Story of the Locks
Milwaukee is cold this time of year. Duh. But I got a gig, and the gig is for a good cause, so here I am. I hate the cold. Hate it. You’d think I was born in the south for my aversion for the cold. I consider myself a southerner, for good or bad, but it wasn’t always so. I’m a boy from New Jersey, and love the Tri-State area, but feel no connection to it during the winter.
The flight to Milwaukee brought up a lot of old feelings, and I have no idea why. I’ve been on several planes in the last 4 years, but none of them have made me miss the life I left behind. Maybe the word “life” is too melodramatic, the flight made me miss the job I use to have.
Four years ago I was a flight attendant for American Eagle Airlines. I started flying when I was 22 and stopped when I was 29. I loved the job. It was an escape from problems I was having at home, but also I taught me a lot about who I was, and who I wanted to be. I usually never miss flying. Towards the end I was sick of it. On 9/11 I was in New York worried sick about my friends that I knew flew those routes. On the flip side, everyone I cared about was worried about me, all in all it was a surreal and terrifying experience. Slowly, it started to take the enjoyment of the job away. As traumatic as that was, it would be more then a year later before I left American Eagle.
One day in 2002 I woke up in Oakland California and looked in the mirror, and realized that I was beginning a transition. I remember looking at my face and thinking, it wasn’t the same one I’d washed before I went to bed. Months prior to that day, my life was falling apart. I’d lost everything and was sleeping in my car. All the things that everyone that loved me saw for me no longer held the same appeal. I didn’t want the things that I’d seen people around me have. Something was tugging at me, had been my whole life, but I never knew what it was, or how to name it. A longing for something that you can’t really put into words, but it’s always there in the corner of every major life decision. I’d gotten to the point where I had nothing left to loose and that voice, whispering in my ear was becoming more persistent. Ultimately I wanted to figure out who I was, and who I was going to be. Somewhere deep, I knew that was not being a flight attendant.
Poetry was a hobby. A good one. As a flight attendant, I’d been able to make a name for myself by going to all the little poetry slam venues, won a couple slams, had a couple laughs, made a couple friends. In the midst of it all, that pulling came back in full force and whisper, this is what I wanted to do, what I was meant to do. Perform, write, live life on my own terms. As a child I’d always been an artist. I was an exceptional little artist/painter, if 4th grade I wrote my own play, sung (lost that skill), and acted in several plays. In Jr. High, I got heavily involved with Hip-hop and became somewhat of a local “Puffy-Daddy”. Funny to think about it, but when I see people from High School some of them ask me if I’m still rapping. When I got older, I let all that go, along with the nickname Alfie, and forged this new person, Al that was an adult. Adults do things that are responsible. Like get married have 2.5 kids, buy a house with a white picket fence, work 9-5, retire and get an RV. Poetry changed all of that. I could no longer think on those terms. The world seemed like such a bigger place then that dream. It hit me like a ton of bricks, the thought that I would not follow in my parent’s footsteps. For some people this realization might be trite, or easy to come to, but for me, son of a Baptist preacher, who had always been given a “Cosby-esque” view of the world, being a full-time artist was scary. For months it dogged me. I wanted to do so much more then just write a three minute poem, or sling peanuts on a plane.
That day in Oakland was important because staring at the mirror, I decided to grow my hair. The a couple nights before the beautiful woman I was dating said she thought I would look good with long hair. It got me thinking that all my life I’d worn the same hair cut. Low-fade. Not once did I ever consider growing my hair out. Never. My haircut was controlled and tight exactly what everyone around me expected. I’d heard that growing dreds was supposed to be a religious experience. Before I started letting my hair grow, I thought it was corny mysticism, but that day in Oakland was a conversion of sorts. I knew I could no longer live my life the way people wanted me to. Or even in a way that was comfortable. More then anything, I wanted to be an artist. I always wanted to be an artist, I just never knew what my art was, now I’d found it.
I remember feeling like I was at the edge of a cliff, and I couldn’t see below, the road I’d walked to get there had been erased by a sandstorm, and all I could do was stay put or go forward. Some people have told me over the years that doing what I do as a living is brave. I think back to that cliff and know it wasn’t. Either I stayed put for the rest of my life, or I jump. There was no real choice. You jump. You jump and you pray the Lord will find a way to set you down easily, or give you wings to fly. I could end this post with something really corny, like “Thank God, he gave me wings!” But instead, I’ll just end by saying, I’m living the life I’ve always wanted. I’m doing the work that is important to me. On a whole things have worked out just the way they were meant to. Everything is not rosey. There have been plenty of hard times, and bad breaks. I’m not rich, probably never will be, I’m not comfortable, comfortable would have been staying at a 9 to 5, getting the steady check, but I don’t want that. I’m living, creating, working, and giving something back to the world. My gift is small, but it’s what I got to give. Thank God he gave me wings…LOL.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
Beginnings and Endings
I started to write a really long post about August Wilson and what he means to me as a writer, and as an African-American. But I’ve read so many other accounts that I decided, I had nothing new to add to the conversation. Except to say that he changed my life when I discovered his work. I don’t feel bad that he’s gone. Death is something that will come to all of us. I’m happy for him. He set an ambitious goal, and he saw it through. 10 plays. An unheard of cycle. Some of the plays are better then others, but on a whole brilliant work. I hope when inevitability catches up with me, it will find me as accomplished and have contributed to the whole of humanity the way August did. Rest in peace.
All of that ties into this. I have finished the first draft of Julius X. Yay! For the next month, I’ll be doing some intense rewrites, readings, and more research to make the piece work better. But for a first draft, I’m really happy. David Mamet said something along the lines, that all acting really was, is being brave. Going out there, and just doing it. I don’t know how much I agree with that, but I do think it has a lot to do with it. So it is with writing. A lot of it is just having the courage to dream and put it on paper. A POETICAL is much harder to write then a straight play. So there are plenty of opportunities to wimp out. I feel like in the first draft of CHALK I wimped out a couple times. I was tired of trying to write engaging poems. So instead, I just did the easy thing and let drama carry it. Which for what I was trying to do is cheating.
With Julius however I kept my nose to the grind. I got it done a week past the deadline, but a week isn’t that far off. I think the piece is strong. But you know when your doing something new sometimes it’s hard to gage how people will take it.
There is a deep sense of satisfaction from finishing something I’d dreamed up a year ago spent months researching, and several months writing. This isn’t the end of the work. This is just the birth-day.
I never write the title page until I finish the first draft. It was an honor to add an additional page in between the title page and first page of the script. The page is mostly blank with two words, “For August”.
All of that ties into this. I have finished the first draft of Julius X. Yay! For the next month, I’ll be doing some intense rewrites, readings, and more research to make the piece work better. But for a first draft, I’m really happy. David Mamet said something along the lines, that all acting really was, is being brave. Going out there, and just doing it. I don’t know how much I agree with that, but I do think it has a lot to do with it. So it is with writing. A lot of it is just having the courage to dream and put it on paper. A POETICAL is much harder to write then a straight play. So there are plenty of opportunities to wimp out. I feel like in the first draft of CHALK I wimped out a couple times. I was tired of trying to write engaging poems. So instead, I just did the easy thing and let drama carry it. Which for what I was trying to do is cheating.
With Julius however I kept my nose to the grind. I got it done a week past the deadline, but a week isn’t that far off. I think the piece is strong. But you know when your doing something new sometimes it’s hard to gage how people will take it.
There is a deep sense of satisfaction from finishing something I’d dreamed up a year ago spent months researching, and several months writing. This isn’t the end of the work. This is just the birth-day.
I never write the title page until I finish the first draft. It was an honor to add an additional page in between the title page and first page of the script. The page is mostly blank with two words, “For August”.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
BALTIMORE, USA
Baltimore, Baltimore
I’m home. Been a bit since I’ve been to Baltimore, but once I get here it doesn’t take long for me to remember why this is my second home. I came here for a bunch of reasons. The place I stay at in Baltimore is the Governement House which is a bed and breakfast in the Mt. Vernon section of B-more. The place is magical. I've loved the building and the propietor since the first time I walked through the door. Jeanie, always takes good care of a poor poet trying to live his dream. I am blessed.
Confession time: I am a nerd. Always have been always will be. So it should be no surprise that I am a huge comic book fan, and for the last year or so, I’ve been pretty serious about trying to write comic books. So when I was planning this trip to read Julius X, it seemed to be fate that brought me Baltimore the same time as the Baltimore Comic Book Convention. In addition to the Convention, another business contact was going to be in town during the same time. I knew this was going to be a busy trip.
The Baltimore Convention.
Everything I’ve read about breaking into comics says you need to go to conventions and get to know people. So that’s why I went. I had a great time as a nerd. As a writer, it was the big goose egg. The conventions are made for Artist to connect publishers, but for a writer without an artist, not much going on. I talked to a few people, tried to make some connections, we’ll see if anything happens.
On the big ole phat nerd tip. I met some of the creators that I love. Like Amanda Conner. I spoke to her like I was a little kid. I’ve just been digging her Art work forever. Check out her stuff: www.amandaconner.com. (she’s my celebrity crush) LOL. I met the king John Romita Sr. This man is a legend. I shook his hand, and could barely speak. Jimmy Palmiotti was there, he’s a great talent unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I met a new writer named Raven, he’s pretty good too. So on a whole it was fun. Ultimately, I need to figure out how to break in cause it seems like the convention route isn’t going to get me far.
JULIUS X
Monday was the reading of Julius at the Eubie Blake Community Center. I had a good meeting with the director Troy Burton the day before the reading. He listened intently as I explained my vision for the piece. I could see the light bulb go on as I explained it all. He helped me think somethings through, and I think the piece is really strong. The reading made me even more confident of where it's going. Which I needed because writing a “Poetical” isn’t something that comes with an instruction book. This time I’m a little more free with the poetry, and the blending of it with dialogue. The play will be finished in a couple weeks. (We read the first half of the piece) and once that’s done, then it’s out of my hands. I’ll be in Baltimore again in November to do a reading open to the public, which will be much more intense. Anne @ the Theatre Project is happy with what she heard. I felt a little pressure to make her happy. She supports me fully, and I want her to know I appreciate it. At the same time I want to prove that the work is worthy of being supported. Big ambitions, but you gotta dream big right? I’m excited to see where this will end up.
On a separate note, a new business oppertunity opened up. I met some wonderful people while I was in B-more, and we may do some work together. Don't want to talk much about it now, until we get the details hammered out. But if it all works out which I think it will, the project could be pretty big. It's all pretty exciting. This was facilited by Jeanie Clark (the Inn Keep), as always she's looking out for me. I hope I can "pay-it-forward" in the near future.
I’m home. Been a bit since I’ve been to Baltimore, but once I get here it doesn’t take long for me to remember why this is my second home. I came here for a bunch of reasons. The place I stay at in Baltimore is the Governement House which is a bed and breakfast in the Mt. Vernon section of B-more. The place is magical. I've loved the building and the propietor since the first time I walked through the door. Jeanie, always takes good care of a poor poet trying to live his dream. I am blessed.
Confession time: I am a nerd. Always have been always will be. So it should be no surprise that I am a huge comic book fan, and for the last year or so, I’ve been pretty serious about trying to write comic books. So when I was planning this trip to read Julius X, it seemed to be fate that brought me Baltimore the same time as the Baltimore Comic Book Convention. In addition to the Convention, another business contact was going to be in town during the same time. I knew this was going to be a busy trip.
The Baltimore Convention.
Everything I’ve read about breaking into comics says you need to go to conventions and get to know people. So that’s why I went. I had a great time as a nerd. As a writer, it was the big goose egg. The conventions are made for Artist to connect publishers, but for a writer without an artist, not much going on. I talked to a few people, tried to make some connections, we’ll see if anything happens.
On the big ole phat nerd tip. I met some of the creators that I love. Like Amanda Conner. I spoke to her like I was a little kid. I’ve just been digging her Art work forever. Check out her stuff: www.amandaconner.com. (she’s my celebrity crush) LOL. I met the king John Romita Sr. This man is a legend. I shook his hand, and could barely speak. Jimmy Palmiotti was there, he’s a great talent unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I met a new writer named Raven, he’s pretty good too. So on a whole it was fun. Ultimately, I need to figure out how to break in cause it seems like the convention route isn’t going to get me far.
JULIUS X
Monday was the reading of Julius at the Eubie Blake Community Center. I had a good meeting with the director Troy Burton the day before the reading. He listened intently as I explained my vision for the piece. I could see the light bulb go on as I explained it all. He helped me think somethings through, and I think the piece is really strong. The reading made me even more confident of where it's going. Which I needed because writing a “Poetical” isn’t something that comes with an instruction book. This time I’m a little more free with the poetry, and the blending of it with dialogue. The play will be finished in a couple weeks. (We read the first half of the piece) and once that’s done, then it’s out of my hands. I’ll be in Baltimore again in November to do a reading open to the public, which will be much more intense. Anne @ the Theatre Project is happy with what she heard. I felt a little pressure to make her happy. She supports me fully, and I want her to know I appreciate it. At the same time I want to prove that the work is worthy of being supported. Big ambitions, but you gotta dream big right? I’m excited to see where this will end up.
On a separate note, a new business oppertunity opened up. I met some wonderful people while I was in B-more, and we may do some work together. Don't want to talk much about it now, until we get the details hammered out. But if it all works out which I think it will, the project could be pretty big. It's all pretty exciting. This was facilited by Jeanie Clark (the Inn Keep), as always she's looking out for me. I hope I can "pay-it-forward" in the near future.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
The silence of good people.
I usually do not write in this blog with politics in mind. Why because I feel like there are better writers who do that sort of thing. Instead I look at my blog as a place where I can write about my own work and challenges, and hopefully people can relate with that. But today, I feel like I have to say something about the madness sprouting up around us.
Like everyone in this world watching the drama unfold on TV in New Orleans my heart is so heavy. I wish there was some way I could go there and save the people who have been forgotten by the government. Sure today they are starting to get some relief but for 4 to 5 days after the Hurricane hit, no one had done nothing.
The head of FEMA is an idiot, or a liar. I’m not sure what’s worse. Earlier in the week he said the victims where to blame for no evacuating. Basically blaming them for being poor. Today I read Homeland Security Secretary (Micheal Chertoff ) saying there was “no plan for this,…. (the storm was) breathtaking in its surprise." He is one of the few surprised. I’m not in the business of managing disaster relief and I knew this was inevitable. The folks in the know in New Orleans have been predicting it for years. Every indication is that the government should have known this was possible. I do not fault any one administration with not having taken this seriously. The work on the levies should have been done decades ago. What I fault them for is not having a viable evacuation plan, for not being prepared to help those left behind, for treating it like it was no big deal.
Why did it take so long to get help to the area? Because we have the National Guard dieing in Iraq, instead of being in place to help the survivors. These destitute people don’t matter though. There are poor, and mostly black, so therefore undeserving of our help or sympathy. Meanwhile President Bush has Airforce One do a fly by so he can look down at the devastation. It takes him 3 days to get there, after being shamed into action by the Mayor of New Orleans. But this is what America asked for when they reelected this failed oil-man back into the presidency. If his past record is any indication, the president will give the director of FEMA a promotion. Because that’s what this President does. There is no accountability. The buck stops nowhere, and Americans are okay with it, as long as they get their dose of electronic Novocain in the form of Brittany Spears, Jessica Simpson, or Jen and Brad’s divorce.
Debating in 2000, Bush said his favorite political adviser was Jesus. If that is so, then the Jesus I know and believe in is weeping. Jesus was one of the all time great advocates for the poor. When do the policies of this administration benefit the poor? Where is the concept of “turning the other cheek”? Does “Bring’em on” sound like turning the other cheek? It sounds more like the click of a clip being forced in an automatic weapon. African American clergy, helped get Bush reelected based primarily on his staunch objection to peoples sexual behavior. But now we see what he truly thinks of them by his inaction.
In this bizarro world, people fighting for survival are looters. With no help from the government, and lawlessness taking grip, people did what they had to, to survive. I got an e-mail from a friend (a very cool individual,) but a quote from the article he sent me said: "Not a single tourist caught in the tsunami was mugged. Now with all this happening in the U.S. we can easily see where the civilized part of the world's population is.” That is an affront to Black people, and is exactly what many people feel in their hearts, that we are animals. The economic, social, and cultural aspects of Asia are very different from New Orleans. They have their own issues there, very different of those in the inner-cities in America. Our streets are flooded with drugs, guns, and hopelessness. Why because someone is making money off it, and it’s not the people in these neighborhoods. One would be naïve to think there isn’t someone somewhere in power, benefiting off of these people’s pain. It’s capitalism at it’s ugliest. These are the ingredients for the perfect storm. Not Katrina’s level four, but the decay of our culture into this gun obsessed, drug saturated, loveless mess. In every bad situation there are a few who are going to cause problems. Human nature unavoidable, but on a whole the people are struggling to survive, wouldn’t you?
These people have been left to die because no one thought they were worthy of being evacuated before the storm hit. Most of the people that stayed behind, stayed because they had no other choice. They couldn’t rent a car, they didn’t have a car themselves. No money for plane, train, or bus tickets. Nothing. So they stay and watch their lives be washed away. Meanwhile the rest of the world sits in judgment of them. Next week, or next month, or sometime in the future, President Bush will praise the relief efforts, FEMA, and anyone else he owes for their “tireless efforts” and America will forget all about this tragedy. We will move on to mourn the death of William Renquist, but who will mourn the hundreds of little babies, old people, and “worthless looters” who lost their lives not to Katrina’s deadly winds and waters, but to government inaction. Adlai Stevenson once said, “You always get the government you deserve.” But today in the flooded ruins of New Orleans, as poor people struggle to make it to the next day it is apparent they deserved better then this.
Like everyone in this world watching the drama unfold on TV in New Orleans my heart is so heavy. I wish there was some way I could go there and save the people who have been forgotten by the government. Sure today they are starting to get some relief but for 4 to 5 days after the Hurricane hit, no one had done nothing.
The head of FEMA is an idiot, or a liar. I’m not sure what’s worse. Earlier in the week he said the victims where to blame for no evacuating. Basically blaming them for being poor. Today I read Homeland Security Secretary (Micheal Chertoff ) saying there was “no plan for this,…. (the storm was) breathtaking in its surprise." He is one of the few surprised. I’m not in the business of managing disaster relief and I knew this was inevitable. The folks in the know in New Orleans have been predicting it for years. Every indication is that the government should have known this was possible. I do not fault any one administration with not having taken this seriously. The work on the levies should have been done decades ago. What I fault them for is not having a viable evacuation plan, for not being prepared to help those left behind, for treating it like it was no big deal.
Why did it take so long to get help to the area? Because we have the National Guard dieing in Iraq, instead of being in place to help the survivors. These destitute people don’t matter though. There are poor, and mostly black, so therefore undeserving of our help or sympathy. Meanwhile President Bush has Airforce One do a fly by so he can look down at the devastation. It takes him 3 days to get there, after being shamed into action by the Mayor of New Orleans. But this is what America asked for when they reelected this failed oil-man back into the presidency. If his past record is any indication, the president will give the director of FEMA a promotion. Because that’s what this President does. There is no accountability. The buck stops nowhere, and Americans are okay with it, as long as they get their dose of electronic Novocain in the form of Brittany Spears, Jessica Simpson, or Jen and Brad’s divorce.
Debating in 2000, Bush said his favorite political adviser was Jesus. If that is so, then the Jesus I know and believe in is weeping. Jesus was one of the all time great advocates for the poor. When do the policies of this administration benefit the poor? Where is the concept of “turning the other cheek”? Does “Bring’em on” sound like turning the other cheek? It sounds more like the click of a clip being forced in an automatic weapon. African American clergy, helped get Bush reelected based primarily on his staunch objection to peoples sexual behavior. But now we see what he truly thinks of them by his inaction.
In this bizarro world, people fighting for survival are looters. With no help from the government, and lawlessness taking grip, people did what they had to, to survive. I got an e-mail from a friend (a very cool individual,) but a quote from the article he sent me said: "Not a single tourist caught in the tsunami was mugged. Now with all this happening in the U.S. we can easily see where the civilized part of the world's population is.” That is an affront to Black people, and is exactly what many people feel in their hearts, that we are animals. The economic, social, and cultural aspects of Asia are very different from New Orleans. They have their own issues there, very different of those in the inner-cities in America. Our streets are flooded with drugs, guns, and hopelessness. Why because someone is making money off it, and it’s not the people in these neighborhoods. One would be naïve to think there isn’t someone somewhere in power, benefiting off of these people’s pain. It’s capitalism at it’s ugliest. These are the ingredients for the perfect storm. Not Katrina’s level four, but the decay of our culture into this gun obsessed, drug saturated, loveless mess. In every bad situation there are a few who are going to cause problems. Human nature unavoidable, but on a whole the people are struggling to survive, wouldn’t you?
These people have been left to die because no one thought they were worthy of being evacuated before the storm hit. Most of the people that stayed behind, stayed because they had no other choice. They couldn’t rent a car, they didn’t have a car themselves. No money for plane, train, or bus tickets. Nothing. So they stay and watch their lives be washed away. Meanwhile the rest of the world sits in judgment of them. Next week, or next month, or sometime in the future, President Bush will praise the relief efforts, FEMA, and anyone else he owes for their “tireless efforts” and America will forget all about this tragedy. We will move on to mourn the death of William Renquist, but who will mourn the hundreds of little babies, old people, and “worthless looters” who lost their lives not to Katrina’s deadly winds and waters, but to government inaction. Adlai Stevenson once said, “You always get the government you deserve.” But today in the flooded ruins of New Orleans, as poor people struggle to make it to the next day it is apparent they deserved better then this.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Julius X
Artistically I’m in the biggest fight I’ve taken on yet. I find myself always drawn to something bigger then what I may be prepared for. The benefit is that when I conquor it I move up a level. There is no downside, except the deep feeling of being overwhelmed, but even that in the end is good cause it keeps me from being lazy.
I have been working for the last two months on my biggest play project to date, Julius X. “Julie” as I sometimes call it is a “Poetical” that is a re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. The play takes place in the 1960 within the power struggle in the Black Muslim Organizations. So Julius is basically a Malcolm X like figure. What makes this so difficult? Everything about it. In theory it’s an intriguing concept, in practice, it’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. For those of you just tuning in (where you been?) a POETICAL is a new genre of theater I have created (I use the word created loosely) a poetical basically works like a musical but instead of the actors breaking out into song, the dialogue leads to performance poetry. The type of poetry heard in a poetry slam. So that’s the first difficulty. Writing 9 poems, each with their own rhythms and each poem must push the story forward. Secondly the concept of “re-envisioning” Shakespeare. So many people love his work, myself included, all eyes will be on me, and how I handle reworking something that most people feel is genius. Who am I to re-envision any one? Third, Malcolm, the Nation, the 60’s all of these hold special places in people’s hearts especially black people. I want to do something that moves people, that gives us a different perspective on the world around us, and the history behind us. That’s what has drawn me to this subject.
The writing has been extremely slow. Mostly because I’m trying to balance Shakespeares language with the contemporary venacular of the 60’s. The poems are coming even slower, but I knew that would happen.
I see this piece actually branching out and being bigger then just a poetical. I’d really like to work with a Jazz Musician who understands Hip-hop to create something that has never been seen before. A Poetical-Jazz-Opera. Man it could be hot. I’m seeing it as I write this.
The novel is coming along. With Julius premiering in Feb. I needed put Julie first so, the novel is standing still, it’s a slow process but I’m happy with what I’ve gotten so far. If it takes 10 years, that’s cool, as long as I finish.
I have been working for the last two months on my biggest play project to date, Julius X. “Julie” as I sometimes call it is a “Poetical” that is a re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. The play takes place in the 1960 within the power struggle in the Black Muslim Organizations. So Julius is basically a Malcolm X like figure. What makes this so difficult? Everything about it. In theory it’s an intriguing concept, in practice, it’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. For those of you just tuning in (where you been?) a POETICAL is a new genre of theater I have created (I use the word created loosely) a poetical basically works like a musical but instead of the actors breaking out into song, the dialogue leads to performance poetry. The type of poetry heard in a poetry slam. So that’s the first difficulty. Writing 9 poems, each with their own rhythms and each poem must push the story forward. Secondly the concept of “re-envisioning” Shakespeare. So many people love his work, myself included, all eyes will be on me, and how I handle reworking something that most people feel is genius. Who am I to re-envision any one? Third, Malcolm, the Nation, the 60’s all of these hold special places in people’s hearts especially black people. I want to do something that moves people, that gives us a different perspective on the world around us, and the history behind us. That’s what has drawn me to this subject.
The writing has been extremely slow. Mostly because I’m trying to balance Shakespeares language with the contemporary venacular of the 60’s. The poems are coming even slower, but I knew that would happen.
I see this piece actually branching out and being bigger then just a poetical. I’d really like to work with a Jazz Musician who understands Hip-hop to create something that has never been seen before. A Poetical-Jazz-Opera. Man it could be hot. I’m seeing it as I write this.
The novel is coming along. With Julius premiering in Feb. I needed put Julie first so, the novel is standing still, it’s a slow process but I’m happy with what I’ve gotten so far. If it takes 10 years, that’s cool, as long as I finish.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
The True Culture War
This summer I’ve been working at a community center in the hood. The woman who runs the place is a hard working beautiful individual. She is an activist in every sense of the word. She’s put her life on the line to be there for these kids. It is a beautiful selfless thing she does. I hate when poets call themselves activist, when all they do is poetry. I think it’s worthy to be a poet, that it is a form of activism, but nothing in comparison to true activist that put it on the line, everyday. There are a few poets I can think of that fall into both categories, like my sisters Wahlida Imishara, Turiya Autrey, and Malikha Hameen. They do the real work. But it’s too easy for a poet who goes around getting paid to say some verses about an issue return to their relatively comfortable life, and claim that they are revolutionary. I’m not judging other poets. This is my measuring stick. I won’t call myself an activist. If someone else thinks they fall into that category that’s their thing. I just know the principals that guide me. I have it easy.
Back to the community center. This is the type of work an activist does. I go throughout the country performing, teaching, lecturing to kids of all ages, and for the most part I really dig it. It’s all the benefits of teaching without the drawbacks. This community center is a much harder thing. The children there range from the age of 5 to 17 and many of them come from broken homes. Broken sounds pedestrian. A typical broken home means divorce. Some of these children come from homes that have exploded. Deceased parents, drug addicted parents, no parents, poverty. Despite all of this, these children everyone of them are beautiful. But with pasts so filled with pain and uncertainty, which acts out in their behavior. I thought when I got this job, that I would walk in and boom, they’d love me, because, despite what my son would say, I’m a pretty cool adult.
It doesn’t work like that with these kids.
Everyday is a struggle to reestablish yourself as a person worth respecting. Some of the kids there, I will never break through to. I try but they don’t want anything to do with me. Teaching them writing is near impossible. I could give them paper and say “Write a poem.” But that’s not teaching. That’s more of the same what they get at school. I want them to walk away from this experience with something they will carry with them the rest of their lives. Maybe those goals are too lofty, but they deserve to have lofty aspirations.
This is ground zero for what should be defined as the culture wars. Not what politicians mean when they say “culture wars”. That is classified as a struggle between the right and left over moral issues. Which is fine from a philosophical level, but here where the pavement is hot, and hope is in limited supply, the tug of right and left hold no value. The true culture war is between what our true culture is and what powerful corporations have decided it will be.
All you hear on the radio is songs about Sex. (on black radio) “bend over to the front…”, R. Kelly, and a bunch of other idiots and that’s it. Now that isn’t my type of music, never has been, but there is a noticeable shift in the last 10 years. I don’t like that music, but I can tolerate it, if there is a balance. If there where songs of substance on the radio, then it wouldn’t be so bad. These songs are popular because that’s the only option these kids have. That’s it. Because one corporation owns most of the radio stations across America, they decided what’s going to be hot, and what isn’t. So the perception that the market is making the decisions when it comes to radio is off base because the market never gets a chance to try a new product. All of this ties into the kids at the community center. All these kids hear on the radio, and in the videos are songs about sex. They see young women not much older then themselves, running around half naked, young men chasing after them, and everyone chasing after the mighty dollar, or diamonds, or gold. That’s all they see and without a guiding force in their lives, what they see and hear becomes their reality.
I don’t know how to combat that. But some fights, you just fight. Period. You don’t ask questions, you don’t make excuses, you just roll up your sleeves and dive in because the cause is worthy. These children are worthy. This is not an act of activism. This is an act of the heart. I am no better then anyone else out there. So if anyone is reading my ramblings, and you feel the same as I do, please, please, join the fight.
Back to the community center. This is the type of work an activist does. I go throughout the country performing, teaching, lecturing to kids of all ages, and for the most part I really dig it. It’s all the benefits of teaching without the drawbacks. This community center is a much harder thing. The children there range from the age of 5 to 17 and many of them come from broken homes. Broken sounds pedestrian. A typical broken home means divorce. Some of these children come from homes that have exploded. Deceased parents, drug addicted parents, no parents, poverty. Despite all of this, these children everyone of them are beautiful. But with pasts so filled with pain and uncertainty, which acts out in their behavior. I thought when I got this job, that I would walk in and boom, they’d love me, because, despite what my son would say, I’m a pretty cool adult.
It doesn’t work like that with these kids.
Everyday is a struggle to reestablish yourself as a person worth respecting. Some of the kids there, I will never break through to. I try but they don’t want anything to do with me. Teaching them writing is near impossible. I could give them paper and say “Write a poem.” But that’s not teaching. That’s more of the same what they get at school. I want them to walk away from this experience with something they will carry with them the rest of their lives. Maybe those goals are too lofty, but they deserve to have lofty aspirations.
This is ground zero for what should be defined as the culture wars. Not what politicians mean when they say “culture wars”. That is classified as a struggle between the right and left over moral issues. Which is fine from a philosophical level, but here where the pavement is hot, and hope is in limited supply, the tug of right and left hold no value. The true culture war is between what our true culture is and what powerful corporations have decided it will be.
All you hear on the radio is songs about Sex. (on black radio) “bend over to the front…”, R. Kelly, and a bunch of other idiots and that’s it. Now that isn’t my type of music, never has been, but there is a noticeable shift in the last 10 years. I don’t like that music, but I can tolerate it, if there is a balance. If there where songs of substance on the radio, then it wouldn’t be so bad. These songs are popular because that’s the only option these kids have. That’s it. Because one corporation owns most of the radio stations across America, they decided what’s going to be hot, and what isn’t. So the perception that the market is making the decisions when it comes to radio is off base because the market never gets a chance to try a new product. All of this ties into the kids at the community center. All these kids hear on the radio, and in the videos are songs about sex. They see young women not much older then themselves, running around half naked, young men chasing after them, and everyone chasing after the mighty dollar, or diamonds, or gold. That’s all they see and without a guiding force in their lives, what they see and hear becomes their reality.
I don’t know how to combat that. But some fights, you just fight. Period. You don’t ask questions, you don’t make excuses, you just roll up your sleeves and dive in because the cause is worthy. These children are worthy. This is not an act of activism. This is an act of the heart. I am no better then anyone else out there. So if anyone is reading my ramblings, and you feel the same as I do, please, please, join the fight.
Friday, July 01, 2005
heartbroken
Today is one of those days that stick with you for a while. Before I talk about the hard stuff maybe I should talk about the good stuff. I was real happy with the def poetry stuff. I thought it looked good, and you know that’s all you can ask for. Thank you to everyone that supported me and sent me congratulations. It meant the world to me. What a great week, I put up a show at 9th and Main to coincide with the show. It went over well, and the party was the hot. Also some friends of mine came and really rocked the mic during the down time. So that was a huge blessing…. I’ve been meaning to write all of this down, but my heart is so heavy tonight, that I feel like I can’t do the last week justice.
This week has been hard. Money is a constant struggle. Especically during the summer. See most of the gigs I do are with Schools. No schools in Summer, not much money either. I’ve been working at a community center, and that has been hard, beautiful, and sad all at the same time, and for the time I’m there they pay me well, but it’s nowhere near what I normally make. So with the tough money situations, everything seems harder especially when you have children. Then I found out one of my closest friend’s little nephew got shot and is in intensive care. Then today, a good friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. I’m heartbroken.
Deliah and Alex have been my friends since I was 20. Alex was my barber and Deliah is his wife. I met them not long after they had got together. They both worked hard to start their own business, and they succeeded. They own a barber shop/beauty salon in Jacksonville called Low Profile. I love that shop. Before I started growing dreds, I’d go there just to hang out. When they found out about my work as an artist they refused to take money from me. Every cut was on the house. I hadn’t seen Alex in about a year. I would drive by his shop and think, damn I need to stop in, but never did. I saw Deliah at Wal-mart in February. We talked and laughed. I asked about her kids (4) she asked about mine. We thought about old times, and promised to catch up. Today I get the call that she was killed in a car accident. Hit and run, and drunk driver hit her and kept going….. I don’t’ have anything poetic to say. This post is probably rambling and stupid, but I’m broken. I’m broken by this stupid war, and all the people dieing in it. I’m broken by the young black men shooting each other. I’m broken, because I love these people, Alex and Deliha, and I never told her, or him for that matter. That I love them, and thank them for believing in me. There were times when their belief, the refusal to take 10 buck from me for a haircut was the only validation I had. I wish it would stop raining, but somehow it fits.
This week has been hard. Money is a constant struggle. Especically during the summer. See most of the gigs I do are with Schools. No schools in Summer, not much money either. I’ve been working at a community center, and that has been hard, beautiful, and sad all at the same time, and for the time I’m there they pay me well, but it’s nowhere near what I normally make. So with the tough money situations, everything seems harder especially when you have children. Then I found out one of my closest friend’s little nephew got shot and is in intensive care. Then today, a good friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. I’m heartbroken.
Deliah and Alex have been my friends since I was 20. Alex was my barber and Deliah is his wife. I met them not long after they had got together. They both worked hard to start their own business, and they succeeded. They own a barber shop/beauty salon in Jacksonville called Low Profile. I love that shop. Before I started growing dreds, I’d go there just to hang out. When they found out about my work as an artist they refused to take money from me. Every cut was on the house. I hadn’t seen Alex in about a year. I would drive by his shop and think, damn I need to stop in, but never did. I saw Deliah at Wal-mart in February. We talked and laughed. I asked about her kids (4) she asked about mine. We thought about old times, and promised to catch up. Today I get the call that she was killed in a car accident. Hit and run, and drunk driver hit her and kept going….. I don’t’ have anything poetic to say. This post is probably rambling and stupid, but I’m broken. I’m broken by this stupid war, and all the people dieing in it. I’m broken by the young black men shooting each other. I’m broken, because I love these people, Alex and Deliha, and I never told her, or him for that matter. That I love them, and thank them for believing in me. There were times when their belief, the refusal to take 10 buck from me for a haircut was the only validation I had. I wish it would stop raining, but somehow it fits.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Long time gone
Dear Blog.
Forgive me. I have been a bad blogger. Several times, I’ve sat down to write out what’s in my head, and will get a good bit of the blog finished, and then get distracted. Then when I try and return to what I was writing, it seems to have passed me by and I can no longer continue in the stream of consciousness that I was originally in when I started writing. So it’s been several months. Where to start?
How about follow up to earlier entries.
GRANT SEASON: I have received two grants out of the five that I applied for, haven’t heard on two of them but even if I do not get those grants, 2 out of five is pretty good.
CATCHING UP: My episode of Def Poetry airs June 17th at 11:30 pm. From what I’ve been told I am the first poet of the episode. I’m extremely excited to see it. There is some trepidation that goes with it. I have this really great image in my head of how the performance and taping went. I think I performed the poem better then I ever had. But what you remember and what the camera catches can be two different things. I think it will look good, still, I’m anxious to see how it all turns out.
NOTES FROM THE BOTTLETREE: So we are doing a full production of the play in early fall. As an actor I am salivating to do it. We have a good cast, my close friend and excellent actress Terry Thomas will be in the lead role. Terry and I have good chemisty in every day life, so playing it out on stage should be fun.
TIPPING POINT/ CHALK: Things have gone well with Chalk. We (Barbara and I) did a production of it Jacksonville, and it was successful. The best thing about it, is that I got really good video. For marketing purposes this is essential. With the little time left in the school year around the nation, I will start sending out packages with the promotional DVD, hopefully this will generate some excitement and schools to put the play up. We have cut a deal with one of the most beautiful venues I have ever seen, the Lazar Theatre in the UNF Fine Arts Building to present CHALK in October. This is will be the biggest venue the play has been in. I’m very curious as to how the play will work in a theatre this large with all the lighting capabilities, and technical bonuses that the piece has not had in any other venue.
NY JITTERS/GRIOT: The big news with Griot is it will be taking part of a festival of celebrating the life and work of Langston Hughes. This is happening at the UNF Fine Arts Center, in Jacksonville during the month of April. This huge for us, as it will accomplish two goals, we have a huge financial goal this year, as we are planning to take the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The cost of going to this festival is pretty steep. So we need as many gigs as we can possibly get. Secondly, I’ve never felt that the play has had the opportunity to really work in the Jacksonville community. We’ve either done it out by the Beach (which is a great theatre, but the beaches community and the Jacksonville community are two separate groups altogether, or we’ve done it at small venues with little promotion. So the opportunity to do it at the Lazar Theatre is a true blessing.
The NOVEL: The writing is going good but slow when it comes to the novel. I’d like to get to a more steady pace in the future, but other projects will be taking priority in the up coming months, more on those later.
THE MOVIE: So we (my film partners) have settled on a concept and now I need to sit down and start making it come together. We don’t plan to shoot until some time next year which will give us plenty of time to get it rolling.
NEW THINGS IN THE WORKS: So my new play opens in October @ the Theatre Project. The title of the piece is Julius X. In the near future I’ll post more on this play and what it’s about but right now since I am not totally finished in the planning and writing of the piece, I want to keep the concept close to my heart.
On a whole things are looking very positive for the future. I’ve moved in my new work space, which I hope will up the productivity of my work. For the last couple weeks I’ve been working out of a small closet in my room, and really had no room to move around and work. I love to have pile of paper, books, and other resources near me when I’m working so I can pull something quickly, working in a closet is not conducive to this type of work flow. The new work space is huge in comparision with a nice L shaped desk allowing me to work the way I like to work. No excuses.
Forgive me. I have been a bad blogger. Several times, I’ve sat down to write out what’s in my head, and will get a good bit of the blog finished, and then get distracted. Then when I try and return to what I was writing, it seems to have passed me by and I can no longer continue in the stream of consciousness that I was originally in when I started writing. So it’s been several months. Where to start?
How about follow up to earlier entries.
GRANT SEASON: I have received two grants out of the five that I applied for, haven’t heard on two of them but even if I do not get those grants, 2 out of five is pretty good.
CATCHING UP: My episode of Def Poetry airs June 17th at 11:30 pm. From what I’ve been told I am the first poet of the episode. I’m extremely excited to see it. There is some trepidation that goes with it. I have this really great image in my head of how the performance and taping went. I think I performed the poem better then I ever had. But what you remember and what the camera catches can be two different things. I think it will look good, still, I’m anxious to see how it all turns out.
NOTES FROM THE BOTTLETREE: So we are doing a full production of the play in early fall. As an actor I am salivating to do it. We have a good cast, my close friend and excellent actress Terry Thomas will be in the lead role. Terry and I have good chemisty in every day life, so playing it out on stage should be fun.
TIPPING POINT/ CHALK: Things have gone well with Chalk. We (Barbara and I) did a production of it Jacksonville, and it was successful. The best thing about it, is that I got really good video. For marketing purposes this is essential. With the little time left in the school year around the nation, I will start sending out packages with the promotional DVD, hopefully this will generate some excitement and schools to put the play up. We have cut a deal with one of the most beautiful venues I have ever seen, the Lazar Theatre in the UNF Fine Arts Building to present CHALK in October. This is will be the biggest venue the play has been in. I’m very curious as to how the play will work in a theatre this large with all the lighting capabilities, and technical bonuses that the piece has not had in any other venue.
NY JITTERS/GRIOT: The big news with Griot is it will be taking part of a festival of celebrating the life and work of Langston Hughes. This is happening at the UNF Fine Arts Center, in Jacksonville during the month of April. This huge for us, as it will accomplish two goals, we have a huge financial goal this year, as we are planning to take the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The cost of going to this festival is pretty steep. So we need as many gigs as we can possibly get. Secondly, I’ve never felt that the play has had the opportunity to really work in the Jacksonville community. We’ve either done it out by the Beach (which is a great theatre, but the beaches community and the Jacksonville community are two separate groups altogether, or we’ve done it at small venues with little promotion. So the opportunity to do it at the Lazar Theatre is a true blessing.
The NOVEL: The writing is going good but slow when it comes to the novel. I’d like to get to a more steady pace in the future, but other projects will be taking priority in the up coming months, more on those later.
THE MOVIE: So we (my film partners) have settled on a concept and now I need to sit down and start making it come together. We don’t plan to shoot until some time next year which will give us plenty of time to get it rolling.
NEW THINGS IN THE WORKS: So my new play opens in October @ the Theatre Project. The title of the piece is Julius X. In the near future I’ll post more on this play and what it’s about but right now since I am not totally finished in the planning and writing of the piece, I want to keep the concept close to my heart.
On a whole things are looking very positive for the future. I’ve moved in my new work space, which I hope will up the productivity of my work. For the last couple weeks I’ve been working out of a small closet in my room, and really had no room to move around and work. I love to have pile of paper, books, and other resources near me when I’m working so I can pull something quickly, working in a closet is not conducive to this type of work flow. The new work space is huge in comparision with a nice L shaped desk allowing me to work the way I like to work. No excuses.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Personal Statement
It's been almost a month since I've had the chance to post anything. Some good things in the works, but for right now, I'll keep them under wraps I applied for a new grant which I have snowball's chance in hell getting, but hey you have to put yourself in it, to win it. Ultimately, I don't mind writing grants, it makes me reflect on my work, which I think for an artist is always important. The latest reflection: In the grant application I was asked to write a personal statement as to what I thought my role as an artist is today and in the future. This was my response....
PERSONAL STATEMENT
My role as a theatre artist today and in the future, is rooted in the past. It was carried in the form of a song across the middle passage, hidden under the tongue of an African captive. A song that sung of sorrow, but knew hymns of joy. Rhythms that leap from the slave’s fingertips while plucking King Cotton from his womb, a song that saved him, even with chains on his feet. Three hundred years later, I know I was meant to sing that song for him before the world has forgotten the words.
To remember
More recently I was reminded in a workshop I was teaching why I do this, when a student asked “What was the job of the poet”. I knew the answer was on a wadded piece of paper in my pocket. A slightly over-weight girl had given to me when no one else was looking. She was sixteen, and just lost her premature baby because her body wasn’t ready to carry to full term. The first time she talked about it, was in a poem lying dormant in my pocket.
To heal
As an artist, I find my work gravitating to the stories of people like, Crosley Alex Green who sits in a cell on Florida’s Death Row for a crime he could not have committed. The poor, the disenfranchised, the weak, those just out of reach of the light, who have no way of letting their voice be heard, is where my role screams it’s providence in my ears.
To Fight
The first play I wrote was a reaction to meeting a homeless man on a subway late one night. I found myself feeling disgusted by the man, who had done no harm to me, all he wanted was someone to listen to him, to hear his story, but I was too wrapped up in my own life, and had no time for his. Later that night, I was embarrassed by my reaction, and realized my behavior was indicative of today’s society. Slowly bits of our humanity have been stripped away and sacrificed on the altar of everyday life. It’s too easy to become wrapped up in our own lives and never see the beauty, the pain, and the brilliance of the person standing next to us on the train. That night in an effort to make amends to a man I knew I would never see again, I wrote his story, the first monologue in my play Essential Personnel.
To Reconnect
As a theatre artist, this is my calling to remember those who have come before me, and pass that knowledge on to those who will be here after me. To find our collective pain, and heal those wounds. To fight for those who don’t have the strength or voice to be heard. To reconnect myself and the audience to what it means to be human. To make the world a better place. One play at a time.
PERSONAL STATEMENT
My role as a theatre artist today and in the future, is rooted in the past. It was carried in the form of a song across the middle passage, hidden under the tongue of an African captive. A song that sung of sorrow, but knew hymns of joy. Rhythms that leap from the slave’s fingertips while plucking King Cotton from his womb, a song that saved him, even with chains on his feet. Three hundred years later, I know I was meant to sing that song for him before the world has forgotten the words.
To remember
More recently I was reminded in a workshop I was teaching why I do this, when a student asked “What was the job of the poet”. I knew the answer was on a wadded piece of paper in my pocket. A slightly over-weight girl had given to me when no one else was looking. She was sixteen, and just lost her premature baby because her body wasn’t ready to carry to full term. The first time she talked about it, was in a poem lying dormant in my pocket.
To heal
As an artist, I find my work gravitating to the stories of people like, Crosley Alex Green who sits in a cell on Florida’s Death Row for a crime he could not have committed. The poor, the disenfranchised, the weak, those just out of reach of the light, who have no way of letting their voice be heard, is where my role screams it’s providence in my ears.
To Fight
The first play I wrote was a reaction to meeting a homeless man on a subway late one night. I found myself feeling disgusted by the man, who had done no harm to me, all he wanted was someone to listen to him, to hear his story, but I was too wrapped up in my own life, and had no time for his. Later that night, I was embarrassed by my reaction, and realized my behavior was indicative of today’s society. Slowly bits of our humanity have been stripped away and sacrificed on the altar of everyday life. It’s too easy to become wrapped up in our own lives and never see the beauty, the pain, and the brilliance of the person standing next to us on the train. That night in an effort to make amends to a man I knew I would never see again, I wrote his story, the first monologue in my play Essential Personnel.
To Reconnect
As a theatre artist, this is my calling to remember those who have come before me, and pass that knowledge on to those who will be here after me. To find our collective pain, and heal those wounds. To fight for those who don’t have the strength or voice to be heard. To reconnect myself and the audience to what it means to be human. To make the world a better place. One play at a time.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Catch up
So I wrote a long journal entry on the whole Def Poetry Experience, and then subsequently lost it. Nowhere to be found on the harddrive. Quite honestly, I don’t have the heart of time to rewrite, or try to recreate what I’ve lost. So just a few short paragraphs to sum up the experience.
Breath-taking. Larry and David were great support. I performed two older pieces, because they were the easiest to mold into the two minute time frame. The audience loved it. I felt like the work I did lived up to what I’m about as an artist so I was happy with what I did. I got to see some really great poets work, and play catch up with some great people that I had not seen in years. No one recognized me with the long hair, but once they did, we picked up right were we left off. The slam community is such a welcoming and open group of people, it was good to see so many of us there.
The Staff of Def Poetry were incredible. They handled business and were extremely gracious. Walter Mudu, who acted as my agent was on it, as always. Hopefully he and I will be able to do more business together in the near future. Next year I need to get on the map are start doing college gigs more. There is a ton of money in that type of work, and honestly, I could use the money to help fund other things.
The Baltimore run of “Griot” went well. We had very small crowds, but it was good to keep the show running and feel it out. I know what things I want to change and how I want to change them. The vision for the future of the piece is solidly in my head now, I’m going to take some time away from it, but then return to build it the way I envision it in my head. Baltimore has become a home away from home for me. The Theatre Project is a great place to work, and staff are not just good at what they do, but they are family now. Tucker Fuliwiler, the PR King of the Theatre Project was sick while we were their. It was a bummer to see him in the hospital. Tuck’s a great guy and will pull through fine, still, looking at him in the hospital bed made me sad. I wanted to do something more then just visit and laugh at his jokes….
Financially the trip caused different problems to evolve. I worked so hard to get ready for NY and B-more, and barely made any money. If I had another job, it would be a big deal, but since this is what I live off, three months worth of work, two weeks away from home, and to return with the small money that I got is a little depressing. I’ve got a few gigs in the near future that pay well, but right now, things are tight. No complains though, I’m doing what I love and if that’s the exchange, then so be it.
Breath-taking. Larry and David were great support. I performed two older pieces, because they were the easiest to mold into the two minute time frame. The audience loved it. I felt like the work I did lived up to what I’m about as an artist so I was happy with what I did. I got to see some really great poets work, and play catch up with some great people that I had not seen in years. No one recognized me with the long hair, but once they did, we picked up right were we left off. The slam community is such a welcoming and open group of people, it was good to see so many of us there.
The Staff of Def Poetry were incredible. They handled business and were extremely gracious. Walter Mudu, who acted as my agent was on it, as always. Hopefully he and I will be able to do more business together in the near future. Next year I need to get on the map are start doing college gigs more. There is a ton of money in that type of work, and honestly, I could use the money to help fund other things.
The Baltimore run of “Griot” went well. We had very small crowds, but it was good to keep the show running and feel it out. I know what things I want to change and how I want to change them. The vision for the future of the piece is solidly in my head now, I’m going to take some time away from it, but then return to build it the way I envision it in my head. Baltimore has become a home away from home for me. The Theatre Project is a great place to work, and staff are not just good at what they do, but they are family now. Tucker Fuliwiler, the PR King of the Theatre Project was sick while we were their. It was a bummer to see him in the hospital. Tuck’s a great guy and will pull through fine, still, looking at him in the hospital bed made me sad. I wanted to do something more then just visit and laugh at his jokes….
Financially the trip caused different problems to evolve. I worked so hard to get ready for NY and B-more, and barely made any money. If I had another job, it would be a big deal, but since this is what I live off, three months worth of work, two weeks away from home, and to return with the small money that I got is a little depressing. I’ve got a few gigs in the near future that pay well, but right now, things are tight. No complains though, I’m doing what I love and if that’s the exchange, then so be it.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Def Poetry Jam
DEF POETRY JAM
So the phone call comes today that I have been accepted to take part in Russle Simmon’s Def Poetry Jam. DPJ films at the Supper Club in NYC and airs on HBO. When I got the phone call it was filled with joy and some hesitation. First my history with Def Poetry.
1) I was picked to film Def Poetry during the second season. About two years ago. It was an incredible experience. I was treated with the utmost respect, and I had a wonderful time in New York. After performing for a packed audience and feeling like I rocked it. I went home feeling really good about the whole experience. I didn’t tell anyone because I wasn’t sure if the spot would air or not. See, you film with them but there is no guarantee that they will air your spot. Weeks later I got the call that I had made the taping. There were pictures on the internet of my performance. BET was running clips of me, I began to tell all my friends everything was going good. And then my air date came and went and there was no sign of Al Letson. Somehow despite the assurances that I made the cut, my footage found it’s way to the cutting room floor, and I never aired.
This was my first lesson in TV. It hurt like hell, I wanted to be on the show so bad, then not making it made me want to weep. I was so mad at the people of DPJ. It took me a while to except the experience for what it was. I had such a great time. I got to meet several of my favorite artist, and most importantly, I got paid. The staff of the show are great people. I have a lot of respect for all of them, and now with some distance between that pain, and the present, I know my getting cut was not an intentional malicious thing. It’s TV, it’s showbiz, and if you take that kind of stuff personal it will kill you. On a whole it was a great thing career-wise for me, I’ve been hesitant to talk about it, or even put in on my resume, In my bio it says I took part in DPJ, which is true. But not airing has always been somewhat of a sore spot.
2) My problems with DPJ. I think the show is okay. I’m watching my artform being used in ways that I’m not all that comfortable with ie: McDonald’s commercials, and other aspects of “using” poetry to sell products. I’m just as guilty. So this whole argument is very duplicitous. I don’t like the commercialization of the artform, but at the same time, I take part in that commercialization, because I am a working artist with a family and when the offers come, at times I don’t have the luxury to say no. DPJ has without a doubt made spoken word more popular and that’s for the favor and determent of the art. I know it’s TV so I understand they have certain demographs they are trying to hit, but sometimes, I don’t get the poets they choose. At this point I must admit I am an elitist. I know what kind of poetry I like. Well thought out, complex pieces, that speak to a universal truth. I don’t like performance poems that cater to the lowest common denominator in the human existence. I don’t like poems with a lot of rhyme scheme. I don’t like pieces that should be rap instead of performance poetry. I don’t like pieces that are all performance and no writing. I see all of this on DPJ a lot, and it bothers me. On the other side, I’ve seen several great performances. Watched poets own the stage, the audience, and reached out and grabbed the Television viewer and made them apart of the poem.
3) I want this. I want this for the validation that I shouldn’t need. I know I’ve done things that most of my contemporaries, haven’t even thought of. I’m creating, moving out of the box. I’ve been on International TV, I’ve got three plays in production in any given year, and yet, until I air a two minute HBO spot, I will feel like there is something left undone. I’ve had counseling sessions with myself on it, and no matter what I still come back to the same thing. With that in mind, I sent off a package a couple weeks ago, and the result is the opportunity to come back to DPJ and finish what I started two years ago.
New Rules this time out. I’m not hiding the fact I taped. I don’t care. If I get cut again, then so be it, but I’m going to have a good time, and let people know what I’m doing. I’m not going to get crazy about it. If it airs cool, if not cool. Many poets who film DPJ for the first time, have a hard time understanding that this 15 minutes of fame will not change your life. It’s a great thing, and good for exposure, plus they pay you, but ultimately, your life will not change from airing on HBO. So it’s important to keep it in perspective. I will remember it TV which means it’s not real. My family is real. My faith is real. My words are real. But this venue is not. It’s a good thing, and I thank God for the opportunity, but it is not the only thing.
So the phone call comes today that I have been accepted to take part in Russle Simmon’s Def Poetry Jam. DPJ films at the Supper Club in NYC and airs on HBO. When I got the phone call it was filled with joy and some hesitation. First my history with Def Poetry.
1) I was picked to film Def Poetry during the second season. About two years ago. It was an incredible experience. I was treated with the utmost respect, and I had a wonderful time in New York. After performing for a packed audience and feeling like I rocked it. I went home feeling really good about the whole experience. I didn’t tell anyone because I wasn’t sure if the spot would air or not. See, you film with them but there is no guarantee that they will air your spot. Weeks later I got the call that I had made the taping. There were pictures on the internet of my performance. BET was running clips of me, I began to tell all my friends everything was going good. And then my air date came and went and there was no sign of Al Letson. Somehow despite the assurances that I made the cut, my footage found it’s way to the cutting room floor, and I never aired.
This was my first lesson in TV. It hurt like hell, I wanted to be on the show so bad, then not making it made me want to weep. I was so mad at the people of DPJ. It took me a while to except the experience for what it was. I had such a great time. I got to meet several of my favorite artist, and most importantly, I got paid. The staff of the show are great people. I have a lot of respect for all of them, and now with some distance between that pain, and the present, I know my getting cut was not an intentional malicious thing. It’s TV, it’s showbiz, and if you take that kind of stuff personal it will kill you. On a whole it was a great thing career-wise for me, I’ve been hesitant to talk about it, or even put in on my resume, In my bio it says I took part in DPJ, which is true. But not airing has always been somewhat of a sore spot.
2) My problems with DPJ. I think the show is okay. I’m watching my artform being used in ways that I’m not all that comfortable with ie: McDonald’s commercials, and other aspects of “using” poetry to sell products. I’m just as guilty. So this whole argument is very duplicitous. I don’t like the commercialization of the artform, but at the same time, I take part in that commercialization, because I am a working artist with a family and when the offers come, at times I don’t have the luxury to say no. DPJ has without a doubt made spoken word more popular and that’s for the favor and determent of the art. I know it’s TV so I understand they have certain demographs they are trying to hit, but sometimes, I don’t get the poets they choose. At this point I must admit I am an elitist. I know what kind of poetry I like. Well thought out, complex pieces, that speak to a universal truth. I don’t like performance poems that cater to the lowest common denominator in the human existence. I don’t like poems with a lot of rhyme scheme. I don’t like pieces that should be rap instead of performance poetry. I don’t like pieces that are all performance and no writing. I see all of this on DPJ a lot, and it bothers me. On the other side, I’ve seen several great performances. Watched poets own the stage, the audience, and reached out and grabbed the Television viewer and made them apart of the poem.
3) I want this. I want this for the validation that I shouldn’t need. I know I’ve done things that most of my contemporaries, haven’t even thought of. I’m creating, moving out of the box. I’ve been on International TV, I’ve got three plays in production in any given year, and yet, until I air a two minute HBO spot, I will feel like there is something left undone. I’ve had counseling sessions with myself on it, and no matter what I still come back to the same thing. With that in mind, I sent off a package a couple weeks ago, and the result is the opportunity to come back to DPJ and finish what I started two years ago.
New Rules this time out. I’m not hiding the fact I taped. I don’t care. If I get cut again, then so be it, but I’m going to have a good time, and let people know what I’m doing. I’m not going to get crazy about it. If it airs cool, if not cool. Many poets who film DPJ for the first time, have a hard time understanding that this 15 minutes of fame will not change your life. It’s a great thing, and good for exposure, plus they pay you, but ultimately, your life will not change from airing on HBO. So it’s important to keep it in perspective. I will remember it TV which means it’s not real. My family is real. My faith is real. My words are real. But this venue is not. It’s a good thing, and I thank God for the opportunity, but it is not the only thing.
Bright Lights Big City
So we rolled into NY on a cold Sunday morning and set up in our matchbox of a hotel room with dreams of having a successful NY run of Griot. As I sit in my hotel in Baltimore I realize that we did everything we set out to do. What good it will do us, as far as getting the show into other venues in NYC is anyone’s guess, but right now, I’m just happy to have put together a great show. The staff at the BPAC were incredible. They took care of everything in a professional manner, but that makes their treatment of us sound very steril. They were full of love and encouragement and did everything in their power to make the show a success.
One of the aspects of a show like “Griot” is the heavy educational aspect of the piece, we knew this was an asset when coming to the college so we set it up with several professors at the school, and I went to several classes and discussed the play. It’s so ironic to me, that I have never taken a college course, but I seem to find myself teaching college classes often. Most of the professors who assigned the play came to see it themselves, and they loved the work. We were able to have real discussions in the class on the play. It made me realize all the work I’ve done researching the historical information that made up the play. When I was in the middle of doing all the work, I didn’t really have the opportunity to reflect. I just read everything I could get my hands on, and continued to push the concept of the piece along.
Now that most of the work (as far as the writing is concerned) is done, I can look back and be somewhat proud that things have worked out the way they have. I’ve been blessed. I feel like the play is a ministry in a sense. I also think it’s a little vein to talk like that. I’m uncomfortable with the concept that God has personally said to me, “This is my will.” Weird coming from the son of a Baptist preacher, but I’m just not comfortable speaking in those terms. Still, if the play reaches people, and moves them into a realization, or grounds them in the past with an eye towards the future, I think God’s okay with that. I know I could not have written it without some divine intervention.
Several of my New York peoples came to the show, Bassey, Sabrina, Syreeta, Alexa, Katie, Paul Devlin, Evert Eden, Will Cantler. It meant a lot for me to look out and see there faces. New York is one of those places that forget you, if your not there every second. The fact that these and many more people came out, made me feel like I was loved.
This is just the beginning. We have so much farther to go with this piece I’m anxious to see what road it puts us on.
One of the aspects of a show like “Griot” is the heavy educational aspect of the piece, we knew this was an asset when coming to the college so we set it up with several professors at the school, and I went to several classes and discussed the play. It’s so ironic to me, that I have never taken a college course, but I seem to find myself teaching college classes often. Most of the professors who assigned the play came to see it themselves, and they loved the work. We were able to have real discussions in the class on the play. It made me realize all the work I’ve done researching the historical information that made up the play. When I was in the middle of doing all the work, I didn’t really have the opportunity to reflect. I just read everything I could get my hands on, and continued to push the concept of the piece along.
Now that most of the work (as far as the writing is concerned) is done, I can look back and be somewhat proud that things have worked out the way they have. I’ve been blessed. I feel like the play is a ministry in a sense. I also think it’s a little vein to talk like that. I’m uncomfortable with the concept that God has personally said to me, “This is my will.” Weird coming from the son of a Baptist preacher, but I’m just not comfortable speaking in those terms. Still, if the play reaches people, and moves them into a realization, or grounds them in the past with an eye towards the future, I think God’s okay with that. I know I could not have written it without some divine intervention.
Several of my New York peoples came to the show, Bassey, Sabrina, Syreeta, Alexa, Katie, Paul Devlin, Evert Eden, Will Cantler. It meant a lot for me to look out and see there faces. New York is one of those places that forget you, if your not there every second. The fact that these and many more people came out, made me feel like I was loved.
This is just the beginning. We have so much farther to go with this piece I’m anxious to see what road it puts us on.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Honoring Ozzie
February 4, 2005
By Deardra Shuler
http://www.afrocentricnews.com/html/ossie_davis.html
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death
what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil… (Hamlet)
The final curtain fell on one of the great legends of our time, Friday,
February 4th. Ossie Davis retired from life ironically while in the process of
filming a movie entitled “Retirement.” He succumbed to death at age 87, still
working at the craft he loved so well. Davis was a giant in the entertainment
business having devoted five decades as an actor, director, producer and writer.
There was no entertainment genre that he did not master. His talents were
featured in print, on stage, screen and radio. Many remember him from his role in
the 1978 television series "Roots: The Next Generation." He is also remembered
for his appearances in several Spike Lee films: “School Daze,” “Do The Right
Thing,” and “Jungle Fever.” His best known film was “A Raisin In The Sun.”
More recently, Davis appeared in “Dr. Dolittle” and “Get on the Bus.”
Born in Cogdell, Georgia, in 1917, Davis developed a love for theatre at an
early age. He pursued his interest at Howard University after winning a
National Youth Administration scholarship in 1935. In 1946, Davis made his Broadway
debut in Jeb. He later performed in the Broadway productions of “A Raisin in
the Sun,” “I’m Not Rappaport,” “Purlie Victorious,” a play Davis both starred
in and wrote. He also appeared in “Anna Lucasta” “Green Pastures,” “No Time
for Sergeants” and “The Zulu and the Zayda” to name a few of his Broadway
performances. As a result of his large volume of work on Broadway, Davis was
inducted into the Theater Hall of Fame in 1994.
Married to his wife, Ruby Dee, for close to 56 years, the couple met in 1946
and married in 1948, thus beginning a lengthy acting partnership that lasted
until Ossie’s death. The two came to epitomize theatre royalty as its
distinguished couple. The pair first appeared together in the plays "Jeb," in 1946, and "Anna Lucasta," in 1946-47. Davis' first film, "No Way Out" in 1950, was
Dee's fifth. They also appeared together in "Roots: The Next Generation” in 1978;
"Martin Luther King: The Dream and the Drum" in1986; "The Stand" in 1994; "Do
the Right Thing" and "Jungle Fever."
Ruby Dee once said she would marry Davis if he kept her working and work they
did. The two have produced an impressive cache of work between them, both
separately and as a couple. They also produced the book “With Ossie and Ruby: In
This Life Together,” which featured their dual autobiography. Although, I am
sure, the couples would say their greatest accomplishment are their three
children, Nora, Guy and Hasna as well as their many grandchildren.
Once asked how the dynamic team managed to work and live together in harmony.
Dee remarked: “Couples must remember that they are two separate individuals
who may see things quite differently. We have to respect those differences in
each other.”
Davis received Emmy nominations for Teacher, Teacher, King and Miss Evers'
Boys. He was highly respected by audiences and peers alike thus won numerous
kudos and honors including the Hall of Fame Award for Outstanding Artistic
Achievement; the Screen Actor's Guild Lifetime Achievement Award; the U.S. National
Medal for the Arts; NAACP Image Award and the New York Urban League Frederick
Douglass Award. Recently Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee were among the artists who
received the Kennedy Center Honors.
Davis was a leading activist in the civil rights era of the 1960s. He joined
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in the crusade for jobs and freedom and helped to
raise money for the Freedom Riders. He eulogized both King and Malcolm X at
their funerals. Famous theatrical producer Woodie King (and friend to Ossie),
once credited Davis with opening doors for many artists who followed in Davis’
stead; performers, who received work as the direct result of Ossie Davis’
having looked out for his fellow thespians.
Davis was found dead in his hotel room in Miami Beach, Fla. Police spokesman,
Bobby Hernandez, said Davis' grandson called the police shortly before 7
a.m., after having become concerned that his grandfather did not respond to
efforts to access his room at the Shore Club Hotel.
Davis’s death leaves a huge hole in the artistic community and his presence
will be surely missed.
Alas, the curtain has come down and the theatre is dark. In the great play of
life, each plays out their season in their moment in time. We who continue
the play have much to thank Ossie Davis for. For in his parting, he left for us
a grand season and many treasured moments that will surpass all time.
All rights reserved.
-back to top-
..Theodore Myles Publishing
Copyright 1997 - 2004 Afrocentricnews
By Deardra Shuler
http://www.afrocentricnews.com/html/ossie_davis.html
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death
what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil… (Hamlet)
The final curtain fell on one of the great legends of our time, Friday,
February 4th. Ossie Davis retired from life ironically while in the process of
filming a movie entitled “Retirement.” He succumbed to death at age 87, still
working at the craft he loved so well. Davis was a giant in the entertainment
business having devoted five decades as an actor, director, producer and writer.
There was no entertainment genre that he did not master. His talents were
featured in print, on stage, screen and radio. Many remember him from his role in
the 1978 television series "Roots: The Next Generation." He is also remembered
for his appearances in several Spike Lee films: “School Daze,” “Do The Right
Thing,” and “Jungle Fever.” His best known film was “A Raisin In The Sun.”
More recently, Davis appeared in “Dr. Dolittle” and “Get on the Bus.”
Born in Cogdell, Georgia, in 1917, Davis developed a love for theatre at an
early age. He pursued his interest at Howard University after winning a
National Youth Administration scholarship in 1935. In 1946, Davis made his Broadway
debut in Jeb. He later performed in the Broadway productions of “A Raisin in
the Sun,” “I’m Not Rappaport,” “Purlie Victorious,” a play Davis both starred
in and wrote. He also appeared in “Anna Lucasta” “Green Pastures,” “No Time
for Sergeants” and “The Zulu and the Zayda” to name a few of his Broadway
performances. As a result of his large volume of work on Broadway, Davis was
inducted into the Theater Hall of Fame in 1994.
Married to his wife, Ruby Dee, for close to 56 years, the couple met in 1946
and married in 1948, thus beginning a lengthy acting partnership that lasted
until Ossie’s death. The two came to epitomize theatre royalty as its
distinguished couple. The pair first appeared together in the plays "Jeb," in 1946, and "Anna Lucasta," in 1946-47. Davis' first film, "No Way Out" in 1950, was
Dee's fifth. They also appeared together in "Roots: The Next Generation” in 1978;
"Martin Luther King: The Dream and the Drum" in1986; "The Stand" in 1994; "Do
the Right Thing" and "Jungle Fever."
Ruby Dee once said she would marry Davis if he kept her working and work they
did. The two have produced an impressive cache of work between them, both
separately and as a couple. They also produced the book “With Ossie and Ruby: In
This Life Together,” which featured their dual autobiography. Although, I am
sure, the couples would say their greatest accomplishment are their three
children, Nora, Guy and Hasna as well as their many grandchildren.
Once asked how the dynamic team managed to work and live together in harmony.
Dee remarked: “Couples must remember that they are two separate individuals
who may see things quite differently. We have to respect those differences in
each other.”
Davis received Emmy nominations for Teacher, Teacher, King and Miss Evers'
Boys. He was highly respected by audiences and peers alike thus won numerous
kudos and honors including the Hall of Fame Award for Outstanding Artistic
Achievement; the Screen Actor's Guild Lifetime Achievement Award; the U.S. National
Medal for the Arts; NAACP Image Award and the New York Urban League Frederick
Douglass Award. Recently Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee were among the artists who
received the Kennedy Center Honors.
Davis was a leading activist in the civil rights era of the 1960s. He joined
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in the crusade for jobs and freedom and helped to
raise money for the Freedom Riders. He eulogized both King and Malcolm X at
their funerals. Famous theatrical producer Woodie King (and friend to Ossie),
once credited Davis with opening doors for many artists who followed in Davis’
stead; performers, who received work as the direct result of Ossie Davis’
having looked out for his fellow thespians.
Davis was found dead in his hotel room in Miami Beach, Fla. Police spokesman,
Bobby Hernandez, said Davis' grandson called the police shortly before 7
a.m., after having become concerned that his grandfather did not respond to
efforts to access his room at the Shore Club Hotel.
Davis’s death leaves a huge hole in the artistic community and his presence
will be surely missed.
Alas, the curtain has come down and the theatre is dark. In the great play of
life, each plays out their season in their moment in time. We who continue
the play have much to thank Ossie Davis for. For in his parting, he left for us
a grand season and many treasured moments that will surpass all time.
All rights reserved.
-back to top-
..Theodore Myles Publishing
Copyright 1997 - 2004 Afrocentricnews
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Notes from the Bottletree
Last night I was invited to take part in a table-reading of Addae Moon's “Notes from the Bottletree”. About a year ago a good friend of mine, Ayodele, told me one of his friends had written this new piece that was premeiring at the Horizon Theatre in Atlanta, and that he loved it. That play was “Notes…” The author, Addae, and I had met via internet (we're on the same listserv) spoken on several occasions about different things, but we'd never really talked about his play, so last night was the first time I had the opportunity to read it. It was a beautiful piece of work. The play deals with the struggles of being an artist, familial history, and how some parts of your past you can't escape, it's mixed in with the genetic material in your blood. All of these issues come to surface in a play with language that has a heightened scene of poetics and at the same time is authentic in it's voice, steeped in dirty-south phonetics.
Ian Mairs a playwright that lives in Jacksonville put together the read, with an eye to do a staged reading. Ian is just what this community needs. I hoping he and I could forge an alliance to help bring theatre to Jacksonville, and he has been very open to it. Ian and I are as opposite in some ways, he went to school for playwriting, he teaches it, he's had several plays produced and published, and is very much connected in the local theatre scene. Where as I am somewhat an outsider. Most of the local theatre people have no idea who I am, which is cool with me. From the beginning I wanted my art to be about reach out to those who have not seen a lot of theatrical work. But that idea has matured into wanting everyone, theatre people and non traditional audiences to be drawn back to the theater. In that I think Ian and I have the same vision, so for him to ask me to read it was an honor. It's like the other side of the theater aisle is reaching out.
Initally I was scared to death to do the table read. Primarily because I am dyslexic. If you've been reading this blog, you probably already noticed. I hate reading in public. But Addae's work was so fluid, and the words felt like they were the same I would use in the given situation, after the first five pages, I was able to relax, and try to work. The other actors and I had great chemistry, and the director is someone I've known about but never had the chance to work with, and then there's Valerie the stage manager. Val's great and probably the only reason I got through MacBeth two years ago, it's a pleasure to work with her. So if you can, look up Addae Moon's “Notes from the Bottletree” this is a playwright to keep your eye on.
Ian Mairs a playwright that lives in Jacksonville put together the read, with an eye to do a staged reading. Ian is just what this community needs. I hoping he and I could forge an alliance to help bring theatre to Jacksonville, and he has been very open to it. Ian and I are as opposite in some ways, he went to school for playwriting, he teaches it, he's had several plays produced and published, and is very much connected in the local theatre scene. Where as I am somewhat an outsider. Most of the local theatre people have no idea who I am, which is cool with me. From the beginning I wanted my art to be about reach out to those who have not seen a lot of theatrical work. But that idea has matured into wanting everyone, theatre people and non traditional audiences to be drawn back to the theater. In that I think Ian and I have the same vision, so for him to ask me to read it was an honor. It's like the other side of the theater aisle is reaching out.
Initally I was scared to death to do the table read. Primarily because I am dyslexic. If you've been reading this blog, you probably already noticed. I hate reading in public. But Addae's work was so fluid, and the words felt like they were the same I would use in the given situation, after the first five pages, I was able to relax, and try to work. The other actors and I had great chemistry, and the director is someone I've known about but never had the chance to work with, and then there's Valerie the stage manager. Val's great and probably the only reason I got through MacBeth two years ago, it's a pleasure to work with her. So if you can, look up Addae Moon's “Notes from the Bottletree” this is a playwright to keep your eye on.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
New York, New York
It's 4 in the morning and Griot won't let me sleep. We'll be in NY in a couple of weeks and I still have some script stuff I need to work out. I'm not nervous about New York, but I want to put my best foot forward. I feel like we have the opportunity to have decent audiences if the weather agrees. If the show can move folks in NY, then it can move people anywhere.
The piece of the show that I have never had peace with is the music era of the 50's and 60's. In the show's first incarnation it was a little too pedestrian. We didn't move with the music the way the music moved people in that era, but I think we've solved the problem, just a little later then I would have liked. We are on the rehearse everyday schedule, and I hate it. I love the show, love working on it, but hate, rehearsing everyday. I just want to do it. Foolish but true.
The other aspect of trying to work a date like the NY gig is packages. I hate this part to, because you spend so much time putting together something you hope people will look at, but for the most part, people tend to throw packages on the slush pile. A lot of work goes into it, The DVD, the press clippings, letters blah blah blah. But that's a part of the game. I'm feeling really good about it all, I wish we were in NY now, doing it. The stage at the Baruch Performing Arts Center is beautiful. When I saw it for the first time last year, I felt like the stage was singing to me, begging me to touch it.
There were a few obstacles in getting BPAC, but the staff, guided us through those waters effortlessly. As an artist, I seem to be blessed in working with incredible people in the theatres I work in. The Theatre Project has been my home for the last three years, and many of the other venues I've been at have treated me well. I'm whining about packages and rehearsals, but honestly I wouldn't have it any other way.
The piece of the show that I have never had peace with is the music era of the 50's and 60's. In the show's first incarnation it was a little too pedestrian. We didn't move with the music the way the music moved people in that era, but I think we've solved the problem, just a little later then I would have liked. We are on the rehearse everyday schedule, and I hate it. I love the show, love working on it, but hate, rehearsing everyday. I just want to do it. Foolish but true.
The other aspect of trying to work a date like the NY gig is packages. I hate this part to, because you spend so much time putting together something you hope people will look at, but for the most part, people tend to throw packages on the slush pile. A lot of work goes into it, The DVD, the press clippings, letters blah blah blah. But that's a part of the game. I'm feeling really good about it all, I wish we were in NY now, doing it. The stage at the Baruch Performing Arts Center is beautiful. When I saw it for the first time last year, I felt like the stage was singing to me, begging me to touch it.
There were a few obstacles in getting BPAC, but the staff, guided us through those waters effortlessly. As an artist, I seem to be blessed in working with incredible people in the theatres I work in. The Theatre Project has been my home for the last three years, and many of the other venues I've been at have treated me well. I'm whining about packages and rehearsals, but honestly I wouldn't have it any other way.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Chapter One
Against my better judgement, I've decided to post the begining of the first Chapter of my book. Please read it, drop me a line, and let me know what you think.
1
There are no cold winters in the South, only a Southerners longing for summers past. When you live in the sun most of the year she gets in your blood, becomes your kin. When she leaves you, even for those fleeting months, you feel it somewhere deep naggin’ atcha, whisperin’ in your ear beggin’ you to find her and bring her home. Jason Calhoun hadn’t seen her so long, he’d forgot what it felt like when she rubbed against your skin on a clear day. In New York City, it was easy to forget how it was when he was young, the way she looked in the morning peeping through the blinds, begging him to join her. He’d get up do his chores as fast as possible and run out to the woods behind his house where she waited with open arms. Honestly, he didn’t want to remember her. Long ago he’d decided to participate in a form of voluntary amnesia. The Southern Sun had been his father’s lover first and after the death of his mother, Jason had very little to do with anything that related to his father.
Northerners have very different relationship with the sun. They see her between the towers of Babel that make up their sprawling cities, watch her as she moves to her sister, the moon, but never quite celebrate her presence. Jason sometimes would catch her watching him when he was thousands of feet off the ground in a man-made finger stretching to touch God’s face. He could feel her eyes burrowing into his soul calling out with a familiar, if distant voice. Occasionally, when the air conditioning in the building in which he worked became too much, he’d look for her, near the tinted large windows that faced the east, just to get a taste of her warmth. She’d always be there waiting for him at the window, calling his name, but the loud monotone drone of the office drown out her voice. Without looking back he’d return to the fluorescent, unnatural light of his cubical.
Knowing all of this, it was still a surprise, when Jason felt his face getting sunburned in late February at his father’s funeral. The drive home took years longer then he expected, but somehow he always knew this is where he would end up, back in Florida, picking up behind his daddy. Ezra Calhoun’s funeral took place at noon at the Blood of the Redeemer Baptist Church. Jason arrived at the graveyard at nine a.m. to kneel near the tombstone of his mother, and whisper his personal history of the past four years. His words, tears, and salvia where absorbed by the granite marker like a sponge. If the grounds keeper had picked it up and rung it out after Jason left, the young man’s whole life would have fallen on the ground in between the sharp blades of St. Augustine grass, secrets lying naked for the world to see. But Hank Bottlemen had worked at the cemetery for more years then Jason had lived, and knew the trouble with learning other folks business. Gracefully, he turned away when he saw Jason spilling his heart, he only wished the boy would hurry so he could continue preparing the grave for the burial today.
The church was filled with sights, sounds, and smells that defined Jason’s childhood in North East Florida. He wanted to quietly disappear, and make his way into the woods behind the church. He knew pass the pine trees, sticker-bushes, and wild grass he would find the boy of his youth sitting near the edge of Black’s Creek. Like a water moccasin leaving his skin on the riverbank, he could scrape, edge, and peel his way out of the husk that chained him to responsibility, and magically revert back into that child. In his youth he’d never swam in Black’s Creek, the water was too murky. At night he’d dream of monsters awaking, and claw their way out of the depths of the water looking for little boys to devour. The thought of a fish-eyed killer walking the streets of Live Oak was enough to keep him out of the water during the day, and in the safety of his own home at night. At twenty-five years of age Jason had few regrets, baptizing himself in the waters of Black’s Creek was one of them, the four-year estrangement from his father was not.
Jason couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable, when he looked down at his father in the casket. He knew the wool grey of the Confederate Uniform was itchy against the skin; it always seemed to find the sensitive areas of the body to rub up against. His father would have never worn a uniform like this in life. It was too nice, museum-like in it’s perfection. Where his left arm should have been, the uniform sleeve was folded back at his elbow-stump, and pinned by his armpit. Jason wondered in death if his father had received his long departed extremity when he reached his final destination. Ezra never spoke about losing a limb too much, maybe a joke or two about how his right arm was jealous of the attention his missing arm received, but never anything serious. Today his phantom limb would be the jealous one, the gold embroidery on his right sleeve belonged on the cuff of an English king instead of the tattered edges of a Confederate soldier’s sleeve. If Ezra was alive, he’d unstitch every gold thread off the jacket and wear it plain. There was no room for pageantry on the battlefield, uniforms weren’t perfect, you wore what you had handy, as there might not be an official uniform available. So it was for the troops during the Civil War, so it would be for Ezra Calhoun one hundred and forty years later.
In the future, the mental picture of his father, charter member of the Fraternal Order of the Sacred Sons of the South, lying in this casket decked out like a peacock, was a soothing base, when the heartburn of his father’s abandonment began to rise up from his stomach and find it’s way into his throat. Today though, just looking at Ezra made Jason hot. It was the heat born from the friction of his father’s dead skin and the inescapable humidity of the church. In a last effort of mercy, Jason wanted to lift his father from the casket, take off the clothing that symbolized the gulf between them, and carry his body into the St. John’s River. He could picture himself, walking with his naked, dead, father draped over his arms, until the water reached up to his ankles, then his waist, then slowly up to his outstretched arms, enveloping his father’s lifeless husk.
Desperately he wanted to free his father in that river, to simply let go, and pray the body would make it out to the ocean. But even in his daydream Jason knew there was something inescapable in their relationship. He looked down at his father lying in the casket for the last time and envisioned Ezra in his arms under the waters of the St. John. The tide, playing the age-old game of tug-o-war with the undercurrent beneath it, threatening to take them both. But he couldn’t let him go. Jason could see himself holding on, till the waves swallowed father and son, sacrificing himself with a prayer that somehow in heaven they’d work it all out. But in the right-now, there was no working it out for Ezra Calhoun, only goodbyes, tears, and pallbearers dressed in Confederate regalia.
1
There are no cold winters in the South, only a Southerners longing for summers past. When you live in the sun most of the year she gets in your blood, becomes your kin. When she leaves you, even for those fleeting months, you feel it somewhere deep naggin’ atcha, whisperin’ in your ear beggin’ you to find her and bring her home. Jason Calhoun hadn’t seen her so long, he’d forgot what it felt like when she rubbed against your skin on a clear day. In New York City, it was easy to forget how it was when he was young, the way she looked in the morning peeping through the blinds, begging him to join her. He’d get up do his chores as fast as possible and run out to the woods behind his house where she waited with open arms. Honestly, he didn’t want to remember her. Long ago he’d decided to participate in a form of voluntary amnesia. The Southern Sun had been his father’s lover first and after the death of his mother, Jason had very little to do with anything that related to his father.
Northerners have very different relationship with the sun. They see her between the towers of Babel that make up their sprawling cities, watch her as she moves to her sister, the moon, but never quite celebrate her presence. Jason sometimes would catch her watching him when he was thousands of feet off the ground in a man-made finger stretching to touch God’s face. He could feel her eyes burrowing into his soul calling out with a familiar, if distant voice. Occasionally, when the air conditioning in the building in which he worked became too much, he’d look for her, near the tinted large windows that faced the east, just to get a taste of her warmth. She’d always be there waiting for him at the window, calling his name, but the loud monotone drone of the office drown out her voice. Without looking back he’d return to the fluorescent, unnatural light of his cubical.
Knowing all of this, it was still a surprise, when Jason felt his face getting sunburned in late February at his father’s funeral. The drive home took years longer then he expected, but somehow he always knew this is where he would end up, back in Florida, picking up behind his daddy. Ezra Calhoun’s funeral took place at noon at the Blood of the Redeemer Baptist Church. Jason arrived at the graveyard at nine a.m. to kneel near the tombstone of his mother, and whisper his personal history of the past four years. His words, tears, and salvia where absorbed by the granite marker like a sponge. If the grounds keeper had picked it up and rung it out after Jason left, the young man’s whole life would have fallen on the ground in between the sharp blades of St. Augustine grass, secrets lying naked for the world to see. But Hank Bottlemen had worked at the cemetery for more years then Jason had lived, and knew the trouble with learning other folks business. Gracefully, he turned away when he saw Jason spilling his heart, he only wished the boy would hurry so he could continue preparing the grave for the burial today.
The church was filled with sights, sounds, and smells that defined Jason’s childhood in North East Florida. He wanted to quietly disappear, and make his way into the woods behind the church. He knew pass the pine trees, sticker-bushes, and wild grass he would find the boy of his youth sitting near the edge of Black’s Creek. Like a water moccasin leaving his skin on the riverbank, he could scrape, edge, and peel his way out of the husk that chained him to responsibility, and magically revert back into that child. In his youth he’d never swam in Black’s Creek, the water was too murky. At night he’d dream of monsters awaking, and claw their way out of the depths of the water looking for little boys to devour. The thought of a fish-eyed killer walking the streets of Live Oak was enough to keep him out of the water during the day, and in the safety of his own home at night. At twenty-five years of age Jason had few regrets, baptizing himself in the waters of Black’s Creek was one of them, the four-year estrangement from his father was not.
Jason couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable, when he looked down at his father in the casket. He knew the wool grey of the Confederate Uniform was itchy against the skin; it always seemed to find the sensitive areas of the body to rub up against. His father would have never worn a uniform like this in life. It was too nice, museum-like in it’s perfection. Where his left arm should have been, the uniform sleeve was folded back at his elbow-stump, and pinned by his armpit. Jason wondered in death if his father had received his long departed extremity when he reached his final destination. Ezra never spoke about losing a limb too much, maybe a joke or two about how his right arm was jealous of the attention his missing arm received, but never anything serious. Today his phantom limb would be the jealous one, the gold embroidery on his right sleeve belonged on the cuff of an English king instead of the tattered edges of a Confederate soldier’s sleeve. If Ezra was alive, he’d unstitch every gold thread off the jacket and wear it plain. There was no room for pageantry on the battlefield, uniforms weren’t perfect, you wore what you had handy, as there might not be an official uniform available. So it was for the troops during the Civil War, so it would be for Ezra Calhoun one hundred and forty years later.
In the future, the mental picture of his father, charter member of the Fraternal Order of the Sacred Sons of the South, lying in this casket decked out like a peacock, was a soothing base, when the heartburn of his father’s abandonment began to rise up from his stomach and find it’s way into his throat. Today though, just looking at Ezra made Jason hot. It was the heat born from the friction of his father’s dead skin and the inescapable humidity of the church. In a last effort of mercy, Jason wanted to lift his father from the casket, take off the clothing that symbolized the gulf between them, and carry his body into the St. John’s River. He could picture himself, walking with his naked, dead, father draped over his arms, until the water reached up to his ankles, then his waist, then slowly up to his outstretched arms, enveloping his father’s lifeless husk.
Desperately he wanted to free his father in that river, to simply let go, and pray the body would make it out to the ocean. But even in his daydream Jason knew there was something inescapable in their relationship. He looked down at his father lying in the casket for the last time and envisioned Ezra in his arms under the waters of the St. John. The tide, playing the age-old game of tug-o-war with the undercurrent beneath it, threatening to take them both. But he couldn’t let him go. Jason could see himself holding on, till the waves swallowed father and son, sacrificing himself with a prayer that somehow in heaven they’d work it all out. But in the right-now, there was no working it out for Ezra Calhoun, only goodbyes, tears, and pallbearers dressed in Confederate regalia.
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