Is anyone out there? Sometimes I want to ask myself, what the hell am I doing? I have to remind myself to follow my own path, but sometimes, this “own path shit” gets lonely. I mean lonely as I have no professional peers, besides my right hand wonder-twinn Bassey Ikpi. She is one of the few people I started out with and am still in constant contact with. I know how this happened. I started out with a lot of poets, slamming, and touring. But now, I’m not really in that loop anymore. Whenever I reach out to those people they make it very clear that the past does not define the present. It’s too bad, cause it would be good to have a base of folks I could talk to about the things I was trying to do. The place I’m at now, is a mixture of performance poetry and hip-hop theatre. Because I didn’t start off with the Hip-Hop Theatre cats, I don’t know them well and there seems to be a certain level of distrust. We are all decidedly protective of our own little worlds. Meanwhile I’m knocking on both doors trying to make it happen. All of this happened when I started reading people I know
Enough of the whining.
I do have a strong group around me. My peeps, Larry Knight, David Pugh… incredible poets/writers. I don’t think either one of them realize how talented they are. Quite honestly, because they don’t realize how good they are, I don’t feel like they are living up to their potential. But they will. It just takes a bit for the realization to hit home. I can see Larry beginning to come into his own in performance. Before he started working with my director Barbara, he was good. Good words, great voice. Now he has all of that including soul. He’s broken out of the confines his great voice put him in, and found the soul of his work. Every time we perform together, I am somewhat amazed at his growth. I don’t think he even notices, he just does it. David was much more polished when he started working with Barbs but I think that is part of David’s problem. He is an incredible performer, but he needs to dig deeper. I know D, carries a lot of pain with him. It’s written all over his face, and I think it stops him from digging deep, and being honest on stage. So now he gives great performances, but there is no vulnerability. It’s like watching Superman beat up bank robbers. To the average human, men with guns are a big deal, but to Supes? Nada. Now, let Lex pull out some Kryptonite, and you have good drama. David is flawless, but sometimes on stage, I’m looking to see the flawed human we all are. That being said, there aren’t many people in the world that can rock like David. I have seen women wiggling in there seats listening to him. The three of us on stage is gunpowder, and Barbara is the match.
What to say about Babszilla? She drives me crazy, but has been such a good friend, she drives me to work as hard as I do and sometimes there is little money for both of us at the end of the rainbow. She took me from a poet that speed through all his poems into what I am today, and I still have a ways to go. I’m still learning consistency. I think I have it, but I need a higher level of consistency. Everything I do on stage comes from her proding and pushing. She told me when we first started working together, that I had the package, but just needed to learn how to use it. In the last four years she has patiently held me by the hand as I jumped head first into my art. I’ve picked up other professional friends like Holly Bass who has become a sister to me, and a few others. My boy Ian who does all my graphics and web stuff at no cost, has supported me from day one. On the days when I want to quit he always gives me this look of, “What the hell are you thinking” I couldn’t do half the shit I do without him pushing me along. And then there is Stacie. All the words I could write on this page could not sum up how she has supported me, but per her request, I will refrain from writing about her on this blog. All in all, these people keep me afloat.
Even still, on days like today, I feel like: Where am I going? I mean in my heart I know this path that has being created in front of me is where I need to go, it’s the manifest destiny that I know is there, but sometimes can’t see the end result. The thing is, I’ve been walking down this road for a long time but honestly don’t really know where it’s heading. I keep myself going, because I’m not doing this for the destination, as much as I am doing it for the work. Primarily, I’m scared to think of the end. Because if I do, it may distract me from the work, but maybe the work is the end. Maybe, I don’t need the lofty goals, and just the work. The uncertainty of one foot in front of the other is very similar to how I wrote poems. With poems I never know where they are going to go, but I’ve learned the key with poetry, for me, is to not worry about where the poem is going, but trust that it is going.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Eunice
Eunice
By: A. L. Letson Jr.
“Eunice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl, get down here and wash these dishes.
You know what you suppose to do!!!”
You got to think
That somewhere along the line
Her parents had something to do with it.
North Cakalaky whuppins’
from the hand that loved her the most.
It’s summer,
1943 in Tryon North Carolina
And the sun bakes your skin,
Without mercy or regard.
White folks getting red,
like the blood under their skin
is about to boil.
Black folks getting blacka
Like midnight their father,
Has stretched his fingers
around their collective soul
In an effort to taken them home.
Mississippi Goddamn!
But right now we in North Carolina
As Eunice Kathleen Waymon
Sits on the mahogany bench
Ten year old fingers
Preparing to tickle the ebony and ivory
It’s her first piano recital at the Robert E. Lee Library
in Downtown Tryon
and everybody who’s anybody, in this small southern hamlet
has come to see the little colored girl,
that can play so well.
Her parents on the front row,
her four brothers, and three sisters,
floating somewhere in the periphery.
She arches her back
relaxes her fingers and begins
to play.
She doesn’t sing,
She just closes her eyes.
and plays.
There is music in her fingertips,
that comes forward when pressed against
the temporary friction of Piano keys.
She hears the silence between
the notes,
In the wide open spaces
where only her,
and the music reside.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
Just play,
Just play
Like her teacher taught her
But, it’s too loud and she has to look.
Her fingers continue to move
On autopilot she glances
at the audience
As the librarian, is escorting her parents
from the front row to the back
So a white couple can have their seat.
Mississippi Goddamn.
But we’re in Tryon right now.
And she’s looking at the white keys
beneath her powerless ten year old fingers,
that are still playing
the water in her eyes is too heavy,
and it just wants to fall.
And she wants to stop.
There are some burdens ten year olds
should not be forced to carry,
but she can’t let it drop.
She finishes the song,
To thunderous applause,
But she doesn’t want to play no more.
It aint fun no more.
She wanna go home.
Until over the heads of the smiling,
homogenized, crowd she sees her daddy’s face,
as he mouths the words,
“You know what you suppose to do”
And she closes her eyes
and plays.
But this time her fingers hit the keys harder
Play a little faster.
That wide open space has got fire in it now
Higher than it now
And it just don’t wanna stop.
she can’t let it drop.
So she plays and plays and plays
Until the pain goes away.
Missippipp Goddamn!
But it never goes away for long.
Twenty years later
After she’s renamed herself
From a boyfriend’s pet name,
Nina.
And a French actress.
Simone.
So she can sing in piano bars
to pay for her education
without her momma knowing.
Twenty years from
that piano recital,
she’s a star now.
But the pain don’t stop
It’s born in the faces
Of four dead black girls
Charred in the remains of an Alabama church
Carried on the wings of Negro Spirituals,
And in the righteousness of civil disobedience
It’s given a rhythm by the marching protestors
Who’s eyes were watching God as they put
One foot in front of the other,
The pain is hidden,
Under the weight fire hoses,
Attacking dogs
And swinging nooses
But on June 12th 1963
As the children of Medger Evers
Watch their daddy bleed to death
On the front steps
From a gun shot in the back
The pain becomes to much to bare…
Mississippi Goddamn
And she wants to cry
But she hears her daddy’s voice.
“you know what you suppose to do…”
Ms. Nina Simone
walks out from back stage
Sits on a mahogany bench
Fingers preparing to caress the ebony and ivory
It’s 1964 Carnegie Hal
New York, New York.
And even here black girls should know their place
They want her to laugh
Sing the blues, Gershwin maybe.
And she does
Until that pain comes back.
Half way through the set
She finishes a song, arches her back
Nods to the band
And plays….
Mississippi Goddamn
Copywright 2004 Al Letson
By: A. L. Letson Jr.
“Eunice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl, get down here and wash these dishes.
You know what you suppose to do!!!”
You got to think
That somewhere along the line
Her parents had something to do with it.
North Cakalaky whuppins’
from the hand that loved her the most.
It’s summer,
1943 in Tryon North Carolina
And the sun bakes your skin,
Without mercy or regard.
White folks getting red,
like the blood under their skin
is about to boil.
Black folks getting blacka
Like midnight their father,
Has stretched his fingers
around their collective soul
In an effort to taken them home.
Mississippi Goddamn!
But right now we in North Carolina
As Eunice Kathleen Waymon
Sits on the mahogany bench
Ten year old fingers
Preparing to tickle the ebony and ivory
It’s her first piano recital at the Robert E. Lee Library
in Downtown Tryon
and everybody who’s anybody, in this small southern hamlet
has come to see the little colored girl,
that can play so well.
Her parents on the front row,
her four brothers, and three sisters,
floating somewhere in the periphery.
She arches her back
relaxes her fingers and begins
to play.
She doesn’t sing,
She just closes her eyes.
and plays.
There is music in her fingertips,
that comes forward when pressed against
the temporary friction of Piano keys.
She hears the silence between
the notes,
In the wide open spaces
where only her,
and the music reside.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
Just play,
Just play
Like her teacher taught her
But, it’s too loud and she has to look.
Her fingers continue to move
On autopilot she glances
at the audience
As the librarian, is escorting her parents
from the front row to the back
So a white couple can have their seat.
Mississippi Goddamn.
But we’re in Tryon right now.
And she’s looking at the white keys
beneath her powerless ten year old fingers,
that are still playing
the water in her eyes is too heavy,
and it just wants to fall.
And she wants to stop.
There are some burdens ten year olds
should not be forced to carry,
but she can’t let it drop.
She finishes the song,
To thunderous applause,
But she doesn’t want to play no more.
It aint fun no more.
She wanna go home.
Until over the heads of the smiling,
homogenized, crowd she sees her daddy’s face,
as he mouths the words,
“You know what you suppose to do”
And she closes her eyes
and plays.
But this time her fingers hit the keys harder
Play a little faster.
That wide open space has got fire in it now
Higher than it now
And it just don’t wanna stop.
she can’t let it drop.
So she plays and plays and plays
Until the pain goes away.
Missippipp Goddamn!
But it never goes away for long.
Twenty years later
After she’s renamed herself
From a boyfriend’s pet name,
Nina.
And a French actress.
Simone.
So she can sing in piano bars
to pay for her education
without her momma knowing.
Twenty years from
that piano recital,
she’s a star now.
But the pain don’t stop
It’s born in the faces
Of four dead black girls
Charred in the remains of an Alabama church
Carried on the wings of Negro Spirituals,
And in the righteousness of civil disobedience
It’s given a rhythm by the marching protestors
Who’s eyes were watching God as they put
One foot in front of the other,
The pain is hidden,
Under the weight fire hoses,
Attacking dogs
And swinging nooses
But on June 12th 1963
As the children of Medger Evers
Watch their daddy bleed to death
On the front steps
From a gun shot in the back
The pain becomes to much to bare…
Mississippi Goddamn
And she wants to cry
But she hears her daddy’s voice.
“you know what you suppose to do…”
Ms. Nina Simone
walks out from back stage
Sits on a mahogany bench
Fingers preparing to caress the ebony and ivory
It’s 1964 Carnegie Hal
New York, New York.
And even here black girls should know their place
They want her to laugh
Sing the blues, Gershwin maybe.
And she does
Until that pain comes back.
Half way through the set
She finishes a song, arches her back
Nods to the band
And plays….
Mississippi Goddamn
Copywright 2004 Al Letson
Friday, August 20, 2004
You oughta be in pictures.
So the big goal for 2005 is a movie. It's aboslutely crazy, I know. I have four major projects I have to work on. Plus two grants that I applied for that will basically have me working a fulltime job doing theatre stuff in the new year, if I get them which is highly suspect. But even if I don't get the grants my plate is full. But the whisper has been instistant. The whisper has been saying, "above all create, challenge yourself." I can't be like a million other actors who go to LA or NY begging someone to put them in a film. That's too pedestrian for me. I need to feel like it's in my hands. Maybe it isn't but still, i need to be in action. But above all the ambition, a story has stuck it head out and it is demanding to be told. So I call my film guy and tell him...."Dan, I making a movie this year. I want you to be down, but I'm making the movie if you are or not." I think that was an assholey approach, but when I'm caught up in something I don't have time for pretty speach. Dan knows this. So instead of being bitchy, he says, "I'm down for whatever you are..." That's the first piece. The other piece is Ed. Ed Keyes saved my life once, no BS, I mean he saved my life. He and I have been talking about making a movie together forever, I told him and he of course is down. So I'm doing it. I have a microscopic budget, but so what. I have done more with less and will continue to do so. Watch me.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Tipping Point
Erie Pennsylvania is beautiful this time of the year. I’ve never been here before, but I love it. Of course I’ve probably seen only 1/4 of the city, but that part of seen is so green and peaceful.
I’m in Erie, with my director Barb, to work with the Ophelia Project on ways to create a national push for my play Chalk. Very exciting. The people in the Ophelia Project are genuinely good people. I’ve never done much work with a non-profit before, except watching an ex girl friend work endlessly at her under-funded under appreciated job in the field of environmental health. I never really thought about using my work to connect with a “cause” but hey, if the shoe fits… So I guess maybe a little explanation is needed when discussing the scenario. The Ophelia Project is a national nonprofit that works to end "Relational Aggression". "RA" has been called GIRL AGGRESSION, because it the way girls usually express aggressive tendacities. It's not the out and out fighting, but ignoring someone, spreading rumors, "cattiness" this type of behavior can damage girls for the rest of their lives. Chalk is a play I wrote about girl aggression with this play I created a genre I call a POETICAL.
po·et·i·cal n.
1. a movie or play that uses performance, or “slam” poetry, in it as important elements in developing the story and portraying the emotions of the characters
To be honest, I didn’t actually create a new genre, maybe I named it, or re-energized it, because I think Shakespeare and Greek Theatre were both doing this type of work. I think I just took iambic pentameter and put a beatbox to it. So this is a great way to speak to a new generation of theatre folks. All of this makes Chalk the perfect vehicle for the Ophelia Project. So this weekend I spent a lot of time listening, learning and trying to figure out how to make it all happen. While I’m listening to all the conversation, it hits me that these people not just the Ophelia Project, but people like them, do the real work. The work no one wants to talk about, the heavy lifting that all of us benefit from but have no time or desire to do ourselves.
The one common thing I hear from educators across the country, is how they are tired of teaching children for a test. I think it’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. How in the hell can you judge the quality of an education by a standardized test? It’s impossible. What you create is drones, trained to pass a test, not students that are taught to think. But of course politicians have to find someway to validate their existence. So instead of doing the real work necessary to help the youth, they give a test. And of course in disadvantaged areas, the children test poorly. Hmmm wonder why? Could it be that the social-economical culture is created to help them fail? That there are bigger issues then whether they can pass a test. And maybe if we were willing to put tax dollars into our schools instead of subsidiesing tobacco farmers to not grow tobacco, or giving money to NFL teams to build bigger stadiums, just maybe we could create a school system that works.
I’m getting off subject. Chalk has the ability to push my career forward. I’m excited, but not too excited. I’ve learned that all the big plans mean nothing if you don’t work for them. The biggest problem with the “O” project is that they have never done this sort of thing before. And quiet honestly neither have I so, we are both feeling our way through the dark.
I wonder how things work for regular playwrights. The process seems to slow to me. Writing something, and sitting it on the shelf until someone decides to read it. Or the process of trying to get an agent to read your work, and then push you forward. Slow. And it also takes control out of your hands. I can’t do that. I’m sure at some point I will have to, but right now, I just got to keep pushing forward, and work the connections.
I’m in Erie, with my director Barb, to work with the Ophelia Project on ways to create a national push for my play Chalk. Very exciting. The people in the Ophelia Project are genuinely good people. I’ve never done much work with a non-profit before, except watching an ex girl friend work endlessly at her under-funded under appreciated job in the field of environmental health. I never really thought about using my work to connect with a “cause” but hey, if the shoe fits… So I guess maybe a little explanation is needed when discussing the scenario. The Ophelia Project is a national nonprofit that works to end "Relational Aggression". "RA" has been called GIRL AGGRESSION, because it the way girls usually express aggressive tendacities. It's not the out and out fighting, but ignoring someone, spreading rumors, "cattiness" this type of behavior can damage girls for the rest of their lives. Chalk is a play I wrote about girl aggression with this play I created a genre I call a POETICAL.
po·et·i·cal n.
1. a movie or play that uses performance, or “slam” poetry, in it as important elements in developing the story and portraying the emotions of the characters
To be honest, I didn’t actually create a new genre, maybe I named it, or re-energized it, because I think Shakespeare and Greek Theatre were both doing this type of work. I think I just took iambic pentameter and put a beatbox to it. So this is a great way to speak to a new generation of theatre folks. All of this makes Chalk the perfect vehicle for the Ophelia Project. So this weekend I spent a lot of time listening, learning and trying to figure out how to make it all happen. While I’m listening to all the conversation, it hits me that these people not just the Ophelia Project, but people like them, do the real work. The work no one wants to talk about, the heavy lifting that all of us benefit from but have no time or desire to do ourselves.
The one common thing I hear from educators across the country, is how they are tired of teaching children for a test. I think it’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. How in the hell can you judge the quality of an education by a standardized test? It’s impossible. What you create is drones, trained to pass a test, not students that are taught to think. But of course politicians have to find someway to validate their existence. So instead of doing the real work necessary to help the youth, they give a test. And of course in disadvantaged areas, the children test poorly. Hmmm wonder why? Could it be that the social-economical culture is created to help them fail? That there are bigger issues then whether they can pass a test. And maybe if we were willing to put tax dollars into our schools instead of subsidiesing tobacco farmers to not grow tobacco, or giving money to NFL teams to build bigger stadiums, just maybe we could create a school system that works.
I’m getting off subject. Chalk has the ability to push my career forward. I’m excited, but not too excited. I’ve learned that all the big plans mean nothing if you don’t work for them. The biggest problem with the “O” project is that they have never done this sort of thing before. And quiet honestly neither have I so, we are both feeling our way through the dark.
I wonder how things work for regular playwrights. The process seems to slow to me. Writing something, and sitting it on the shelf until someone decides to read it. Or the process of trying to get an agent to read your work, and then push you forward. Slow. And it also takes control out of your hands. I can’t do that. I’m sure at some point I will have to, but right now, I just got to keep pushing forward, and work the connections.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Things Fall apart...
This week is the National Poetry Slam in St. Louis MO. I love the slam, and everytime August comes along, I miss it more. This year though is a little strange. My man from DC, Patrick Washington gave me a call to fill me in on the haps. Patrick, AKA Black Picasso, is an emcee, an incredible rapper, and a very impressive poet. I think these are too separate artforms. They are related but separate. Pic is a good emcee because he's got skills, he's a good poet cause he got the skills. I would be a terrible emcee because i don't have rappin' skills. Most people fall in my category just cause you can rock the mic at a poetry event doesn't mean you can rock with the emcee's. And the same goes for Rappers (they seem to think they can be poets more then the other way around.)
So, Pat's telling me how bad things are in St. Louis. I've never been to the city to perform or anything of the sorts, but from what he's saying the audience is just not there for a Nationals. I've had my beef with each of the Nationals I've been to, but all of them have had incredible crowds. This one seems to be pretty skeletal. All of this brings up a couple thoughts.
1) I miss the hell out the people I started slamming with. People like Phil West, Mike Henry, Regie Gibson, DJ Renegade, Taylor Mali, Ben Porter Lewis. Great people, incredible poets, and good times. I miss them like a mutherphuka! So I am going to make it my mission to reconnect with as many of them as possible. They have all given me so much in my life as a performer. I'm sure by now most of them, have moved on and don't really remember me, but, what the hell.
2) WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE SLAM? I looked on the website, (which by far is the whackest website for Nationals), and read the list of poets competeting. And it looks like a list of has-been-rappers! All these whack ass names! WHY DOES A POET NEED A STAGE NAME? Why are we "spiting" poems? What the hell are they thinking? Then I remember what they are thinking, because I thought the same thing when I entered the slam.
I was coming from Jacksonville a city that had no team, hell there were no teams in Florida at the time. Back then I was a flight attendant for American Airlines and I could fly anywhere for free. This gave me the ability to go to slams at the drop of a dime. When I first heard about the slam it was in 96' when Mouth Almight released the CD from the 94' slam in San Fran. I loved that CD and still own it today. The CD had all these poets with synonyms,flashy names like the Invisible Man,and others. At the time I was looking for the flash so I listened these people non stop. I never NEVER listened to the people with regular names, I mean how good could you be if your name was just Patricia Smith? Then one day I was washing the dishes and the cd just played. The poem was "Undertaker". It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard. And it was by this lady name Patricia Smith. I will never forget how stupid I was. I felt like the biblical Paul who'd been blind, until the scales fell from his eyes. Just like that I got it. It's not about Flashy names, or assumed idenities, but the work. the words. the heart and soul. This is one the one thing I thought poetry had on hip-hoppers. We speak the truth, or at least we should. Michael Harper said "the job of the poet is to tell the truth" and that truth, the personal truth is what should drive us.
So now the next frame of thought is, how did so many poets collectively not learn that lesson? The answer? Poets like me.
Poets like me who love the slam, but eventually left for whatever reason. Because if Patricia had left before I got in, I never would have known. If Regie Gibson had moved on, how would I have learned? They passed that scaredness of the slam to me, and I have left it on the counter. I can not be mad at who ever picked it up. I should have seen it coming before I left. New poets coming into the slam who cared nothing about the tradition, couldn't tell you who Marc Smith was, didn't care about the shoulders upon which they stood. It upset me, but ultimately, what could I do? So I left, following other paths.
I look at the Slam now, like an old girl friend, one that you have a lot of love for, but everytime you see her, she looks worse that she did the time before. I want to hold her, help her, talk to her about our previous lives. But her eyes are hollow now, and when she looks at me there is no recognition in her face.
So, Pat's telling me how bad things are in St. Louis. I've never been to the city to perform or anything of the sorts, but from what he's saying the audience is just not there for a Nationals. I've had my beef with each of the Nationals I've been to, but all of them have had incredible crowds. This one seems to be pretty skeletal. All of this brings up a couple thoughts.
1) I miss the hell out the people I started slamming with. People like Phil West, Mike Henry, Regie Gibson, DJ Renegade, Taylor Mali, Ben Porter Lewis. Great people, incredible poets, and good times. I miss them like a mutherphuka! So I am going to make it my mission to reconnect with as many of them as possible. They have all given me so much in my life as a performer. I'm sure by now most of them, have moved on and don't really remember me, but, what the hell.
2) WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE SLAM? I looked on the website, (which by far is the whackest website for Nationals), and read the list of poets competeting. And it looks like a list of has-been-rappers! All these whack ass names! WHY DOES A POET NEED A STAGE NAME? Why are we "spiting" poems? What the hell are they thinking? Then I remember what they are thinking, because I thought the same thing when I entered the slam.
I was coming from Jacksonville a city that had no team, hell there were no teams in Florida at the time. Back then I was a flight attendant for American Airlines and I could fly anywhere for free. This gave me the ability to go to slams at the drop of a dime. When I first heard about the slam it was in 96' when Mouth Almight released the CD from the 94' slam in San Fran. I loved that CD and still own it today. The CD had all these poets with synonyms,flashy names like the Invisible Man,and others. At the time I was looking for the flash so I listened these people non stop. I never NEVER listened to the people with regular names, I mean how good could you be if your name was just Patricia Smith? Then one day I was washing the dishes and the cd just played. The poem was "Undertaker". It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard. And it was by this lady name Patricia Smith. I will never forget how stupid I was. I felt like the biblical Paul who'd been blind, until the scales fell from his eyes. Just like that I got it. It's not about Flashy names, or assumed idenities, but the work. the words. the heart and soul. This is one the one thing I thought poetry had on hip-hoppers. We speak the truth, or at least we should. Michael Harper said "the job of the poet is to tell the truth" and that truth, the personal truth is what should drive us.
So now the next frame of thought is, how did so many poets collectively not learn that lesson? The answer? Poets like me.
Poets like me who love the slam, but eventually left for whatever reason. Because if Patricia had left before I got in, I never would have known. If Regie Gibson had moved on, how would I have learned? They passed that scaredness of the slam to me, and I have left it on the counter. I can not be mad at who ever picked it up. I should have seen it coming before I left. New poets coming into the slam who cared nothing about the tradition, couldn't tell you who Marc Smith was, didn't care about the shoulders upon which they stood. It upset me, but ultimately, what could I do? So I left, following other paths.
I look at the Slam now, like an old girl friend, one that you have a lot of love for, but everytime you see her, she looks worse that she did the time before. I want to hold her, help her, talk to her about our previous lives. But her eyes are hollow now, and when she looks at me there is no recognition in her face.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Juggle
This has been a busy week, and it doesn't stop. In the next couple weeks, I have to get my stuff together so I can make this mini-tour happen. I need to make the dollars! Barbara and I have been working non-stop on the Griot dates. Our game plan is to make school dates at Theatre Jax. Right now Nov. 22nd and 23rd. Bus kids in and have a good show. Hopefully, we'll make good money for those two dates. Then we're trying to work it out with the Ritz. I'd like to do the nighttime performances, we won't make a lot of money there, but honestly, I could careless. I'd just like to see the play on that stage.
Sept. is already starting to book up solidly. I'll be in the B-more area working for a bit, and also taking part of the Single File Solo performance festival in Chicago. That will be interesting. There is so much going on I have to figure out a way to maximize all of it. When I look at how many projects I have working, it's scary that I can easily loose sight of the days, and allow dates to sneak up on me.
Money seems like it's going to even out in the next month or so. That will be a relief as I'm sure everyone in the house is sick of eating P&J sandwiches for dinner. Today I took $100 of my rent money and fulled the refigerator. I'll be a little late on the rent because of it, but at this point I don't care. We have to eat.
On the creative front. I have a new idea for a screenplay. I actually started off writing scripts as screenplays before I figured out that the stage was where I wanted to work for. But recently, as more of an exercise then anything else, I made Essential Personnel into a screenplay. I love the way I don't have to adhere to the limitations of the stage, it's wide open and there are so many ways you can play with it. The cost of that, is the fact that most of the screenplays that are written will never get produced. This is a problem for me. I'm use to writing a play, and putting it up, and honing it. Not with film, too much is needed from too many people to think that creating film will happen as easy as a play.
Living in Florida has a way of making me feel disconnected from the rest of the artistic world. Especially the work I do. There isn't a foundation for it anywhere. If I was a tradition playwright, finding a group to commiserate with would be easy. I'm not slamming anymore, so talking to slam poets and trying to build with them would be silly because they aren't so much interested in building as they are winning the next slam. On one side of the equation, I have the best reel of any poet in the nation, three plays being produced this year, and a lot of drive, but ultimately because I'm here in no man's land, no one really knows. Therefore I get passed over for a lot of stuff that could help me. On the flip side if I was in NY I'm sure I wouldn't have as many products as I do. I know because most of my friends in NY are equally as talented, and driven. The difference, they have to worry about living where for me, I can live like a pleblian, and still do my work, and not kill myself. Still it's frustrating.
Sept. is already starting to book up solidly. I'll be in the B-more area working for a bit, and also taking part of the Single File Solo performance festival in Chicago. That will be interesting. There is so much going on I have to figure out a way to maximize all of it. When I look at how many projects I have working, it's scary that I can easily loose sight of the days, and allow dates to sneak up on me.
Money seems like it's going to even out in the next month or so. That will be a relief as I'm sure everyone in the house is sick of eating P&J sandwiches for dinner. Today I took $100 of my rent money and fulled the refigerator. I'll be a little late on the rent because of it, but at this point I don't care. We have to eat.
On the creative front. I have a new idea for a screenplay. I actually started off writing scripts as screenplays before I figured out that the stage was where I wanted to work for. But recently, as more of an exercise then anything else, I made Essential Personnel into a screenplay. I love the way I don't have to adhere to the limitations of the stage, it's wide open and there are so many ways you can play with it. The cost of that, is the fact that most of the screenplays that are written will never get produced. This is a problem for me. I'm use to writing a play, and putting it up, and honing it. Not with film, too much is needed from too many people to think that creating film will happen as easy as a play.
Living in Florida has a way of making me feel disconnected from the rest of the artistic world. Especially the work I do. There isn't a foundation for it anywhere. If I was a tradition playwright, finding a group to commiserate with would be easy. I'm not slamming anymore, so talking to slam poets and trying to build with them would be silly because they aren't so much interested in building as they are winning the next slam. On one side of the equation, I have the best reel of any poet in the nation, three plays being produced this year, and a lot of drive, but ultimately because I'm here in no man's land, no one really knows. Therefore I get passed over for a lot of stuff that could help me. On the flip side if I was in NY I'm sure I wouldn't have as many products as I do. I know because most of my friends in NY are equally as talented, and driven. The difference, they have to worry about living where for me, I can live like a pleblian, and still do my work, and not kill myself. Still it's frustrating.
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