Next.
This blog will go through somewhat of a transformation for the next couple months. Lately I’ve been extremely slow in posting updates. Mainly because a lot of what’s going on with me professionally, are issues, good and bad, that I’d rather not air publicly. What I need to be writing about here, is the work. Not the politics, or me whining about not having the accessibility into the places I think my work should go. With a full slate of work to do in the next couple months I thought it would be helpful to myself, and other creative types who may or may not read this blog, if I chronicled my process. With that in mind here we go.
So I have three major projects, all popping off at the same time. What a blessing. And a curse.
Project 1
JULIUS X
1st of all, Julius X opens in Detroit at Plowshares Theatre in May. This is a huge break for me. I love the director of the piece Gary Anderson, he’s a smart man with a lot of heart, and vision. In the past, the play has been performed, but due to budgetary concerns, and lack of unified vision, the play has not been performed the way I envisioned it. I think I can be honest and say the opening production of the play was a disappointment to me. The director, totally ignored what I as a playwright was looking for. He didn’t understand my work, and therefore, went completely opposite of what I wanted to see. In the past, I’ve been nice about the work he did, but lately, I’ve been feeling like if I can’t be honest about it, then I shouldn’t talk about it at all. I need to talk about it, so I need to tell the truth. While there were some good performances, and fine actors on a whole I felt like the text was not explored and left wanting.
The second performance of Julius was in Cleveland. Technically, I was impressed. It was apart of the Technology and Arts festival, and the set was incredible. There were some really good actors, and I really liked the director of the piece, but they didn’t really get the poetry. I don’t blame them, I think this play is a new form of theatre that most actors and directors are not familiar with. So it makes doing the piece difficult if you haven’t seen that type of poetry. I believe they will actually include the piece in the season next year, and I’ll be brought in to help with the production. I think with all the talent they have in Cleveland, we’ll be able to make something special of the production.
With this new production in Detriot, in order to truly see the vision on the piece, I will be necessary for me to work on the music of the play. This has been an enigma. Primarily because the musicians, I want to work with have been extremely busy. They are a talented bunch, but this talent makes them in heavy demand. I’ve got a couple months to get it together, or else I believe I will have squandered an opportunity to see the play on stage, the way I have envisioned it my head.
Project 2
The 761st Men of War.
This piece is about the 761st armored division in WWII. They were the black tank battalion labeled “Patton’s Panthers” despite racism, and lack of respect, these soldiers fought hard during the Allied campaign in the European Theater of Operations. They didn’t receive their props until the 70’s. With America’s nostalgia for the Greatest Generation, and WWII, it seems to me, that people have forget about these soldiers and the battles they fought for their country and the battles they fought in their country. I want to remember them. I want to honor them. This play, stylistically, is different then anything I’ve done before. I want to fuse Drama, Poetry, and Hip-hop in a way I haven’t seen it done before. I’m planning on working with Poemcees out of Washington DC, they will be handling the Hip-Hop, and Griot 3 will handle the poetry and text. This play opens June 30th. Right now, I’m in the research aspect. Which is all encompassing. There is so much information out there, I’m finding my biggest challenge is narrowing it all down and keep the piece dramatic. There is so much there, it would be easy to get distracted from the bigger picture. A friend recently told me, when you are writing about WWII, you are not really writing about WWII, you writing about something else, don’t find what it is you are writing about, and make that the focus. He’s right.
So right now, all I’ve got is a really basic outline. I’ll have a treatment done by the end of next week along with character sketches.
Project 3
New American Gods
This is my last big project of the year. If you read this blog you’ll know I’m teaching at a small school in Jacksonville. Every year the school does a musical and as the drama teacher it’s my job to make it happen. This year, I decided that I would do an orginal piece. NAG is about, how we in America idolize, celebrity, and how it affects our opinions about people and ourselves. I love to work on relevant topics for kids, so the piece is also wrapped around things that are happening in the schools as far as violence, and standardized testing. It’s a big piece, and different then anything I’ve done yet, this is a full scale musical. The due date for the script is in April.
Am I crazy? Yes. Working on 3 pieces at the same time is nuts. I’ve done it before though, and I’m confident I can do it again. It’s a matter of discipline, and planning. I actually think I get more done when I’m working on more then one piece, because they writing in each tends to inspire the writing in the opposite. Plus, the Julius X piece is pretty much done, it’s more me just supervising. I have plenty of time to write, I just need to get in the discipline of writing at times that are different then what I’m use to. Over the years, I’ve been able to sit myself down and work, I’ve created a time and space in which to do it. Because I have a 9 to 5 now, that has to change. I have to find a new time, and I need to learn to use the time I have more efficiently. At the same time, I have to balance all this work, along with a family.
Writing is always a process of discovery for me. I’m always sitting down, going, how in the hell do I do that? It’s never the same every time it happens differently. The one thing that is similar is the beginning. I research, and create an outline that I will ignore later, and then I get to work. I’m in the process of doing that now. It’s an exciting and scary time for me professionally. I get to this point and think, I don’t know if I can do this. But the only way I get over all of that, is by attacking it. If I just run from it, then I’ve been beaten. I’m too competitive to even contemplate losing.
I plan to write about the process of the writing, as well as the ups and downs on the business side.
So, buckle up. Cause here we go.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Trust
Wow, it’s been a long long time, since I sat down to work on this blog. For those of you who read it (all two of you) I’d like to apologize for the long silence. I’ve been in the midst of a ton of stuff, personal, professional, and otherwise. When I get to that place, I’m pretty bad about blogging. I just need to live a little to get to the point where I can write a little. Some big transitions coming up, so I figured I need to get back in the habit of blogging.
So what’s happened since my last writing? Mostly good stuff Griot went to NY and got great reviews. To see that go to www.griot3.com. I have a lot I could write on the whole situation, but honestly, it’s too much to write. Suffice to say, I had a great time, the shows went well, and I think I have the opportunity to build off the success of the show. Griot, itself may not benefit from that springboard, but certainly future work will.
I’ve been come pretty unsentimental about my own work. I want to put it out there, and move on. I’m really scared of being trapped in a piece, and not creating new work. That’s not where I want to be. I think each piece needs to live it’s life and I need to not try and control it, but in the words of Ray Charles, “Let it do, what it do.” On the flip side, I also don’t want to give up on something before it’s had time to mature. I love Griot. But there are some issues that make me ready to move to the next piece. Pretty soon, I’ll be announcing here the title of my new play that will open in Baltimore in the Summer. Pretty excited about it. I’m still in the research aspect of it, and I’m not quiet sure where the concept will lead me, but it should be an interesting journey.
I look back on my career, I’ve learn that I just need to trust. Trust that the Lord hasn’t given me a gift to let it waste. Let it find it’s own way. So that’s where I am with my work.
Other news: I’m teaching fulltime now. Pretty excited about it. I’m the creative arts director at the Foundation Academy in Jacksonville Beach. A very cool school with very cool kids. I’m happy to be there. I’m really looking to do more young adult work like Chalk, so being at this school will help make that a reality.
I’ve got another large project I’m working on, but mums the word for now. If it works out, it could be pretty big for me. If not, I’m still pushin’ on. See ya soon.
So what’s happened since my last writing? Mostly good stuff Griot went to NY and got great reviews. To see that go to www.griot3.com. I have a lot I could write on the whole situation, but honestly, it’s too much to write. Suffice to say, I had a great time, the shows went well, and I think I have the opportunity to build off the success of the show. Griot, itself may not benefit from that springboard, but certainly future work will.
I’ve been come pretty unsentimental about my own work. I want to put it out there, and move on. I’m really scared of being trapped in a piece, and not creating new work. That’s not where I want to be. I think each piece needs to live it’s life and I need to not try and control it, but in the words of Ray Charles, “Let it do, what it do.” On the flip side, I also don’t want to give up on something before it’s had time to mature. I love Griot. But there are some issues that make me ready to move to the next piece. Pretty soon, I’ll be announcing here the title of my new play that will open in Baltimore in the Summer. Pretty excited about it. I’m still in the research aspect of it, and I’m not quiet sure where the concept will lead me, but it should be an interesting journey.
I look back on my career, I’ve learn that I just need to trust. Trust that the Lord hasn’t given me a gift to let it waste. Let it find it’s own way. So that’s where I am with my work.
Other news: I’m teaching fulltime now. Pretty excited about it. I’m the creative arts director at the Foundation Academy in Jacksonville Beach. A very cool school with very cool kids. I’m happy to be there. I’m really looking to do more young adult work like Chalk, so being at this school will help make that a reality.
I’ve got another large project I’m working on, but mums the word for now. If it works out, it could be pretty big for me. If not, I’m still pushin’ on. See ya soon.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Biko and the Gun.
I never heard the gunshot, but when Vicky told me what happened I could hear the echo of the bullet in her voice. Biko. An extraordinary kid. So many of these kids are. They all are. But, Biko was the first of all the boys at the Sanctuary that I made a bond with. We met two years ago, when he was much smaller, but still very much a man in the making. His father had passed away recently, and the burden of being the man in the house was heavy on his shoulders. With 6 brothers and sisters, Biko had lost a part of his adolescence when his father took his last breath.
Biko’s family had immigrated from Africa two years before his father’s death. When I met Biko I asked him if he spoke any other languages. Away from the other kids he told me he spoke three languages, English, French, and his native African tongue. It excited me, that one of these kids in the middle of the hood with trilingual, but Biko would have none of it. He didn’t want to talk about it, and definitely was not going to speak in a different language around the other kids. Assimilate, fit in, don’t make waves. I’ve often wondered about his parents. Who are they? What did they think when they landed here and America, the land of milk and honey, to find themselves in the ghetto? What had they left behind? Was it worth it? Maybe it was.
Listening to the rhetoric on the TV and radio stations although out America in regards to the question of immigrants, you would think these people land in America and right away begin living the lives of the rich and famous. Magically they appear in work places, through up a sign that says “IMMIGRANT” and the employers start lining Americans up, and kick them out. When I think of immigrants, I think of people like Biko’s parents, people with nothing, struggling to get something. Why do we criminalize the poor in the country? Why does the religious right seem to be on the wrong side of every question? What would Jesus do? Would he persecute the poor, or would he kick the money changers out of the church? I know the question of immigration is more complex then that, but somewhere in the discourse about it all, there should be room for compassion.
Back to Biko. Though he tries his best to hide it, Biko is one of the brightest kids I know. The older he gets though, I can feel the hood, wrapping it’s tentacles around his soul. How could it not? In places like the Eastside of Jacksonville, where the murder-rate is ridiculously high, AIDS is rampid, and drugs are the cash-crop that fuels the economy, only the strong survive, and survival demands payment. This year Biko was a little more detached. Even less interested in living up to his potential. I could see it, the black octopus-like digit wrapping itself around him. The land based-kracken of the hood had it’s many arms wrapped around most of the kids at the Sanctuary. Sooner or later the monster would flex his muscles, and no matter how hard the child, the tentacle, would pull him in to the maw of monster.
America always eats it’s young.
I wanted to help him. But there is only so much I can say or do without putting myself in the category of adults he just didn’t have time for. So I watched. Talked, and tried to be a positive example. It was no surprise when Vicky told me about the incident of the gun.
Walking down the street Biko and a friend ran into some guys ruthlessly beating another kid. Trying to do the right thing, Biko and his friend tried to break up the fight. The kids that were fighting went inside and got some other people. The men that walked out of the house where around the same age as Biko’s father, strong angry men pushed down so much by life, they saw no other choice but to push other people down. They walked out of the house with a gun in hand. Biko could have run. But that would have been punking out. I can imagine him, seeing the men walk up to him gun in hand, fear pattering in his heart but refusing to give in. An argument began, and one of the men shot at his feet. Biko and his friend were both smart enough to walk away, but the sting of it all was still with him the next morning. It didn’t take long for Biko’s hothead brother Patient to find out about the incident.
Patient has always been extremely quiet around me, the kind of quiet that makes me nervous. Like he’s thinking of something, and the outcome may not be positive. This summer in the time I spent with him we’d begun to build a relationship that was founded on mutual respect. I know Patient is a child of the streets the way his brother will never be. Patient knows, that I’m not judging him. With that understanding we respect each other and mover forward. The worse thing that could happen is Patient finding out about Biko being shot at. When they are together at the Sanctuary, they don’t seem especially tight, but they are brothers, and Patient is lives by hard rules. Someone disrespecting his brother is grounds for immediate retaliation. Before they kids arrived at the Sanctuary everyone knew what had happened and several of the kids there were ready to strike back.
Biko is fourteen. Patient is sixteen. The man who shot at him was in his 30’s.
Vicky was sick with worry. She loves these children deep. Four years ago, she attended the funeral of a kid that she was extremely tight with. The day he died he had just turned 21 years old. The bullets that riddled his body where sent in retaliation to something that had happened in his hood weeks early. It’s the old testament cycle of justice. Injuring someone because they have injured you or someone you love. The problem with that rational is that it never stops. Someone kills you, you’re boys kill them. Their boys, come kill one of your boys, one of your other boys kills another one of theirs, and before you know it a whole generation of black men have died in the streets of America. Or end up in jail, or wheelchairs, or someone elses child gets killed in the crossfire. It never stops.
If this was a Spike Lee flick, I’d run up to Biko and hug him tightly and scream in the middle of the hood “WAKE UP!!!!!!” The credits would role, and you the audience could go back home. But there are no credits. There is no quick out. There is only this: fourteen year olds contemplating killing someone who shot at them.
Vicky told me all of this on Thursday. The next day, I was going to Baltimore for a gig at the Creative Alliance. This was a gig that I had thought about canceling. I was writing a piece for the gig, but then got caught up and never had a chance to finish. I kept the gig, only because I felt obligated, even though I was not going to do the show I was originally asked to do, I’d put something together with the incredible Poemcees out of DC. This gig was going to be a wash. I knew they would not get tons of people out to the show, and I had to pay for my own way there, which meant I was going to take a loss. But, I gave my word. So I was going.
When Vicky was done talking about the incident, I reminded her I was going to be out of town the next day, and a light bulb went off in her head. She asked, “What do you think about taking some of the boys with you?”
The next day, Vicky, seven boys, and myself started driving down I-95 destination Baltimore.
Biko’s family had immigrated from Africa two years before his father’s death. When I met Biko I asked him if he spoke any other languages. Away from the other kids he told me he spoke three languages, English, French, and his native African tongue. It excited me, that one of these kids in the middle of the hood with trilingual, but Biko would have none of it. He didn’t want to talk about it, and definitely was not going to speak in a different language around the other kids. Assimilate, fit in, don’t make waves. I’ve often wondered about his parents. Who are they? What did they think when they landed here and America, the land of milk and honey, to find themselves in the ghetto? What had they left behind? Was it worth it? Maybe it was.
Listening to the rhetoric on the TV and radio stations although out America in regards to the question of immigrants, you would think these people land in America and right away begin living the lives of the rich and famous. Magically they appear in work places, through up a sign that says “IMMIGRANT” and the employers start lining Americans up, and kick them out. When I think of immigrants, I think of people like Biko’s parents, people with nothing, struggling to get something. Why do we criminalize the poor in the country? Why does the religious right seem to be on the wrong side of every question? What would Jesus do? Would he persecute the poor, or would he kick the money changers out of the church? I know the question of immigration is more complex then that, but somewhere in the discourse about it all, there should be room for compassion.
Back to Biko. Though he tries his best to hide it, Biko is one of the brightest kids I know. The older he gets though, I can feel the hood, wrapping it’s tentacles around his soul. How could it not? In places like the Eastside of Jacksonville, where the murder-rate is ridiculously high, AIDS is rampid, and drugs are the cash-crop that fuels the economy, only the strong survive, and survival demands payment. This year Biko was a little more detached. Even less interested in living up to his potential. I could see it, the black octopus-like digit wrapping itself around him. The land based-kracken of the hood had it’s many arms wrapped around most of the kids at the Sanctuary. Sooner or later the monster would flex his muscles, and no matter how hard the child, the tentacle, would pull him in to the maw of monster.
America always eats it’s young.
I wanted to help him. But there is only so much I can say or do without putting myself in the category of adults he just didn’t have time for. So I watched. Talked, and tried to be a positive example. It was no surprise when Vicky told me about the incident of the gun.
Walking down the street Biko and a friend ran into some guys ruthlessly beating another kid. Trying to do the right thing, Biko and his friend tried to break up the fight. The kids that were fighting went inside and got some other people. The men that walked out of the house where around the same age as Biko’s father, strong angry men pushed down so much by life, they saw no other choice but to push other people down. They walked out of the house with a gun in hand. Biko could have run. But that would have been punking out. I can imagine him, seeing the men walk up to him gun in hand, fear pattering in his heart but refusing to give in. An argument began, and one of the men shot at his feet. Biko and his friend were both smart enough to walk away, but the sting of it all was still with him the next morning. It didn’t take long for Biko’s hothead brother Patient to find out about the incident.
Patient has always been extremely quiet around me, the kind of quiet that makes me nervous. Like he’s thinking of something, and the outcome may not be positive. This summer in the time I spent with him we’d begun to build a relationship that was founded on mutual respect. I know Patient is a child of the streets the way his brother will never be. Patient knows, that I’m not judging him. With that understanding we respect each other and mover forward. The worse thing that could happen is Patient finding out about Biko being shot at. When they are together at the Sanctuary, they don’t seem especially tight, but they are brothers, and Patient is lives by hard rules. Someone disrespecting his brother is grounds for immediate retaliation. Before they kids arrived at the Sanctuary everyone knew what had happened and several of the kids there were ready to strike back.
Biko is fourteen. Patient is sixteen. The man who shot at him was in his 30’s.
Vicky was sick with worry. She loves these children deep. Four years ago, she attended the funeral of a kid that she was extremely tight with. The day he died he had just turned 21 years old. The bullets that riddled his body where sent in retaliation to something that had happened in his hood weeks early. It’s the old testament cycle of justice. Injuring someone because they have injured you or someone you love. The problem with that rational is that it never stops. Someone kills you, you’re boys kill them. Their boys, come kill one of your boys, one of your other boys kills another one of theirs, and before you know it a whole generation of black men have died in the streets of America. Or end up in jail, or wheelchairs, or someone elses child gets killed in the crossfire. It never stops.
If this was a Spike Lee flick, I’d run up to Biko and hug him tightly and scream in the middle of the hood “WAKE UP!!!!!!” The credits would role, and you the audience could go back home. But there are no credits. There is no quick out. There is only this: fourteen year olds contemplating killing someone who shot at them.
Vicky told me all of this on Thursday. The next day, I was going to Baltimore for a gig at the Creative Alliance. This was a gig that I had thought about canceling. I was writing a piece for the gig, but then got caught up and never had a chance to finish. I kept the gig, only because I felt obligated, even though I was not going to do the show I was originally asked to do, I’d put something together with the incredible Poemcees out of DC. This gig was going to be a wash. I knew they would not get tons of people out to the show, and I had to pay for my own way there, which meant I was going to take a loss. But, I gave my word. So I was going.
When Vicky was done talking about the incident, I reminded her I was going to be out of town the next day, and a light bulb went off in her head. She asked, “What do you think about taking some of the boys with you?”
The next day, Vicky, seven boys, and myself started driving down I-95 destination Baltimore.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Who will cry for Angela
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She’s right. A dear friend of mine said that to me today when I told her this story.
On the first day of summer camp at the Community Center which I work/volunteer at, Angie was having problems. She is 8 and in a large group of girls her age. Angie’s new at the community center. Many of the kids from the center, go there during the school year, others are returnees from last years camp. These kids have formed a bond, so from the start Angie was on the outside. She is a fighter. Doesn’t like the view from the other side of the glass wall. She wants in and will do what’s necessary to get in. By the end of the first day, she fought, argued and pushed anyone that did the same to her. Sometimes she started, sometimes she was the recipient, but it was obvious to the staff that she would need some extra attention.
Fast forward two days. Angie’s had problems but nothing major. I personally felt like she wasn’t very nice because every time I tried to talk to her, she would treat me badly. The camp counselor who worked with her though thought she was good. Towards the end of the day, I had to organize my group. In doing a sweep of the building, I walked in on another counselor having a hard time with Angie. He was yelling at her, trying to get her to obey, which only put her in a “I don’t care” mode. I told the counselor to get the head of the camp Ms. Vickie. He agreed. The young counselor is a good guy. Does well with the kids, I like him a lot, but the situation had gotten out of control. As he left to get Ms. Vicki, I struggled with the young girl to get her to sit down and listen. She was having none of it. She pushed, hollered, and screamed at me. I made her sit down, being careful not to hurt her. When Ms. Vickie came in, I decided it was best to let her handle it. I went to check on my group, who where fine with another counselor, so I then returned to Ms. Vicki, I was a little shocked at what I saw.
When I walked in the door, Angela was on the floor, and a Jr. Counselor ‘Zo was holding her down. ‘Zo is a big kid, but a Teddy-bear on the inside. Angela was struggling like a mad woman, screaming and hollering at the top of her lungs. Her movements brought to mind a scene from the Exorcist where the little girl is being tortured by the demon inside her. Ms. Vickie, was leaning down talking to her, calmly trying bring her back to reality, but the little girl was having none of it. I decided to get on the floor and help out. I spoke quietly, and gently as if talking to a wild animal, trying to calm her, she refused to hear me. This little 8 year old girl, gathered so much strength, she was actually moving ‘Zo. Through the strength of her will, she was able to readjust herself, and sit flatly on her behind, legs out, with ‘Zo holding her arms behind her back. To stop her from kicking, I moved to grab her legs, which put us face to face. I told her to calm down. She looked at me with such anger in between her quick movements, struggling to bite ‘Zo and get free.
In the middle of it all, she screamed, “I want to die!” My daughter is the same age as Angela. They are the same height, complexion, with similar hair style. I could never imagine my daughter saying something like that at her age. Watching Angela, I couldn’t help but think of my daughter. Couldn’t help but wonder what pain she hid beneath her tough exterior. It hurt my heart to hear these words. Hurt in a way I can’t really put to words. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry. I wanted to cry for her, her parents, the world at large, hurting children in every corner of the globe that felt like she did. But there was no way in her state I could hug her. So instead I said, “No baby, don’t say that. You don’t want to die.”
“Yes I do!”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do! I’m ugly! I’m stupid! I want to die.” Every word out of her mouth was like a rock shattering the fragile little concept I had of children at the Sanctuary. I knew the kids here had problems. I knew poverty created all sorts of issues for children, but my ignorance, did not really allow me to truly understand how deep their pain runs. Not that kids out of poverty don’t face similar struggles, they do, they just have greater resources. Who will Angela be if no one tells her, her worth? Where will we be when an entire population of bruised and battered children become adults? Are we there now?
All I could think to say to her was that she was a child of God, and that she was beautiful because God made her.
She screamed, “No! I’m not, I’m ugly!”
“No, you are not, you are beautiful. God loves you and I love you.”
She paused at this. I thought I’d reached her. Something broke the shell, but then she reared her head back, and spit in my face. She spit like she was scared of what the consequences would be for her actions. Sprayed. It didn’t feel good, but I thought to myself, well this could have been worse. I couldn’t wipe my face because my hands were firmly grasping her legs. Ms. Vickie stood besides me, and rubbed my back for encouragement, ‘Zo looked stunned. I couldn’t stop though.
“God loves you Angela, and so do I” She spit again. Sprayed.
“I don’t care, you can spit all day and it doesn’t change that God loves you, and I love you too. Because you are a child of God.” I could see a change in her eyes this time. She knew I wouldn’t react negatively to her behavior. She then started gathering spit in her mouth, and she spit in my face. This time it was no spray. I could feel it running down my cheek. I am not saint. I was mad. I wanted to scream at her, leave her there and wipe my face. But I couldn’t. Ms. Vickie continued to rub my back and the whole time, I felt like God was in my ear whispering “hold on, hold on”. When God tells you hold on, what else can you do?
Again I told her I loved her God loved her. Repeat, spit on the other cheek. Again, repeat. Somewhere in the cycle, someone got a towel and wiped my face. Angela screamed at me. She cried, I told her I loved her over and over. She said, she was worthless, I said she was valuable beyond belief. She spit. And then at the crescendo when there was nowhere else for either of us to go, she broke down and sobbed. I knew that type of pain. But I never knew it could come from a child. She wept and wept, and mumbled, “I wanna die like my cousin…” I let her legs go and move to hold her, telling her, “No baby, no, you don’t want to die.” I held her for what seemed like an eternity. She surrender to me for bit, and then, began to push away. Ms. Vickie asked her, if she wanted her to hold her, Angela said yes, and then crawled in Vickie’s arms. It was 3:30 when Vickie carried the sobbing child away.
I wanted to go home. Vickie would have let me go home. I sat in the empty room unsure of what just happened. I looked at the clock and thought, I should just go, I felt like I had nothing left. Everything had left my body. But I couldn’t leave. I knew, word of this incident would spread through the kids. Everyone would know, Angela flipped out, and spit on me at least 4 times, and I did nothing about it. The mentality with these children is “only the strong survive.” So me not responding, was a sign of weakness. Especially if I left early. I sat in the room alone for about 15 minutes, and then walked out. I was determined to redefine strength, for them, and honestly, I was a little bit of pride on my behalf. I wasn’t going to let the heartbreak, beat me. Not now. I stayed until 4:40, watching the clock the entire time. The whispers were getting out about what happened but no one said anything to me.
After calming down and hanging with Vickie for a while Angela come out in the common room acting like a normal kid. She walked up to me and apologized for spitting on me. She wrapped her arms around me, and it was all I could do not to cry. Her foster mother came to pick her up at 4:30, and Vickie told her, Angela could not come back. She gave her a hug goodbye and I watched as she walked out of the building. Vickie came to me, and told me, she wanted to keep her, but we don’t have the staff trained to deal with a child with problems like Angela. It was somewhat a liability issue, but also the truth of the matter is we as much as we wanted to, could not help her. I know Vickie is right. I know it. But it hurts.
I left the Sanctuary feeling like acid was eating my heart away. I called my mother, to tell her something completely unrelated, and started crying. She talked to me the whole way home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop crying. I just ached for Angela. I prayed so hard that night hoping that God would watch over her, that God would watch over all the children I see in pain everyday. I’ve told this story a couple times, and each time people focus on her spitting on me, and what I went through. But that is not the point. At all. Angela is the point. That she had no other place to put her pain, then direct at me in such a harsh way. That she has no one, nothing, and despite our incident, she’s still in pain.
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She said after I talked to her about the whole incident, and she’s right. But if people like me don’t work with Angela, who will? If we don’t cry for her who will? If I just walk away from it all, and only write plays and poems about people’s struggle but don’t get my hands dirty, who am I, and what is my work about? Father Greg Boyle said, “God doesn’t want us to endlessly praise God for being compassionate God is hoping that we will spend our time being compassionate. So, I kinda want to live like the truth is true, and go where love has not yet arrived.”
Amen.
Amen.
On the first day of summer camp at the Community Center which I work/volunteer at, Angie was having problems. She is 8 and in a large group of girls her age. Angie’s new at the community center. Many of the kids from the center, go there during the school year, others are returnees from last years camp. These kids have formed a bond, so from the start Angie was on the outside. She is a fighter. Doesn’t like the view from the other side of the glass wall. She wants in and will do what’s necessary to get in. By the end of the first day, she fought, argued and pushed anyone that did the same to her. Sometimes she started, sometimes she was the recipient, but it was obvious to the staff that she would need some extra attention.
Fast forward two days. Angie’s had problems but nothing major. I personally felt like she wasn’t very nice because every time I tried to talk to her, she would treat me badly. The camp counselor who worked with her though thought she was good. Towards the end of the day, I had to organize my group. In doing a sweep of the building, I walked in on another counselor having a hard time with Angie. He was yelling at her, trying to get her to obey, which only put her in a “I don’t care” mode. I told the counselor to get the head of the camp Ms. Vickie. He agreed. The young counselor is a good guy. Does well with the kids, I like him a lot, but the situation had gotten out of control. As he left to get Ms. Vicki, I struggled with the young girl to get her to sit down and listen. She was having none of it. She pushed, hollered, and screamed at me. I made her sit down, being careful not to hurt her. When Ms. Vickie came in, I decided it was best to let her handle it. I went to check on my group, who where fine with another counselor, so I then returned to Ms. Vicki, I was a little shocked at what I saw.
When I walked in the door, Angela was on the floor, and a Jr. Counselor ‘Zo was holding her down. ‘Zo is a big kid, but a Teddy-bear on the inside. Angela was struggling like a mad woman, screaming and hollering at the top of her lungs. Her movements brought to mind a scene from the Exorcist where the little girl is being tortured by the demon inside her. Ms. Vickie, was leaning down talking to her, calmly trying bring her back to reality, but the little girl was having none of it. I decided to get on the floor and help out. I spoke quietly, and gently as if talking to a wild animal, trying to calm her, she refused to hear me. This little 8 year old girl, gathered so much strength, she was actually moving ‘Zo. Through the strength of her will, she was able to readjust herself, and sit flatly on her behind, legs out, with ‘Zo holding her arms behind her back. To stop her from kicking, I moved to grab her legs, which put us face to face. I told her to calm down. She looked at me with such anger in between her quick movements, struggling to bite ‘Zo and get free.
In the middle of it all, she screamed, “I want to die!” My daughter is the same age as Angela. They are the same height, complexion, with similar hair style. I could never imagine my daughter saying something like that at her age. Watching Angela, I couldn’t help but think of my daughter. Couldn’t help but wonder what pain she hid beneath her tough exterior. It hurt my heart to hear these words. Hurt in a way I can’t really put to words. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry. I wanted to cry for her, her parents, the world at large, hurting children in every corner of the globe that felt like she did. But there was no way in her state I could hug her. So instead I said, “No baby, don’t say that. You don’t want to die.”
“Yes I do!”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do! I’m ugly! I’m stupid! I want to die.” Every word out of her mouth was like a rock shattering the fragile little concept I had of children at the Sanctuary. I knew the kids here had problems. I knew poverty created all sorts of issues for children, but my ignorance, did not really allow me to truly understand how deep their pain runs. Not that kids out of poverty don’t face similar struggles, they do, they just have greater resources. Who will Angela be if no one tells her, her worth? Where will we be when an entire population of bruised and battered children become adults? Are we there now?
All I could think to say to her was that she was a child of God, and that she was beautiful because God made her.
She screamed, “No! I’m not, I’m ugly!”
“No, you are not, you are beautiful. God loves you and I love you.”
She paused at this. I thought I’d reached her. Something broke the shell, but then she reared her head back, and spit in my face. She spit like she was scared of what the consequences would be for her actions. Sprayed. It didn’t feel good, but I thought to myself, well this could have been worse. I couldn’t wipe my face because my hands were firmly grasping her legs. Ms. Vickie stood besides me, and rubbed my back for encouragement, ‘Zo looked stunned. I couldn’t stop though.
“God loves you Angela, and so do I” She spit again. Sprayed.
“I don’t care, you can spit all day and it doesn’t change that God loves you, and I love you too. Because you are a child of God.” I could see a change in her eyes this time. She knew I wouldn’t react negatively to her behavior. She then started gathering spit in her mouth, and she spit in my face. This time it was no spray. I could feel it running down my cheek. I am not saint. I was mad. I wanted to scream at her, leave her there and wipe my face. But I couldn’t. Ms. Vickie continued to rub my back and the whole time, I felt like God was in my ear whispering “hold on, hold on”. When God tells you hold on, what else can you do?
Again I told her I loved her God loved her. Repeat, spit on the other cheek. Again, repeat. Somewhere in the cycle, someone got a towel and wiped my face. Angela screamed at me. She cried, I told her I loved her over and over. She said, she was worthless, I said she was valuable beyond belief. She spit. And then at the crescendo when there was nowhere else for either of us to go, she broke down and sobbed. I knew that type of pain. But I never knew it could come from a child. She wept and wept, and mumbled, “I wanna die like my cousin…” I let her legs go and move to hold her, telling her, “No baby, no, you don’t want to die.” I held her for what seemed like an eternity. She surrender to me for bit, and then, began to push away. Ms. Vickie asked her, if she wanted her to hold her, Angela said yes, and then crawled in Vickie’s arms. It was 3:30 when Vickie carried the sobbing child away.
I wanted to go home. Vickie would have let me go home. I sat in the empty room unsure of what just happened. I looked at the clock and thought, I should just go, I felt like I had nothing left. Everything had left my body. But I couldn’t leave. I knew, word of this incident would spread through the kids. Everyone would know, Angela flipped out, and spit on me at least 4 times, and I did nothing about it. The mentality with these children is “only the strong survive.” So me not responding, was a sign of weakness. Especially if I left early. I sat in the room alone for about 15 minutes, and then walked out. I was determined to redefine strength, for them, and honestly, I was a little bit of pride on my behalf. I wasn’t going to let the heartbreak, beat me. Not now. I stayed until 4:40, watching the clock the entire time. The whispers were getting out about what happened but no one said anything to me.
After calming down and hanging with Vickie for a while Angela come out in the common room acting like a normal kid. She walked up to me and apologized for spitting on me. She wrapped her arms around me, and it was all I could do not to cry. Her foster mother came to pick her up at 4:30, and Vickie told her, Angela could not come back. She gave her a hug goodbye and I watched as she walked out of the building. Vickie came to me, and told me, she wanted to keep her, but we don’t have the staff trained to deal with a child with problems like Angela. It was somewhat a liability issue, but also the truth of the matter is we as much as we wanted to, could not help her. I know Vickie is right. I know it. But it hurts.
I left the Sanctuary feeling like acid was eating my heart away. I called my mother, to tell her something completely unrelated, and started crying. She talked to me the whole way home. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop crying. I just ached for Angela. I prayed so hard that night hoping that God would watch over her, that God would watch over all the children I see in pain everyday. I’ve told this story a couple times, and each time people focus on her spitting on me, and what I went through. But that is not the point. At all. Angela is the point. That she had no other place to put her pain, then direct at me in such a harsh way. That she has no one, nothing, and despite our incident, she’s still in pain.
“Soft-hearted people can’t work with kids like that.” She said after I talked to her about the whole incident, and she’s right. But if people like me don’t work with Angela, who will? If we don’t cry for her who will? If I just walk away from it all, and only write plays and poems about people’s struggle but don’t get my hands dirty, who am I, and what is my work about? Father Greg Boyle said, “God doesn’t want us to endlessly praise God for being compassionate God is hoping that we will spend our time being compassionate. So, I kinda want to live like the truth is true, and go where love has not yet arrived.”
Amen.
Amen.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Fear itself
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert, Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, "Dune"
Fear. Fear is what stops people, shows, performances, and art from greatness. I learned this pretty early in my life as a performer. I could tell when I’d let the fear of something get the best of me. My work on stage always suffered. So early on, I decided not to let it in. To take that fear and push up against it, in essence, use the friction from fear and faith to create.
Professionally, I’ve been feeling some apprehension over where I’m going as an artist. Which road to take, how to see through the foggy lens of the future. Balancing being the artist I know I can be against the human being I need to be. Without a doubt being a good father, friend, and person weights out everything. You can be a true artist if you let your art get in the way of loving someone. At the same time, I got work to do that is bigger then me. The responsibility of it pushes me forward. It’s not just this “lofty” goal of giving something back to the world. It’s also because I love what I do. Love it. I’m thankful for it. The people who have employed me, the audiences that have enjoyed my work… I’m humbled by it. I can’t thank God enough for the blessings I’ve received.
What I really wanted to write about has to do with working on “Griot”. As I write this, I realize this play, and reworking it, has become a metaphor for what I’m trying to do in my career and life.
So the good news Griot: He Who Speaks the Sweet Word will be taking part in the New York City Fringe Festival. Brilliant! I’m overjoyed. What’s the significance? Being in NY and having the opportunity to get agents, producers, and theaters to come see the show can really help us move the piece forward. Honestly, I was a little at an impasse as far as where to take the show next. We’d wanted to take it to Edinburgh, but decided against it. The cost outweighed the benefits, so it made sense for us to stay stateside and try to get into Festivals here. We’d missed the cut off for a lot of the festivals, but NYC Fringe was where I wanted to be anyway. So here we are.
Here’s the part where the fear plays a part. I have always wanted to rework different spots in the play. For the most part I think the play is solid. But there are parts in the play that stick out like a sore thumb. The biggest is the Motown section. There has been a disagreement within the production itself about this section of the play. There are those who think it’s fine, but I hate it. I hate it mostly because we are lip-synching the Motown songs. It feels empty, and not quite professional. I’ve never seen a Broadway show where the characters lip-synched a song. Either you sing it or you don’t. Secondly, I feel like the play on a whole does not give it’s due to the civil rights struggle. It was important to me, when first writing the piece that we created a play that would welcome all people to enjoy. I want the play to touch African-Americans, but I didn’t want to alienate other people. I still feel that way, but without truly dealing with the dark passages of history in this country, we will never be able to have an honest discussion about race. The exclusion of the civil rights struggle was not intentional at all. We were just focused on dealing with the modern equivalent of Griots. King, Malcolm, John Lewis, Stokely Carmichael, Andrew Young were great leaders, but not Griots.
Recently, when I was looking over the play, I read a line from the Miles monologue I wrote, (using Mile’s Autobiography as reference) Miles said “we were the soundtrack of the struggle, musicians give the marchers their beat” it struck me this is how the civil rights and the Griot fit. During the Motown era the movement was in full swing. I don’t think most people think of the music of the time when they think about the struggle, or vice versa. This is what Motown should reflect in the play. The full picture of history. What the art was doing. How the struggle formed the art, and how the art formed the struggle.
It’s tough when you’ve written something and the general public likes it, but you know this isn’t what you want. You don’t want to break something that works. On top of that there are those in the production who have valid points for not wanting to change. But it doesn’t feel right to me. In my bones, I know I have to make this change. I know I can’t be scared of failure. I must reach up and embrace it.
Frank Herbert, Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, "Dune"
Fear. Fear is what stops people, shows, performances, and art from greatness. I learned this pretty early in my life as a performer. I could tell when I’d let the fear of something get the best of me. My work on stage always suffered. So early on, I decided not to let it in. To take that fear and push up against it, in essence, use the friction from fear and faith to create.
Professionally, I’ve been feeling some apprehension over where I’m going as an artist. Which road to take, how to see through the foggy lens of the future. Balancing being the artist I know I can be against the human being I need to be. Without a doubt being a good father, friend, and person weights out everything. You can be a true artist if you let your art get in the way of loving someone. At the same time, I got work to do that is bigger then me. The responsibility of it pushes me forward. It’s not just this “lofty” goal of giving something back to the world. It’s also because I love what I do. Love it. I’m thankful for it. The people who have employed me, the audiences that have enjoyed my work… I’m humbled by it. I can’t thank God enough for the blessings I’ve received.
What I really wanted to write about has to do with working on “Griot”. As I write this, I realize this play, and reworking it, has become a metaphor for what I’m trying to do in my career and life.
So the good news Griot: He Who Speaks the Sweet Word will be taking part in the New York City Fringe Festival. Brilliant! I’m overjoyed. What’s the significance? Being in NY and having the opportunity to get agents, producers, and theaters to come see the show can really help us move the piece forward. Honestly, I was a little at an impasse as far as where to take the show next. We’d wanted to take it to Edinburgh, but decided against it. The cost outweighed the benefits, so it made sense for us to stay stateside and try to get into Festivals here. We’d missed the cut off for a lot of the festivals, but NYC Fringe was where I wanted to be anyway. So here we are.
Here’s the part where the fear plays a part. I have always wanted to rework different spots in the play. For the most part I think the play is solid. But there are parts in the play that stick out like a sore thumb. The biggest is the Motown section. There has been a disagreement within the production itself about this section of the play. There are those who think it’s fine, but I hate it. I hate it mostly because we are lip-synching the Motown songs. It feels empty, and not quite professional. I’ve never seen a Broadway show where the characters lip-synched a song. Either you sing it or you don’t. Secondly, I feel like the play on a whole does not give it’s due to the civil rights struggle. It was important to me, when first writing the piece that we created a play that would welcome all people to enjoy. I want the play to touch African-Americans, but I didn’t want to alienate other people. I still feel that way, but without truly dealing with the dark passages of history in this country, we will never be able to have an honest discussion about race. The exclusion of the civil rights struggle was not intentional at all. We were just focused on dealing with the modern equivalent of Griots. King, Malcolm, John Lewis, Stokely Carmichael, Andrew Young were great leaders, but not Griots.
Recently, when I was looking over the play, I read a line from the Miles monologue I wrote, (using Mile’s Autobiography as reference) Miles said “we were the soundtrack of the struggle, musicians give the marchers their beat” it struck me this is how the civil rights and the Griot fit. During the Motown era the movement was in full swing. I don’t think most people think of the music of the time when they think about the struggle, or vice versa. This is what Motown should reflect in the play. The full picture of history. What the art was doing. How the struggle formed the art, and how the art formed the struggle.
It’s tough when you’ve written something and the general public likes it, but you know this isn’t what you want. You don’t want to break something that works. On top of that there are those in the production who have valid points for not wanting to change. But it doesn’t feel right to me. In my bones, I know I have to make this change. I know I can’t be scared of failure. I must reach up and embrace it.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Transitions.
Transitions.
I’ve been writing blog entries and haven’t posted any of them, as I’ve been trying to sift through it all. Welcome to the penumbra. The place I spend time in when I’m between projects, trying to figure out what the next move is. I’ve been pecking away at a couple projects. But nothing substantial. I’ve got ideas for three new pieces, all of which scare me to death. This is a good sign. Pieces that scared me, are the ones that I have to write. I have to steer towards going to the next big thing, challenging myself or the work will bore me and never get finished.
Last night we wrapped up our short run of GRIOT at FCCJ. The two nights we ran the show went really well. There are parts of the show that drive me crazy. Little things, that I know can be done better, I just have to spend the time making it right. Where the time will come for that, I have no idea. But I’m hoping I’ll etch out sometime in the near future and start making it happen. I love the show. I love how Larry, David, and I are magic when we are on stage together. But still there is plenty to work on. Right now we are waiting for word on whether we got into the NYC Fringe Festival. We should know about that in a couple of weeks. If that happens then I’ll begin re-working the parts of the play that don’t quite work for me.
I imagine, in the next month or so, I’ll have a lock on what project I’m working on. Right now, I’m just feeling the concepts out, see which one will get born first. I’ve got some good news on the Julius X tip but for right now, until it’s completely confirmed, I won’t announce it, but it’s pretty big news. So that’s what’s up with me. Short entry. Next time much more to say. Promise.
I’ve been writing blog entries and haven’t posted any of them, as I’ve been trying to sift through it all. Welcome to the penumbra. The place I spend time in when I’m between projects, trying to figure out what the next move is. I’ve been pecking away at a couple projects. But nothing substantial. I’ve got ideas for three new pieces, all of which scare me to death. This is a good sign. Pieces that scared me, are the ones that I have to write. I have to steer towards going to the next big thing, challenging myself or the work will bore me and never get finished.
Last night we wrapped up our short run of GRIOT at FCCJ. The two nights we ran the show went really well. There are parts of the show that drive me crazy. Little things, that I know can be done better, I just have to spend the time making it right. Where the time will come for that, I have no idea. But I’m hoping I’ll etch out sometime in the near future and start making it happen. I love the show. I love how Larry, David, and I are magic when we are on stage together. But still there is plenty to work on. Right now we are waiting for word on whether we got into the NYC Fringe Festival. We should know about that in a couple of weeks. If that happens then I’ll begin re-working the parts of the play that don’t quite work for me.
I imagine, in the next month or so, I’ll have a lock on what project I’m working on. Right now, I’m just feeling the concepts out, see which one will get born first. I’ve got some good news on the Julius X tip but for right now, until it’s completely confirmed, I won’t announce it, but it’s pretty big news. So that’s what’s up with me. Short entry. Next time much more to say. Promise.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
“The past is so hard to get from under”
“The past is so hard to get from under”
March 28th is a day of loss for me. My daughter passed away on this date. Her name is Laurynn LeShonda Letson. Usually, I don’t talk about people in my family. Many people know I have a daughter because of my “Venus” poem, and that daughter’s name is Brooklynn. Laurynn is her little sister, who would be six today. I never got to play with her, or do things I do with my other children because she was gone almost as quickly as she was here. What I did get to do was to hold her. Once. I felt her warm little body pressed against mine. She was already gone, but I still got the chance to touch her. I whispered a poem in her ear. It was more of a prayer that she would find some peace some place better then where she’d be born into. I don’t remember letting go. I wanted to follow the nurse to whatever room they were taking her, and beg them to take me. Let her stay, I’d go in her place. But I knew when I watched them wheel her away that I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t pure or perfect. I’d done to much and seen too much to just walk into the light like her.
I use to feel so guilty about it all. Like a bricks had been laid against my chest each one with her name inscribed on them. I used those bricks to build walls around my heart, and soul. The thing about being a writer, or any kind of artist for that matter means that you can not operate within walls. Walls are exactly what an artist strives against. Slowly but surely, you have to chip away at those walls, so you can be human. So you can help other people escape their own walls. I thought about writing the entry and never mention Laurynn just talk about the loss of someone close to me, but that’s just living behind the wall. It’s not living in the real world, with real pain, or real happiness. I want more for me. And more for her. I don’t want her memory to be the pain that defines me. And yet, I know sometimes it is.
I these days, I don’t look to place blame on myself, of anyone else, I just understand that sometimes life works in it’s own ways. But I miss her. In ways I don’t even know how to write about. In times that seem to be a random as hell, but somehow make sense. That’s where she lies. I don’t know how heaven works. I don’t know if what people say will happen, happens. It would be nice to see her, to tell her I love her. But I think if I don’t ever see her again, this is as good as a place as any.
“Laurynn, I prayed for you the last time I held you, and I said it to you but you were already gone, but I love you baby. As much as I do all my little ones, from now till forever”
The Universe makes space. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
March 28th is a day of loss for me. My daughter passed away on this date. Her name is Laurynn LeShonda Letson. Usually, I don’t talk about people in my family. Many people know I have a daughter because of my “Venus” poem, and that daughter’s name is Brooklynn. Laurynn is her little sister, who would be six today. I never got to play with her, or do things I do with my other children because she was gone almost as quickly as she was here. What I did get to do was to hold her. Once. I felt her warm little body pressed against mine. She was already gone, but I still got the chance to touch her. I whispered a poem in her ear. It was more of a prayer that she would find some peace some place better then where she’d be born into. I don’t remember letting go. I wanted to follow the nurse to whatever room they were taking her, and beg them to take me. Let her stay, I’d go in her place. But I knew when I watched them wheel her away that I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t pure or perfect. I’d done to much and seen too much to just walk into the light like her.
I use to feel so guilty about it all. Like a bricks had been laid against my chest each one with her name inscribed on them. I used those bricks to build walls around my heart, and soul. The thing about being a writer, or any kind of artist for that matter means that you can not operate within walls. Walls are exactly what an artist strives against. Slowly but surely, you have to chip away at those walls, so you can be human. So you can help other people escape their own walls. I thought about writing the entry and never mention Laurynn just talk about the loss of someone close to me, but that’s just living behind the wall. It’s not living in the real world, with real pain, or real happiness. I want more for me. And more for her. I don’t want her memory to be the pain that defines me. And yet, I know sometimes it is.
I these days, I don’t look to place blame on myself, of anyone else, I just understand that sometimes life works in it’s own ways. But I miss her. In ways I don’t even know how to write about. In times that seem to be a random as hell, but somehow make sense. That’s where she lies. I don’t know how heaven works. I don’t know if what people say will happen, happens. It would be nice to see her, to tell her I love her. But I think if I don’t ever see her again, this is as good as a place as any.
“Laurynn, I prayed for you the last time I held you, and I said it to you but you were already gone, but I love you baby. As much as I do all my little ones, from now till forever”
The Universe makes space. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Life after February
Life after February
Dear Blog forgive me it’s been about a month since my last confessional. With tons of writing to do, and new projects needing to be written, I find myself in a state of inertia. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to live a little. This is not a bad thing, what it is, is a testament to the work, I put in on Julius X. It was a long and good process, but it’s left me feeling somewhat drained. I’m working hard to get the play produced in other places, so we’ll see how that goes. Additionally, I’ve been working with the composer, Mr. Bruce Mack. I am very, very, excited about where the piece can go. The biggest draw back with X is the size of the cast. There are not many African American Theatre companies across the nation that could do a version of this piece. That fact is part of the reason I try not to write big pieces. The story for Julius X was so big, and it was something I had to do, I have to accept that there are some downsides to the work.
What I’ve been up to: Last week I went to NYC it was suppose to be a time of fun, and some good work. I got hired by Sony to film a tradeshow commercial for their new HiDef products. They wanted their own, HiDef Poets. In addition I was going to work with the composer for Julius X, and have a few meetings with some key people to hopefully get the show on the right path for an NYC production. I have a gang of friends in the NY area I do not see enough, so I thought this would be a great time to do a bunch work and socializing, but the best laid plans, always have plans of their own.
The Sony shoot went well. I’ve done a couple TV gigs from Def Poetry to the Final Four for CBS in 2004, to some PBS stuff, I have to say Sony was really a class act. The CBS shoot had a level of uncertainty. They weren’t sure whether the spot was going to air or not. So it was shot as fast as possible, without really giving me a chance to prepare. We auditioned, they choose me, I was given a script, and boom, time to shoot. Def Poetry of course is a whole different ball of wax. You come in do your thing, see a lot of folks have a great time, and make a little change. PBS stuff was mostly promotional, so you talk about what you’re doing, and perform and then out the door. Sony fully catered the shoot. They gave all 4 poets participating an opportunity to write their own short segments, and then drove us out of a soundstage in New Jersey where we performed the piece. The other poets on the shoot were Kelly Tsia www.yellowgurl.com, Bob Holman www.Bowerypoetryclub.com, & Bassey Ikpi www.basseyworld.com , Also an actor named Anthony Veneziale who is a part of www.backhouseproductions.org. We had a good time, and I can’t wait to see the actual commercial.
The next day my health crashed. Stuck in NY a thousand miles away from my inhaler, I had a major asthma attack and my allergies were out of control. For the most part I stayed in the bed for 4 days. I had some pretty important meetings I was able to make, but as soon as they were over I ran back to my hotel and crashed. Later in the week, I stayed with Bruce Mack and his lovely wife Vons, out in Jersey. We worked some on the music, both of us feeling the direction of the other. I came home a little early. I needed to recuperate from the trip and here I sit, not feeling 100%. The sad part about the trip is that I didn’t get to see a lot of people I wanted to hang out with. Nor, did I get to see any of the theatre I was hoping to check out. But on a whole the entire trip was productive. Life moves on…..
Dear Blog forgive me it’s been about a month since my last confessional. With tons of writing to do, and new projects needing to be written, I find myself in a state of inertia. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to live a little. This is not a bad thing, what it is, is a testament to the work, I put in on Julius X. It was a long and good process, but it’s left me feeling somewhat drained. I’m working hard to get the play produced in other places, so we’ll see how that goes. Additionally, I’ve been working with the composer, Mr. Bruce Mack. I am very, very, excited about where the piece can go. The biggest draw back with X is the size of the cast. There are not many African American Theatre companies across the nation that could do a version of this piece. That fact is part of the reason I try not to write big pieces. The story for Julius X was so big, and it was something I had to do, I have to accept that there are some downsides to the work.
What I’ve been up to: Last week I went to NYC it was suppose to be a time of fun, and some good work. I got hired by Sony to film a tradeshow commercial for their new HiDef products. They wanted their own, HiDef Poets. In addition I was going to work with the composer for Julius X, and have a few meetings with some key people to hopefully get the show on the right path for an NYC production. I have a gang of friends in the NY area I do not see enough, so I thought this would be a great time to do a bunch work and socializing, but the best laid plans, always have plans of their own.
The Sony shoot went well. I’ve done a couple TV gigs from Def Poetry to the Final Four for CBS in 2004, to some PBS stuff, I have to say Sony was really a class act. The CBS shoot had a level of uncertainty. They weren’t sure whether the spot was going to air or not. So it was shot as fast as possible, without really giving me a chance to prepare. We auditioned, they choose me, I was given a script, and boom, time to shoot. Def Poetry of course is a whole different ball of wax. You come in do your thing, see a lot of folks have a great time, and make a little change. PBS stuff was mostly promotional, so you talk about what you’re doing, and perform and then out the door. Sony fully catered the shoot. They gave all 4 poets participating an opportunity to write their own short segments, and then drove us out of a soundstage in New Jersey where we performed the piece. The other poets on the shoot were Kelly Tsia www.yellowgurl.com, Bob Holman www.Bowerypoetryclub.com, & Bassey Ikpi www.basseyworld.com , Also an actor named Anthony Veneziale who is a part of www.backhouseproductions.org. We had a good time, and I can’t wait to see the actual commercial.
The next day my health crashed. Stuck in NY a thousand miles away from my inhaler, I had a major asthma attack and my allergies were out of control. For the most part I stayed in the bed for 4 days. I had some pretty important meetings I was able to make, but as soon as they were over I ran back to my hotel and crashed. Later in the week, I stayed with Bruce Mack and his lovely wife Vons, out in Jersey. We worked some on the music, both of us feeling the direction of the other. I came home a little early. I needed to recuperate from the trip and here I sit, not feeling 100%. The sad part about the trip is that I didn’t get to see a lot of people I wanted to hang out with. Nor, did I get to see any of the theatre I was hoping to check out. But on a whole the entire trip was productive. Life moves on…..
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Julius X
Alright kiddies, if you want to read about JULIUS X you can check it out at http://web.mac.com/al_letson/iWeb. Additionally the first review for the show is out at http://www.citypaper.com/arts/story.asp?id=11460 More to come.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Don’t call it a come back
Don’t call it a come back
It’s been a minute since I sat down to scribble some thoughts. Mostly because I’ve been maddddd busy. Secondly cause I get lazy when it comes to “blogging”, although this little journal has helped in my personal growth so much. It’s easy to look back and know exactly where I was, like creating a trail from the place you started. Sometimes I look back and go WOW. Other times, it’s too painful to read. Either way the future waits for no one. This is where I’m at now.
Julius X premiers at the Baltimore Theatre Project 45 West Preston St. Feb. 9th-19th. Can’t wait to see it. I’ve had a lot of heartburn over this one. For a couple reasons I’d rather not air publicly. To sum it up, I am totally not use to being “just” a playwright. Writing something and giving it to someone who may or may not get your vision of the play is something I struggle with. Usually I’m use to working on my stuff intimately with people I know intimately. This has a different feel altogether. I think the director is going to do a great job with the play. My apprehension has nothing to do with him. I think it’s primarily because I’m 12 hours away (car) and can’t really be apart of the process. I can’t watch the scenes, and change things that don’t work. It’s relying solely on the work that I’ve done on the script, instead of having the chance, to see what works and what doesn’t. That is what the performance will be an opportunity for me to see what works and what doesn’t the problem with that is the show is going to be reviewed. Reviews. I’ve heard playwrights talk about it with dread but never thought much of it, until I started getting reviewed. I remember the feeling of walking to the store to get the newspaper when my first review came in. It was nerve wracking, thank God it was a good review. I haven’t gotten a bad one yet, so I’m not sure how that feels. Honestly, on the level I’m working, I never want to get a bad one. When my work is on Broadway, then that’s something else. Right now though, I’d like to stay in the positives. Reviews are important because they set you up to do other things with the play. I want Julius X to run in NY. To do big things, and this review could be the beginning of it. At this point, all you can do is have faith.
More to come. Stay tuned.
It’s been a minute since I sat down to scribble some thoughts. Mostly because I’ve been maddddd busy. Secondly cause I get lazy when it comes to “blogging”, although this little journal has helped in my personal growth so much. It’s easy to look back and know exactly where I was, like creating a trail from the place you started. Sometimes I look back and go WOW. Other times, it’s too painful to read. Either way the future waits for no one. This is where I’m at now.
Julius X premiers at the Baltimore Theatre Project 45 West Preston St. Feb. 9th-19th. Can’t wait to see it. I’ve had a lot of heartburn over this one. For a couple reasons I’d rather not air publicly. To sum it up, I am totally not use to being “just” a playwright. Writing something and giving it to someone who may or may not get your vision of the play is something I struggle with. Usually I’m use to working on my stuff intimately with people I know intimately. This has a different feel altogether. I think the director is going to do a great job with the play. My apprehension has nothing to do with him. I think it’s primarily because I’m 12 hours away (car) and can’t really be apart of the process. I can’t watch the scenes, and change things that don’t work. It’s relying solely on the work that I’ve done on the script, instead of having the chance, to see what works and what doesn’t. That is what the performance will be an opportunity for me to see what works and what doesn’t the problem with that is the show is going to be reviewed. Reviews. I’ve heard playwrights talk about it with dread but never thought much of it, until I started getting reviewed. I remember the feeling of walking to the store to get the newspaper when my first review came in. It was nerve wracking, thank God it was a good review. I haven’t gotten a bad one yet, so I’m not sure how that feels. Honestly, on the level I’m working, I never want to get a bad one. When my work is on Broadway, then that’s something else. Right now though, I’d like to stay in the positives. Reviews are important because they set you up to do other things with the play. I want Julius X to run in NY. To do big things, and this review could be the beginning of it. At this point, all you can do is have faith.
More to come. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Temporary Arrangements
I’ve been working on a post to the website, a really good post full of what I’ve been doing for the last month or two. And today when I sat down to post it, I just didn’t feel it anymore. I’ve been depressed for a couple days, over work stuff, and just don’t have the heart to post all my dreams today. Sometime in the near future I guess I will, but today, no dice. With that being said, this song always picks me up. I found it when I was going though a really hard time a couple years ago. I felt like she was talking directly to me. I think everyone at some point feels like a stranger in a strange land. That's exactly where I'm at. Like I'm speaking in a language the people around me can't understand. The world has turned up it’s gravity field, and is trying to keep me on the ground. It won’t hold me, I was made to fly, but sometimes the struggle to get airborne is a tough one.
No Pressure over Cappucino
By Alanis Morissette
And you're like a 90's Jesus
And you revel in your psychosis
How dare you?
You sample concepts like hors d'oeurves
And you eat their questions for dessert
And is it just me or is it hot in here?
And you're like a 90's Kennedy
And you're only a million years old
They can't fool you
They'll throw opinions like rocks in riots
And they'll stumble around like hypocrites
And is it just me or is it dark in here?
You may never be or have a husband
You may never have or hold a child
You will learn to loose everything
We are temporary arrangements
And you're like a 90's Noah
And they laughed at you when you packed all of your things
And they wonder why you're frustrated
And they wonder why you're so angry
Is it just me or are you fed up
And god bless you in you're travels
in your conquests and queries...
No Pressure over Cappucino
By Alanis Morissette
And you're like a 90's Jesus
And you revel in your psychosis
How dare you?
You sample concepts like hors d'oeurves
And you eat their questions for dessert
And is it just me or is it hot in here?
And you're like a 90's Kennedy
And you're only a million years old
They can't fool you
They'll throw opinions like rocks in riots
And they'll stumble around like hypocrites
And is it just me or is it dark in here?
You may never be or have a husband
You may never have or hold a child
You will learn to loose everything
We are temporary arrangements
And you're like a 90's Noah
And they laughed at you when you packed all of your things
And they wonder why you're frustrated
And they wonder why you're so angry
Is it just me or are you fed up
And god bless you in you're travels
in your conquests and queries...
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