's post makes me think about it in a different way. I never used to talk about what I was writing until after it was written. It was always important to me that it exist in a bubble and I wouldn't talk about this bubble for fear that some offhand comment would pop it. Now I'm blogging about current projects, I talk to people about them and I'm still not sure if this is a good idea or not. Perhaps I'm playing with fire here and it could be very bad. Perhaps I've gotten better at not listening to people who I feel are wrong about what my work should be or don't understand what I'm doing. Perhaps I believe in what I'm doing much more than I ever have before. Or perhaps I'm still not really saying that much or sharing that much. This morning I found myself telling K about something I'm thinking of writing now even though it wasn't completely formulated. I don't know if she got what I was trying to say. I doubt I was very clear. I can't really ever explain what I'm doing or trying to do which was maybe why I had this secrecy thing. It was secret because I had no words for it. Or I could try but really there was no way to explain that what sounded crazy was actually something that on the page might work. I just keep messing with it until it's right. I don't really know what I'm doing. I mean I don't really know how I'm doing what I do when I write. I like to keep myself in the dark. And when it is working, really working, it's an automatic pilot sort of thing until it runs out of steam for the day. But that automatic writer will only happen if I do all the pre work of figuring out what happens when. Taking all the things that are supposed to go in and then putting them in the right order and figuring it out and figuring it out and a level of excitement plays into it too. Because it won't work unless I'm excited about it. And to be excited, I have to know enough. I'm dying to go home and try to figure this out right now. But I know it will be weeks and weeks or months and months before it's all there and in that time the excitement still has to be there. Otherwise I'll drop it and try to do something else. Maybe it's the constant discovery, the adding of this idea and that idea that keeps it exciting. The clearer it is and for me the brighter the colors are when I think of what I'm trying to do, the better it is. The colors are real bright right now. I could burn out from this, I think. I hope it lasts.

My play Snow here in NY

the culmination of the most exciting bar play season ever... Big Sticky @ D Lounge D Lounge 101 E 15th St. @ Union Square “Blue Box’s itty bitty plays are perfect short attention span theater”-- The New York Times last year we sold out early, so get your tickets while they last! 10 minute plays || 7 plays each night || + music and cabaret http://www.theatermania.com to buy tickets, $12 + 2 drink minimum www.dloungenyc.com || www.blueboxproductions.net night club robberies, awkward 30th birthday parties, two men who both believe they are Socrates, South Asian punk rock cutters in love, an electro-clash has-been and his new girlfriend, white trash lesbian awakening, failed private eyes, George and Osama in a bar in a cave, the set designer of the apocalypse, a delivery man in love with a recluse, and a gay politician recruiting a beard Friday February 10th @ 10:30 pm Sunday February 12th @ 9:30 pm Thursday February 16th @ 10:30 pm Friday February 17th @ 10:30 pm Sunday February 19th @ 9:30 pm Thursday February 23rd @ 10:30 pm Friday February 24th @ 10:30 pm Sunday February 26th @ 9:30 pm Musical performances by Jeffrey Marsh and Tom Wilson Weinberg: Thursdays and Fridays (02/16, 02/17, 02/23, 02/24) The Heather Christian Ensemble (02/12) The Sprinkle Genies (02/19) Taylor Mac (02/26) The Plays: ASL by Gary Winter, directed by Ali Ayala, starring Jarel Davidow* & Adeel Akthar (02/12, 02/16, 02/19, 02/26) bridesmaid written and directed by Clay McLeod Chapman, starring Hanna Cheek (02/16, 02/23) Candy by Elizabeth Emmons, directed by Matthew Korahais, starring Eve Udesky* & Sarah Gliko (02/12, 02/17, 02/23, 02/24) Epistemology by Ian Grody, directed by David Marcus, starring Jarel Davidow,* Henry Caplan* & Katya Schapiro (02/10, 02/16, 02/19, 02/26) Final Stage by Ali Ayala & Peter Sarafin, directed by Ali Ayala, starring David Marcus, Matthew Korahais & Neil Hellegers* (02/10, 02/12, 02/16, 02/17, 02/24) In Between by Jesse Wann, directed by Ali Ayala, starring Elaine O'Brien & Jeremiah Clancy (02/10, 02/12, 02/16, 02/19, 02/23) piece by piece by Dennis Moritz, directed by David Marcus, starring Eve Udesky* & Matthew Korahais (02/12, 02/17, 02/24, 02/26) Sensitive Eyes by Jeremy Basescu, directed by Ali Ayala, starring Veronica Newton* & Jim Boyle* (02/12, 02/17, 02/23, 02/24) She Was a Real Tomato by Lisa Ferber, directed by Jarel Davidow, starring Virginia Callaway* & David Marcus (02/10, 02/16, 02/19, 02/23, 02/26) Shooting the Breeze by Chuck Orsland, directed by Jeremy Basescu, starring Sarah Gliko, Neil Hellegers* & Matthew Korahais (02/10, 02/23, 02/24, 02/26) Showing Skin by Rehana Mirza, directed by Jeremiah Clancy, starring Taniya Sen & David Marcus (02/12, 02/17, 02/19, 02/24, 02/26) Snow by Adam Szymkowicz, directed by Neil Hellegers, starring Robert Hancock,* Stacy Rock,* Ana Valle & Barry Roth (02/10, 02/17, 02/23, 02/24) 30th Birthday Party by Elizabeth Emmons, directed by Matthew Korahais, starring Virginia Callaway,* Jenny Greeman,* David Marcus, Ali Ayala, Neil Hellegers* & Elizabeth Emmons (02/10, 02/16, 02/19, 02/23, 02/26) undertow written and performed by Clay McLeod Chapman (02/17, 02/19) *appearing courtesy of Actors Equity Association Big Sticky originated at The Flea Theater, 2004

Le Bib-luh

I was reading the bible today. have you read it? Were you aware (according to King James version) that there were giants around during the time of early people. All the men lived to be 600-900 years old. Noah was 600 when he built the ark. But all the ages are really specific. I think Noah was 600 and two months and 14 days. Something like that. I'm serious. Take a look.

Wendy Wasserstein died today. We've lost August Wilson and Arthur Miller and now Wendy too. She'll be missed. ------ Children doing Equus. Really! No, not really.

diction

I admitted in class that I feel like I am addicted to playwriting. Then I became somewhat embarrassed. I felt like I was taking myself too seriously, making myself look ridiculously tragic as if it's something I can't stop doing, which of course I really can't. Not if I want to keep on an even keel. Don't get me wrong--It's not an addiction I'm trying to kick or anything but definitely something that needs to be fed. Because if I'm not writing, I'm kind of on edge, moody, angry at myself. Although I'm not ever too long not writing. And I'm not trying to say I'm at a computer all the time actually typing. The planning stages is 2/3 of the process for me generally but it's a time when I'm jonesing to get into the world and start the typing. Mostly it's just that I never really am not writing something. I'm always rewriting something or trying to figure out something new. And it wasn't like this when I started. It was college and it was a play on summer break. Then a play winter break and summer break and then school ended and work descended and it was all the time like it is now. I've written two full lengths in the past 7 or so months which is fast for me but I'm also not seeing a new one directly in front of me. It'll be a little bit for this next one--whichever one it turns out to be. And I have to say that's getting under my skin a little. I know if I start just writing something long without figuring most of it out it will be bad but I'm so jonesin to do it. But I bide my time with this discovery of this and that discovery of that until one of the ideas comes close enough that I can make it out. And then I can look at it a bit but soon I'm getting up early and putting in my time--loving every second when it's going well and pissed off when it's not, but all the time wanting to get back to that escape of a place and sort it out and live it out. Until it's over and I'm depressed and maybe at the same time elated but then needing it again not too much long after. When I first discovered playwriting I was looking for others like me, but most people are not like this. They don't have this problem. I don't know what problems other people have. But not this one. Other people have real problems. This isn't even a problem, really. I don't know that I want to continue to write like this in a public forum. But how many people actually read this anyway? Until fame and fortune comes, (tomorrow probably) I'm safe.

Ok, here is the explanation to my bizarre emails

The junk mail senders are sending me these poems to try and trick the spam getter ridder machines: Often appended at the end, in an attempt to flummox the filters, is a scrap of Dadaist poetry - "feverish squirt feat transconductance terrify broken trite fascist axis stultify floc bookshelves. " Sometimes this "word salad," as it has come to be called, is rendered in invisible ink - white letters on a white background - or hidden inside an embedded formatting command. I still find it fascinating. How does one get the job of writing the poem at the end of the spam? Can I be hired for this?

someone explain this to me. what the hell kind of a list am I on? and what is going on with my junk mail. does everyone get this or just me and what sort of theatre can be made with it?

The next bulk message was this from "Salter Nellie"

must ask take yes hurt work false run spend him run forget not take listen He wakeup make right finish swim place work leave It fill study for hurt talk morning teach count

Today I received this email

Dear Home-owner, You have been favored for a $661,500 Home Loan as low as 3.25% Rate. This offer is being extended to you unconditionally and your credit is in no way a factor. To take Advantage of this Limited Time opportunity all we ask is that you visit our Website and complete the simple 30 second post Approval Form. Enter Here Zelma Boone Regional Manager cocoon may colosseum the ain't on bad the.crane try biennium be artemis see daughter ! attribution ! blithe on colloquia it camden be classificatory , bract be diamond it's.cutout be clothesman some crossword not bateau some bourgeoisie be bursty and baneberry !.councilwoman be bicep see bhoy and conception ,.disturbance try courtney on bedpost not collateral try canary but compilation but apparel not candlelit on aristotelian some columbus see captious and.della but aggression or cognitive it's crow some derail try bissau see buy may.crewmen the chamberlain may contrary may ar or.carboxy and anywhere but collectible may briggs try benson be clique but circular be digestive be clout or bartend see anaheim or.baneful try causation but constituent but cult not alia some cowpea not balky see.

Am I the only one who gets crazy bulk mail…or am I the only one who reads his bulk mail? This one was from someone called “Bird Gerald” you comb drink then eat fall evening draw find you watch forget Of speak think awake believe believe Have translate change sleep drink turnoff somewhere understand allow it open say she count spend

Pre-writing

Ok, so all these pics below are just for me for tone purposes for idea purposes, as I think about writing a play about an elf in the North Pole. The details are fuzzy so I imagine this one will be a while coming. And I'm an impatient person sometimes so I like to dig up source material to get my self into a world quicker--it sometimes works--especially if it's the right material. In some cases, the colors are as important as the content. I wish I could wrap this blog up in colored lights--got some next to my desk now. Hey, if I think they help, then they help.

scary holiday images

because it's holidays with an edge

Dramaturgy

Sorry if this is annoying. It's for me. (dramaturgy, although I'm having trouble finding the right kind of images.)

Is Involuntary Cowboy any good? How about Disinterested Cowboy? Inescapable Cowboy Doom Toys in Blood Hot Damn I'll stop soon, I swear.

other other possible titles

Limp Cowboy Blues The Unrepentant One-Eyed Bastard The Flailing Cowboy Revenge Play Shooting Out of a Ten Gallon Hat Village Settlement Blood Loss for Herbie Unrepentant Repent Lest Ye Take Two in the Brain Tarnation (melon's contribution) Bullet Spray Cowboy Legs Cowboy Hands A Cowboy Knows Out of the Saddle Splayed Contrived "Comedic" Cowboy Play Using Hamlet in the West as a Metaphor for American Manifest Destiny Dominance, Extermination, and Ruthless Need For Material Satisfaction Dirt Pushing Lead Leading a Horse to Water

I can mail merge with the best of them

and I can rattle off a fast memo or speedy haiku I photocopy like a demon with hands the fax machine is like part of my body the word processing I do all by hand and the proofreading seems to take care of itself although I can't make coffee

thinking now about writing a christmas comedy that takes place in the north pole. of course by the time I'm ready to write it it will be summer out and I'll want to write about pools and sprinklers and air conditioning and elves Santa is sinister

other possible titles

lil help? The Unwilling Cowboy Dead Cowboy Dead Cowboys Tell No Lies The Unhappy Cowboy Herbie, the Unwilling Cowboy Saddle Sores Whiskey and Sand Herbie and the Great Shootout Gunfights Always End By Sunset Sundown Herbie, Son of the West Vultures Ain't Picky 'Bout Dead Cowboys Herbie's Showdown Herbie's First Showdown Big Cowboy Showdown Even a Catus Dies Without Love The Cowboy Ain't No Cowboy in Heaven Cowboy Surprise A Cowboy For All Seasons Bootful of Whiskey The Firewater Diary A Cowboy Dies in His Boots A Dead Cowboy Walks Alone The Poet The Cowboy Poet Desert Rose looking for a title. anyone?

My play went over really well in class--like really amazingly extroadinarily well. Almost too well. So well I'm a little depressed. What do you think of the title Dead Cowboys Never Whine ?

awakening

Last Words of My Mentor, Dr. Warren Smetwarter

I’ll probably never forget what he said to me, but just in case I could someday, I’ll write it down before I do. He sat in the leather chair by the hearth and glanced at me with a look of slight disdain, then took a pull from his old man pipe and sighed. “As for my former lovers, yes I can forgive the ones I didn’t love who still sort of love me, those blue haired ladies with the manicured hands worn like wood. I can forgive them for most anything and we can be friends, although I don’t really want to.” Here he stroked his beard and again he sighed. “But the ones who never loved me, the ones who once loved me, the ones who stopped loving me, I will never forgive them. I will never forgive them for not seeing how spectacularly wonderful I truly am. They just have no taste whatsoever. And that, I cannot abide.” Then he turned away and immediately died. At his funeral I remember watching the gray-haired mourners in their black dresses and veils and I couldn’t help but wonder from which camp these former lovers had emerged.