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.
Friday, June 03, 2005
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.
Friday, December 03, 2004
The novel.
So the second big project for 2005 is the novel. I figure this is my year to take on the big stuff that I’ve stayed away from. With the novel I plan on taking my time. I’ve got other projects on the burner, and the novel is in the back, but right now, it feels good to finally start getting this story out. Maybe I’ll put some of it up here. Who knows.
I've had the concept for this book for the last two years. But the thought of actually sitting down and trying to write it has been too big for me to even think of. But then, someone pissed me off. This novelist I met was aloof, when we were talking I said "Three novels! Impressive. I don't know if I could write one."
"Well, we all have our talents..." He said it in the most, I am-better-then-you tone. What?!? Please, I was just trying to be nice and break the ice. He read some of his work for the High School students at the event we were at, and I swear I caught several of them dozing off. Then I got up and gave a solid performance. No, this guy is just the fuel i need. internalizing it this way makes writing the book like a slam. And when I comes to the slam, I win, cause that's what I do.
At least that's how I felt before I started working on the first chapter. I thought, hey, I'll kick this books ass! But I'm half-way through the first chapter thinking, "What the hell was I thinking." This is my third novel attempt. The first one I wrote thirty-nine bad chapters. I started working on it in 1996. Good concepts, horrible execution. The second novel I stated work on was in 1999, again good concepts, and less horrible writing, but still bad. Since then I worked primarily on short stories when I came to prose writing. I've got a mini collection. All of which I like some more then others. I felt like i needed to really work the whole short form to understand the long form better. Not sure if I understand either one, but I feel good about where I'm at. So I'm working on the new novel and unlike anything else I've ever written it's coming slowly. I'm loving what's coming, but the pace of it is making me think it will take years to write this piece. Especially with all I have on the plate. But screw it, "We all have our talents." Well this will be one of mine.
I've had the concept for this book for the last two years. But the thought of actually sitting down and trying to write it has been too big for me to even think of. But then, someone pissed me off. This novelist I met was aloof, when we were talking I said "Three novels! Impressive. I don't know if I could write one."
"Well, we all have our talents..." He said it in the most, I am-better-then-you tone. What?!? Please, I was just trying to be nice and break the ice. He read some of his work for the High School students at the event we were at, and I swear I caught several of them dozing off. Then I got up and gave a solid performance. No, this guy is just the fuel i need. internalizing it this way makes writing the book like a slam. And when I comes to the slam, I win, cause that's what I do.
At least that's how I felt before I started working on the first chapter. I thought, hey, I'll kick this books ass! But I'm half-way through the first chapter thinking, "What the hell was I thinking." This is my third novel attempt. The first one I wrote thirty-nine bad chapters. I started working on it in 1996. Good concepts, horrible execution. The second novel I stated work on was in 1999, again good concepts, and less horrible writing, but still bad. Since then I worked primarily on short stories when I came to prose writing. I've got a mini collection. All of which I like some more then others. I felt like i needed to really work the whole short form to understand the long form better. Not sure if I understand either one, but I feel good about where I'm at. So I'm working on the new novel and unlike anything else I've ever written it's coming slowly. I'm loving what's coming, but the pace of it is making me think it will take years to write this piece. Especially with all I have on the plate. But screw it, "We all have our talents." Well this will be one of mine.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Owning it.
So we are back on Griot: He Who Speaks the Sweet Word, and man does it feel good. As a group the four of us are hitting on all cylinders. David is showing the vulnerability, I've been looking for. Larry, is breaking his own walls down, and Barb is directing with her hyper focused precision in an effort to make us perfect for when we head to NY. I'm excited. Very excited. I realized this week what my problem as an actor has been with Griot. Blast of truth here: I have never felt truly comfortable with Griot and the characters I've been playing. I think because on a whole, I play characters that aren't the center of the scene, the majority of the characters I play in the piece are mostly supporting. This was a little hard for my ego. I mean, I was given the commission for this piece, I did a large majority of the writing, the play is my concept, and damn it, I wanted to star in it. But that line of thought was stopping me from doing the real work. Ego has to go out the door for an artist to truly work. This time out, I realized if I go into the performance working with and for the other actors, I will stand out. And that's what I've been doing. Working what I got to do, to the point that I feel like now, I am serving the work. And that is what this whole thing is supposed to be about serving the play, and the play serves the audience.
On other fronts, most of the work with "Chalk" has slowed down. Mostly because I need someone on my team to help realize the piece in the business aspect. Barb is too busy with a million and one other project, and so am I. She and I work best together on the creative side. As for business I need a manager, or an agent someone that is about me, and my work, has the connections and to make things pop. But hasn’t that been my struggle for a long time? Either way I keep on keepin’ on because, that’s what I do.
Earlier someone wrote that I was whining too much in this blog. I disagree. I talk about my struggles, but, I’m not complaining. It’s life. Everyone deals with it. There is nothing special about my struggles. They are what they are. I thank God for them because they make me who I am. If I was like many of my friends who are artist, with no children and no cares, I may be doing the same thing they are doing, nothing. My children, my life, the obstacles all of it make me a stronger writer, and dedicated artist, struggling to find the space between it all. This gives me the determination that I will succeed. What success is? I’m not sure, but I will get there. Because that’s what I do at my best, I live up to my motto “I’ll find a way or make one.” At worse I whine a little in this blog, bare with me.
On other fronts, most of the work with "Chalk" has slowed down. Mostly because I need someone on my team to help realize the piece in the business aspect. Barb is too busy with a million and one other project, and so am I. She and I work best together on the creative side. As for business I need a manager, or an agent someone that is about me, and my work, has the connections and to make things pop. But hasn’t that been my struggle for a long time? Either way I keep on keepin’ on because, that’s what I do.
Earlier someone wrote that I was whining too much in this blog. I disagree. I talk about my struggles, but, I’m not complaining. It’s life. Everyone deals with it. There is nothing special about my struggles. They are what they are. I thank God for them because they make me who I am. If I was like many of my friends who are artist, with no children and no cares, I may be doing the same thing they are doing, nothing. My children, my life, the obstacles all of it make me a stronger writer, and dedicated artist, struggling to find the space between it all. This gives me the determination that I will succeed. What success is? I’m not sure, but I will get there. Because that’s what I do at my best, I live up to my motto “I’ll find a way or make one.” At worse I whine a little in this blog, bare with me.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Growing Seeds
Today I got the word that I had been chosen to recieve a grant from the State of Florida!!!!! The Grant is the Individual Artist Fellowship. I applied for the interdisciplinary Artist category. This is the first year that I have applied for grants, four in total. I haven't applied before, because i didn't really see the importance of it. I always thought the money would be nice, but it wasn't big enough incentive, as I figured most of the big money grants, I would not recieve. It's only been in the last year, (when money has been tight) and I began thinking that in order to break through to the "bigger leagues" I need to find something that translated in the acedemic world. Thus a Grant on the resume looks really good. So I started applying. I feel pretty confident in saying that the other Grants are long shots, but right now, I'm really happy about the one i just recieved.
Figuring out how to spend the money wisely is now the next chore. I've got so many ideas about what I want to do, but all of them eat the award of 5,000 grand pretty quickly.
In the meantime, GRIOT has begun it's production cycle again. I am sooo blessed to work with talented folks like David, Larry, and Barbara. We do some magical things together. I can see how all of us have grown since the last time we performed the piece. The two new part of the the play seem to be going well, but we haven't tried them with an audience yet. Barb and I have perfected our working relationship in reguards to GRIOT. Initially it was hard for both of us. For me as the head writer, I had a vision I wanted to keep intact, and at times would step on Bab's directing toes. On her part she at times, unintentionally limited my creativy by pushing us forward, when I wanted to create more with a piece. This time out, I'm being very aware of the postion she's in and she is giving me more freedom.
Currently, I'm in the process of sending out Griot packages to everyone and their momma trying to get some interest from different folks before we get to NY so we can get them out to see the play. It's our hope to use the piece asa vehicle to get a run in NY. Today, I'm going to start targeting poeple outside the box, and get them to come. By this, I mean people like Camille Cosby, (Bill's wife) this is the type of show she would love and as a producer of the "Having Our Say" I think it would be a great idea to have her come out. All of it is a long shot, but so was the Grant.
As far as CHALK is concerned, I'm somewhat lukewarm on it. Things aren't working out the way I had hoped they would. I have to sit down in the near future and get back on the planning. I think the major problem with the progress of the piece is me. With all the other projects I'm involved with, I am the engine that pushes the work forward. With Chalk, I was taking a back seat and letting others do some of the work. I did this primarily because I need to work on other things. But it is becoming evident, that I need to roll my sleeves up and jump back into the fray.
Still working on the screenplay. In the middle of writing, I had to move, so things have not been as steady as I'd like as far as the pace of writing, but on a whole the piece is still moving forward, and at this point, that's all I really need.
Figuring out how to spend the money wisely is now the next chore. I've got so many ideas about what I want to do, but all of them eat the award of 5,000 grand pretty quickly.
In the meantime, GRIOT has begun it's production cycle again. I am sooo blessed to work with talented folks like David, Larry, and Barbara. We do some magical things together. I can see how all of us have grown since the last time we performed the piece. The two new part of the the play seem to be going well, but we haven't tried them with an audience yet. Barb and I have perfected our working relationship in reguards to GRIOT. Initially it was hard for both of us. For me as the head writer, I had a vision I wanted to keep intact, and at times would step on Bab's directing toes. On her part she at times, unintentionally limited my creativy by pushing us forward, when I wanted to create more with a piece. This time out, I'm being very aware of the postion she's in and she is giving me more freedom.
Currently, I'm in the process of sending out Griot packages to everyone and their momma trying to get some interest from different folks before we get to NY so we can get them out to see the play. It's our hope to use the piece asa vehicle to get a run in NY. Today, I'm going to start targeting poeple outside the box, and get them to come. By this, I mean people like Camille Cosby, (Bill's wife) this is the type of show she would love and as a producer of the "Having Our Say" I think it would be a great idea to have her come out. All of it is a long shot, but so was the Grant.
As far as CHALK is concerned, I'm somewhat lukewarm on it. Things aren't working out the way I had hoped they would. I have to sit down in the near future and get back on the planning. I think the major problem with the progress of the piece is me. With all the other projects I'm involved with, I am the engine that pushes the work forward. With Chalk, I was taking a back seat and letting others do some of the work. I did this primarily because I need to work on other things. But it is becoming evident, that I need to roll my sleeves up and jump back into the fray.
Still working on the screenplay. In the middle of writing, I had to move, so things have not been as steady as I'd like as far as the pace of writing, but on a whole the piece is still moving forward, and at this point, that's all I really need.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Long time gone
So it's been almost a month since I've sat down to write this journal. If anyone out there has been reading and wondering where I've been, I'm sorry, but I've been consumed with writing other stuff. Namely a new screenplay, and reworking some of the Griot script.
Since the last time I wrote I've been working my bum off. I was in Annapolis for a week working with a production of Chalk at Broadneck High School. The kids and teacher of this school were absolutely brilliant. It's still difficult to teach students a "Poetical" because very few people have seen what a "Poetical" actually is, but on a whole I thought the kids did really well. I don't know if I'll be able to see the actual production, but I will be very interested to see how it came out. The teach working with the kids is one of the dedicated hard working teachers that I meet all over the country, but don't get enough credit. These children are blessed to have such an incredible individual as their teacher.
So the screenplay I've been working on something really different. I've never been crazy about writing screenplays, because it seems like the pie in the sky. With a play I can pretty much control when it hits the stage. With a movie, no chance. I'm writing a really simple story, that hopefully, one day, I will be in a position to film. It's right in line with what I said earlier about doing a movie in 2005.
Also on the film front I was asked to write screenplay for a film that was to be filmed here in Jacksonville. The concept was brought to me by creative types that I totally trust. So I worked on an idea to pitch to the money types and from there, we would see what was happening. We did and the money types loved it. They agreed to pay me, to write the screenplay. I decided I would not write a word until I saw some money. I'm glad I did. First it was you'll get the money next week, then it was the week after that, then it's we have to re-discuss this. Blah-blah-blah. Of course they never came with the money. They came back and said I should write it for free and when the movie is done we share in the profits. Yeah right. I'd end up writing for two months then the project would go nowhere, and I've got a script I can't use and no money. No thank you.
So that's about it not much cooking on this end but hopefully next week I'll have a lot me.
Since the last time I wrote I've been working my bum off. I was in Annapolis for a week working with a production of Chalk at Broadneck High School. The kids and teacher of this school were absolutely brilliant. It's still difficult to teach students a "Poetical" because very few people have seen what a "Poetical" actually is, but on a whole I thought the kids did really well. I don't know if I'll be able to see the actual production, but I will be very interested to see how it came out. The teach working with the kids is one of the dedicated hard working teachers that I meet all over the country, but don't get enough credit. These children are blessed to have such an incredible individual as their teacher.
So the screenplay I've been working on something really different. I've never been crazy about writing screenplays, because it seems like the pie in the sky. With a play I can pretty much control when it hits the stage. With a movie, no chance. I'm writing a really simple story, that hopefully, one day, I will be in a position to film. It's right in line with what I said earlier about doing a movie in 2005.
Also on the film front I was asked to write screenplay for a film that was to be filmed here in Jacksonville. The concept was brought to me by creative types that I totally trust. So I worked on an idea to pitch to the money types and from there, we would see what was happening. We did and the money types loved it. They agreed to pay me, to write the screenplay. I decided I would not write a word until I saw some money. I'm glad I did. First it was you'll get the money next week, then it was the week after that, then it's we have to re-discuss this. Blah-blah-blah. Of course they never came with the money. They came back and said I should write it for free and when the movie is done we share in the profits. Yeah right. I'd end up writing for two months then the project would go nowhere, and I've got a script I can't use and no money. No thank you.
So that's about it not much cooking on this end but hopefully next week I'll have a lot me.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
It could be worse
So I’m in Chicago as a part of the Single File Theatre Festival. And I’m here to report it’s not much of a festival. I dig the people that put the festival together, but I must admit that the lack of audience is definitely a downer. The staff is great. The space is good. Chicago is one of my faviorite cities especially this time of the year. But coming up here from Jacksonville on my own dime to perform for 12 people one night, and 6 the next is a little rough. Thankfully, Holly Bass is also with me along with out director Barbara. Holly got into the festival because I prodded her to apply, I thought it would be cool for all of us to be there together. Thank God I did. It’s not half as bad when you have someone to commiserate with.
This is nothing new. I’ve done this several times in New York at the Nuyorican. I good venue that lives off of it’s reputation. And it’s deserved. The Nuyo is legendary. And whenever I’m in town, I always stop by. I love the place, but still it has a lot to be desired when it comes to theatre and promotion. They don’t have to promote the poetry, because it is a staple, but theatre is something altogether different. So several of the times I’ve been in NY, I’ve had microscopic audiences. It hurts some when you are pouring your heart out on the stage, and get nothing in return. But hey, that’s the way it is sometimes. It’s all apart of paying your dues, and Lord knows I’ve got a ton more to pay. So you suck it up, get on stage and give the 4 people in the audience the best show they ever saw.
This is nothing new. I’ve done this several times in New York at the Nuyorican. I good venue that lives off of it’s reputation. And it’s deserved. The Nuyo is legendary. And whenever I’m in town, I always stop by. I love the place, but still it has a lot to be desired when it comes to theatre and promotion. They don’t have to promote the poetry, because it is a staple, but theatre is something altogether different. So several of the times I’ve been in NY, I’ve had microscopic audiences. It hurts some when you are pouring your heart out on the stage, and get nothing in return. But hey, that’s the way it is sometimes. It’s all apart of paying your dues, and Lord knows I’ve got a ton more to pay. So you suck it up, get on stage and give the 4 people in the audience the best show they ever saw.
Friday, September 03, 2004
The week that was
So I wrote earlier that i was not going to write about my family in this blog. And for the most part I will not, but this week, family is all wrapped up in my work, and there is no way to write this blog honestly, without dealing with this week.
My father is a great man. A baptist minister with a huge congration. I love and respect him. But I will never be him. For a long time I think I wanted to live up to that. Not necessarily becoming him, but living up to his standard. Maybe it's the influence of my mother who has set such high standards for me, and I've always felt inclined to reach for them. Lately though, I've been realizing that their standard may not fit mine. Not that I am shooting lower, but at a completely different target. They never wanted me to follow this path I'm on. I don't have the language to tell them that i didn't choose the path, it choose me. I just do what i need to do to live. This is very much a survival thing to me writing and performing is like breathing I can't just stop. But they don't understand that. They think it takes away from my time with my immediate family, but it doesn't no more then any other father working a 9 to 5.
So this week in the local weekly newspaper, Folio Weekly, I was the cover story. I've know the write of the piece for awhile and have a good level of comfort with him, and I think he did a good job. But i haven't been able to enjoy the story or seeing my face all over town, primarily because of my parent's reaction.
My mother called it smut. Based on two things. One in the article, I use some foul language. Shit, ass, and fuck. (in that order) all in context and all make sense, I wish i hadn't for her sake, but on a whole, it is what it is. Secondly, I spoke about my personal life. Things that has happend to me on my journey. I am not ashamed by any of it. It is my life, I am not perfect. Things have happened, what is more important is how i handled them. Personally, I proud of my desicions, even the bad ones that have lead me to this point. I'm not where I want to be, but I've come so far from where I was.
My father is a great man. A baptist minister with a huge congration. I love and respect him. But I will never be him. For a long time I think I wanted to live up to that. Not necessarily becoming him, but living up to his standard. Maybe it's the influence of my mother who has set such high standards for me, and I've always felt inclined to reach for them. Lately though, I've been realizing that their standard may not fit mine. Not that I am shooting lower, but at a completely different target. They never wanted me to follow this path I'm on. I don't have the language to tell them that i didn't choose the path, it choose me. I just do what i need to do to live. This is very much a survival thing to me writing and performing is like breathing I can't just stop. But they don't understand that. They think it takes away from my time with my immediate family, but it doesn't no more then any other father working a 9 to 5.
So this week in the local weekly newspaper, Folio Weekly, I was the cover story. I've know the write of the piece for awhile and have a good level of comfort with him, and I think he did a good job. But i haven't been able to enjoy the story or seeing my face all over town, primarily because of my parent's reaction.
My mother called it smut. Based on two things. One in the article, I use some foul language. Shit, ass, and fuck. (in that order) all in context and all make sense, I wish i hadn't for her sake, but on a whole, it is what it is. Secondly, I spoke about my personal life. Things that has happend to me on my journey. I am not ashamed by any of it. It is my life, I am not perfect. Things have happened, what is more important is how i handled them. Personally, I proud of my desicions, even the bad ones that have lead me to this point. I'm not where I want to be, but I've come so far from where I was.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Who loves you baby?
Is anyone out there? Sometimes I want to ask myself, what the hell am I doing? I have to remind myself to follow my own path, but sometimes, this “own path shit” gets lonely. I mean lonely as I have no professional peers, besides my right hand wonder-twinn Bassey Ikpi. She is one of the few people I started out with and am still in constant contact with. I know how this happened. I started out with a lot of poets, slamming, and touring. But now, I’m not really in that loop anymore. Whenever I reach out to those people they make it very clear that the past does not define the present. It’s too bad, cause it would be good to have a base of folks I could talk to about the things I was trying to do. The place I’m at now, is a mixture of performance poetry and hip-hop theatre. Because I didn’t start off with the Hip-Hop Theatre cats, I don’t know them well and there seems to be a certain level of distrust. We are all decidedly protective of our own little worlds. Meanwhile I’m knocking on both doors trying to make it happen. All of this happened when I started reading people I know
Enough of the whining.
I do have a strong group around me. My peeps, Larry Knight, David Pugh… incredible poets/writers. I don’t think either one of them realize how talented they are. Quite honestly, because they don’t realize how good they are, I don’t feel like they are living up to their potential. But they will. It just takes a bit for the realization to hit home. I can see Larry beginning to come into his own in performance. Before he started working with my director Barbara, he was good. Good words, great voice. Now he has all of that including soul. He’s broken out of the confines his great voice put him in, and found the soul of his work. Every time we perform together, I am somewhat amazed at his growth. I don’t think he even notices, he just does it. David was much more polished when he started working with Barbs but I think that is part of David’s problem. He is an incredible performer, but he needs to dig deeper. I know D, carries a lot of pain with him. It’s written all over his face, and I think it stops him from digging deep, and being honest on stage. So now he gives great performances, but there is no vulnerability. It’s like watching Superman beat up bank robbers. To the average human, men with guns are a big deal, but to Supes? Nada. Now, let Lex pull out some Kryptonite, and you have good drama. David is flawless, but sometimes on stage, I’m looking to see the flawed human we all are. That being said, there aren’t many people in the world that can rock like David. I have seen women wiggling in there seats listening to him. The three of us on stage is gunpowder, and Barbara is the match.
What to say about Babszilla? She drives me crazy, but has been such a good friend, she drives me to work as hard as I do and sometimes there is little money for both of us at the end of the rainbow. She took me from a poet that speed through all his poems into what I am today, and I still have a ways to go. I’m still learning consistency. I think I have it, but I need a higher level of consistency. Everything I do on stage comes from her proding and pushing. She told me when we first started working together, that I had the package, but just needed to learn how to use it. In the last four years she has patiently held me by the hand as I jumped head first into my art. I’ve picked up other professional friends like Holly Bass who has become a sister to me, and a few others. My boy Ian who does all my graphics and web stuff at no cost, has supported me from day one. On the days when I want to quit he always gives me this look of, “What the hell are you thinking” I couldn’t do half the shit I do without him pushing me along. And then there is Stacie. All the words I could write on this page could not sum up how she has supported me, but per her request, I will refrain from writing about her on this blog. All in all, these people keep me afloat.
Even still, on days like today, I feel like: Where am I going? I mean in my heart I know this path that has being created in front of me is where I need to go, it’s the manifest destiny that I know is there, but sometimes can’t see the end result. The thing is, I’ve been walking down this road for a long time but honestly don’t really know where it’s heading. I keep myself going, because I’m not doing this for the destination, as much as I am doing it for the work. Primarily, I’m scared to think of the end. Because if I do, it may distract me from the work, but maybe the work is the end. Maybe, I don’t need the lofty goals, and just the work. The uncertainty of one foot in front of the other is very similar to how I wrote poems. With poems I never know where they are going to go, but I’ve learned the key with poetry, for me, is to not worry about where the poem is going, but trust that it is going.
Enough of the whining.
I do have a strong group around me. My peeps, Larry Knight, David Pugh… incredible poets/writers. I don’t think either one of them realize how talented they are. Quite honestly, because they don’t realize how good they are, I don’t feel like they are living up to their potential. But they will. It just takes a bit for the realization to hit home. I can see Larry beginning to come into his own in performance. Before he started working with my director Barbara, he was good. Good words, great voice. Now he has all of that including soul. He’s broken out of the confines his great voice put him in, and found the soul of his work. Every time we perform together, I am somewhat amazed at his growth. I don’t think he even notices, he just does it. David was much more polished when he started working with Barbs but I think that is part of David’s problem. He is an incredible performer, but he needs to dig deeper. I know D, carries a lot of pain with him. It’s written all over his face, and I think it stops him from digging deep, and being honest on stage. So now he gives great performances, but there is no vulnerability. It’s like watching Superman beat up bank robbers. To the average human, men with guns are a big deal, but to Supes? Nada. Now, let Lex pull out some Kryptonite, and you have good drama. David is flawless, but sometimes on stage, I’m looking to see the flawed human we all are. That being said, there aren’t many people in the world that can rock like David. I have seen women wiggling in there seats listening to him. The three of us on stage is gunpowder, and Barbara is the match.
What to say about Babszilla? She drives me crazy, but has been such a good friend, she drives me to work as hard as I do and sometimes there is little money for both of us at the end of the rainbow. She took me from a poet that speed through all his poems into what I am today, and I still have a ways to go. I’m still learning consistency. I think I have it, but I need a higher level of consistency. Everything I do on stage comes from her proding and pushing. She told me when we first started working together, that I had the package, but just needed to learn how to use it. In the last four years she has patiently held me by the hand as I jumped head first into my art. I’ve picked up other professional friends like Holly Bass who has become a sister to me, and a few others. My boy Ian who does all my graphics and web stuff at no cost, has supported me from day one. On the days when I want to quit he always gives me this look of, “What the hell are you thinking” I couldn’t do half the shit I do without him pushing me along. And then there is Stacie. All the words I could write on this page could not sum up how she has supported me, but per her request, I will refrain from writing about her on this blog. All in all, these people keep me afloat.
Even still, on days like today, I feel like: Where am I going? I mean in my heart I know this path that has being created in front of me is where I need to go, it’s the manifest destiny that I know is there, but sometimes can’t see the end result. The thing is, I’ve been walking down this road for a long time but honestly don’t really know where it’s heading. I keep myself going, because I’m not doing this for the destination, as much as I am doing it for the work. Primarily, I’m scared to think of the end. Because if I do, it may distract me from the work, but maybe the work is the end. Maybe, I don’t need the lofty goals, and just the work. The uncertainty of one foot in front of the other is very similar to how I wrote poems. With poems I never know where they are going to go, but I’ve learned the key with poetry, for me, is to not worry about where the poem is going, but trust that it is going.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Eunice
Eunice
By: A. L. Letson Jr.
“Eunice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl, get down here and wash these dishes.
You know what you suppose to do!!!”
You got to think
That somewhere along the line
Her parents had something to do with it.
North Cakalaky whuppins’
from the hand that loved her the most.
It’s summer,
1943 in Tryon North Carolina
And the sun bakes your skin,
Without mercy or regard.
White folks getting red,
like the blood under their skin
is about to boil.
Black folks getting blacka
Like midnight their father,
Has stretched his fingers
around their collective soul
In an effort to taken them home.
Mississippi Goddamn!
But right now we in North Carolina
As Eunice Kathleen Waymon
Sits on the mahogany bench
Ten year old fingers
Preparing to tickle the ebony and ivory
It’s her first piano recital at the Robert E. Lee Library
in Downtown Tryon
and everybody who’s anybody, in this small southern hamlet
has come to see the little colored girl,
that can play so well.
Her parents on the front row,
her four brothers, and three sisters,
floating somewhere in the periphery.
She arches her back
relaxes her fingers and begins
to play.
She doesn’t sing,
She just closes her eyes.
and plays.
There is music in her fingertips,
that comes forward when pressed against
the temporary friction of Piano keys.
She hears the silence between
the notes,
In the wide open spaces
where only her,
and the music reside.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
Just play,
Just play
Like her teacher taught her
But, it’s too loud and she has to look.
Her fingers continue to move
On autopilot she glances
at the audience
As the librarian, is escorting her parents
from the front row to the back
So a white couple can have their seat.
Mississippi Goddamn.
But we’re in Tryon right now.
And she’s looking at the white keys
beneath her powerless ten year old fingers,
that are still playing
the water in her eyes is too heavy,
and it just wants to fall.
And she wants to stop.
There are some burdens ten year olds
should not be forced to carry,
but she can’t let it drop.
She finishes the song,
To thunderous applause,
But she doesn’t want to play no more.
It aint fun no more.
She wanna go home.
Until over the heads of the smiling,
homogenized, crowd she sees her daddy’s face,
as he mouths the words,
“You know what you suppose to do”
And she closes her eyes
and plays.
But this time her fingers hit the keys harder
Play a little faster.
That wide open space has got fire in it now
Higher than it now
And it just don’t wanna stop.
she can’t let it drop.
So she plays and plays and plays
Until the pain goes away.
Missippipp Goddamn!
But it never goes away for long.
Twenty years later
After she’s renamed herself
From a boyfriend’s pet name,
Nina.
And a French actress.
Simone.
So she can sing in piano bars
to pay for her education
without her momma knowing.
Twenty years from
that piano recital,
she’s a star now.
But the pain don’t stop
It’s born in the faces
Of four dead black girls
Charred in the remains of an Alabama church
Carried on the wings of Negro Spirituals,
And in the righteousness of civil disobedience
It’s given a rhythm by the marching protestors
Who’s eyes were watching God as they put
One foot in front of the other,
The pain is hidden,
Under the weight fire hoses,
Attacking dogs
And swinging nooses
But on June 12th 1963
As the children of Medger Evers
Watch their daddy bleed to death
On the front steps
From a gun shot in the back
The pain becomes to much to bare…
Mississippi Goddamn
And she wants to cry
But she hears her daddy’s voice.
“you know what you suppose to do…”
Ms. Nina Simone
walks out from back stage
Sits on a mahogany bench
Fingers preparing to caress the ebony and ivory
It’s 1964 Carnegie Hal
New York, New York.
And even here black girls should know their place
They want her to laugh
Sing the blues, Gershwin maybe.
And she does
Until that pain comes back.
Half way through the set
She finishes a song, arches her back
Nods to the band
And plays….
Mississippi Goddamn
Copywright 2004 Al Letson
By: A. L. Letson Jr.
“Eunice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Girl, get down here and wash these dishes.
You know what you suppose to do!!!”
You got to think
That somewhere along the line
Her parents had something to do with it.
North Cakalaky whuppins’
from the hand that loved her the most.
It’s summer,
1943 in Tryon North Carolina
And the sun bakes your skin,
Without mercy or regard.
White folks getting red,
like the blood under their skin
is about to boil.
Black folks getting blacka
Like midnight their father,
Has stretched his fingers
around their collective soul
In an effort to taken them home.
Mississippi Goddamn!
But right now we in North Carolina
As Eunice Kathleen Waymon
Sits on the mahogany bench
Ten year old fingers
Preparing to tickle the ebony and ivory
It’s her first piano recital at the Robert E. Lee Library
in Downtown Tryon
and everybody who’s anybody, in this small southern hamlet
has come to see the little colored girl,
that can play so well.
Her parents on the front row,
her four brothers, and three sisters,
floating somewhere in the periphery.
She arches her back
relaxes her fingers and begins
to play.
She doesn’t sing,
She just closes her eyes.
and plays.
There is music in her fingertips,
that comes forward when pressed against
the temporary friction of Piano keys.
She hears the silence between
the notes,
In the wide open spaces
where only her,
and the music reside.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
But something is happening outside
She tries to ignore it
and just play.
Just play,
Just play
Like her teacher taught her
But, it’s too loud and she has to look.
Her fingers continue to move
On autopilot she glances
at the audience
As the librarian, is escorting her parents
from the front row to the back
So a white couple can have their seat.
Mississippi Goddamn.
But we’re in Tryon right now.
And she’s looking at the white keys
beneath her powerless ten year old fingers,
that are still playing
the water in her eyes is too heavy,
and it just wants to fall.
And she wants to stop.
There are some burdens ten year olds
should not be forced to carry,
but she can’t let it drop.
She finishes the song,
To thunderous applause,
But she doesn’t want to play no more.
It aint fun no more.
She wanna go home.
Until over the heads of the smiling,
homogenized, crowd she sees her daddy’s face,
as he mouths the words,
“You know what you suppose to do”
And she closes her eyes
and plays.
But this time her fingers hit the keys harder
Play a little faster.
That wide open space has got fire in it now
Higher than it now
And it just don’t wanna stop.
she can’t let it drop.
So she plays and plays and plays
Until the pain goes away.
Missippipp Goddamn!
But it never goes away for long.
Twenty years later
After she’s renamed herself
From a boyfriend’s pet name,
Nina.
And a French actress.
Simone.
So she can sing in piano bars
to pay for her education
without her momma knowing.
Twenty years from
that piano recital,
she’s a star now.
But the pain don’t stop
It’s born in the faces
Of four dead black girls
Charred in the remains of an Alabama church
Carried on the wings of Negro Spirituals,
And in the righteousness of civil disobedience
It’s given a rhythm by the marching protestors
Who’s eyes were watching God as they put
One foot in front of the other,
The pain is hidden,
Under the weight fire hoses,
Attacking dogs
And swinging nooses
But on June 12th 1963
As the children of Medger Evers
Watch their daddy bleed to death
On the front steps
From a gun shot in the back
The pain becomes to much to bare…
Mississippi Goddamn
And she wants to cry
But she hears her daddy’s voice.
“you know what you suppose to do…”
Ms. Nina Simone
walks out from back stage
Sits on a mahogany bench
Fingers preparing to caress the ebony and ivory
It’s 1964 Carnegie Hal
New York, New York.
And even here black girls should know their place
They want her to laugh
Sing the blues, Gershwin maybe.
And she does
Until that pain comes back.
Half way through the set
She finishes a song, arches her back
Nods to the band
And plays….
Mississippi Goddamn
Copywright 2004 Al Letson
Friday, August 20, 2004
You oughta be in pictures.
So the big goal for 2005 is a movie. It's aboslutely crazy, I know. I have four major projects I have to work on. Plus two grants that I applied for that will basically have me working a fulltime job doing theatre stuff in the new year, if I get them which is highly suspect. But even if I don't get the grants my plate is full. But the whisper has been instistant. The whisper has been saying, "above all create, challenge yourself." I can't be like a million other actors who go to LA or NY begging someone to put them in a film. That's too pedestrian for me. I need to feel like it's in my hands. Maybe it isn't but still, i need to be in action. But above all the ambition, a story has stuck it head out and it is demanding to be told. So I call my film guy and tell him...."Dan, I making a movie this year. I want you to be down, but I'm making the movie if you are or not." I think that was an assholey approach, but when I'm caught up in something I don't have time for pretty speach. Dan knows this. So instead of being bitchy, he says, "I'm down for whatever you are..." That's the first piece. The other piece is Ed. Ed Keyes saved my life once, no BS, I mean he saved my life. He and I have been talking about making a movie together forever, I told him and he of course is down. So I'm doing it. I have a microscopic budget, but so what. I have done more with less and will continue to do so. Watch me.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Tipping Point
Erie Pennsylvania is beautiful this time of the year. I’ve never been here before, but I love it. Of course I’ve probably seen only 1/4 of the city, but that part of seen is so green and peaceful.
I’m in Erie, with my director Barb, to work with the Ophelia Project on ways to create a national push for my play Chalk. Very exciting. The people in the Ophelia Project are genuinely good people. I’ve never done much work with a non-profit before, except watching an ex girl friend work endlessly at her under-funded under appreciated job in the field of environmental health. I never really thought about using my work to connect with a “cause” but hey, if the shoe fits… So I guess maybe a little explanation is needed when discussing the scenario. The Ophelia Project is a national nonprofit that works to end "Relational Aggression". "RA" has been called GIRL AGGRESSION, because it the way girls usually express aggressive tendacities. It's not the out and out fighting, but ignoring someone, spreading rumors, "cattiness" this type of behavior can damage girls for the rest of their lives. Chalk is a play I wrote about girl aggression with this play I created a genre I call a POETICAL.
po·et·i·cal n.
1. a movie or play that uses performance, or “slam” poetry, in it as important elements in developing the story and portraying the emotions of the characters
To be honest, I didn’t actually create a new genre, maybe I named it, or re-energized it, because I think Shakespeare and Greek Theatre were both doing this type of work. I think I just took iambic pentameter and put a beatbox to it. So this is a great way to speak to a new generation of theatre folks. All of this makes Chalk the perfect vehicle for the Ophelia Project. So this weekend I spent a lot of time listening, learning and trying to figure out how to make it all happen. While I’m listening to all the conversation, it hits me that these people not just the Ophelia Project, but people like them, do the real work. The work no one wants to talk about, the heavy lifting that all of us benefit from but have no time or desire to do ourselves.
The one common thing I hear from educators across the country, is how they are tired of teaching children for a test. I think it’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. How in the hell can you judge the quality of an education by a standardized test? It’s impossible. What you create is drones, trained to pass a test, not students that are taught to think. But of course politicians have to find someway to validate their existence. So instead of doing the real work necessary to help the youth, they give a test. And of course in disadvantaged areas, the children test poorly. Hmmm wonder why? Could it be that the social-economical culture is created to help them fail? That there are bigger issues then whether they can pass a test. And maybe if we were willing to put tax dollars into our schools instead of subsidiesing tobacco farmers to not grow tobacco, or giving money to NFL teams to build bigger stadiums, just maybe we could create a school system that works.
I’m getting off subject. Chalk has the ability to push my career forward. I’m excited, but not too excited. I’ve learned that all the big plans mean nothing if you don’t work for them. The biggest problem with the “O” project is that they have never done this sort of thing before. And quiet honestly neither have I so, we are both feeling our way through the dark.
I wonder how things work for regular playwrights. The process seems to slow to me. Writing something, and sitting it on the shelf until someone decides to read it. Or the process of trying to get an agent to read your work, and then push you forward. Slow. And it also takes control out of your hands. I can’t do that. I’m sure at some point I will have to, but right now, I just got to keep pushing forward, and work the connections.
I’m in Erie, with my director Barb, to work with the Ophelia Project on ways to create a national push for my play Chalk. Very exciting. The people in the Ophelia Project are genuinely good people. I’ve never done much work with a non-profit before, except watching an ex girl friend work endlessly at her under-funded under appreciated job in the field of environmental health. I never really thought about using my work to connect with a “cause” but hey, if the shoe fits… So I guess maybe a little explanation is needed when discussing the scenario. The Ophelia Project is a national nonprofit that works to end "Relational Aggression". "RA" has been called GIRL AGGRESSION, because it the way girls usually express aggressive tendacities. It's not the out and out fighting, but ignoring someone, spreading rumors, "cattiness" this type of behavior can damage girls for the rest of their lives. Chalk is a play I wrote about girl aggression with this play I created a genre I call a POETICAL.
po·et·i·cal n.
1. a movie or play that uses performance, or “slam” poetry, in it as important elements in developing the story and portraying the emotions of the characters
To be honest, I didn’t actually create a new genre, maybe I named it, or re-energized it, because I think Shakespeare and Greek Theatre were both doing this type of work. I think I just took iambic pentameter and put a beatbox to it. So this is a great way to speak to a new generation of theatre folks. All of this makes Chalk the perfect vehicle for the Ophelia Project. So this weekend I spent a lot of time listening, learning and trying to figure out how to make it all happen. While I’m listening to all the conversation, it hits me that these people not just the Ophelia Project, but people like them, do the real work. The work no one wants to talk about, the heavy lifting that all of us benefit from but have no time or desire to do ourselves.
The one common thing I hear from educators across the country, is how they are tired of teaching children for a test. I think it’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. How in the hell can you judge the quality of an education by a standardized test? It’s impossible. What you create is drones, trained to pass a test, not students that are taught to think. But of course politicians have to find someway to validate their existence. So instead of doing the real work necessary to help the youth, they give a test. And of course in disadvantaged areas, the children test poorly. Hmmm wonder why? Could it be that the social-economical culture is created to help them fail? That there are bigger issues then whether they can pass a test. And maybe if we were willing to put tax dollars into our schools instead of subsidiesing tobacco farmers to not grow tobacco, or giving money to NFL teams to build bigger stadiums, just maybe we could create a school system that works.
I’m getting off subject. Chalk has the ability to push my career forward. I’m excited, but not too excited. I’ve learned that all the big plans mean nothing if you don’t work for them. The biggest problem with the “O” project is that they have never done this sort of thing before. And quiet honestly neither have I so, we are both feeling our way through the dark.
I wonder how things work for regular playwrights. The process seems to slow to me. Writing something, and sitting it on the shelf until someone decides to read it. Or the process of trying to get an agent to read your work, and then push you forward. Slow. And it also takes control out of your hands. I can’t do that. I’m sure at some point I will have to, but right now, I just got to keep pushing forward, and work the connections.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Things Fall apart...
This week is the National Poetry Slam in St. Louis MO. I love the slam, and everytime August comes along, I miss it more. This year though is a little strange. My man from DC, Patrick Washington gave me a call to fill me in on the haps. Patrick, AKA Black Picasso, is an emcee, an incredible rapper, and a very impressive poet. I think these are too separate artforms. They are related but separate. Pic is a good emcee because he's got skills, he's a good poet cause he got the skills. I would be a terrible emcee because i don't have rappin' skills. Most people fall in my category just cause you can rock the mic at a poetry event doesn't mean you can rock with the emcee's. And the same goes for Rappers (they seem to think they can be poets more then the other way around.)
So, Pat's telling me how bad things are in St. Louis. I've never been to the city to perform or anything of the sorts, but from what he's saying the audience is just not there for a Nationals. I've had my beef with each of the Nationals I've been to, but all of them have had incredible crowds. This one seems to be pretty skeletal. All of this brings up a couple thoughts.
1) I miss the hell out the people I started slamming with. People like Phil West, Mike Henry, Regie Gibson, DJ Renegade, Taylor Mali, Ben Porter Lewis. Great people, incredible poets, and good times. I miss them like a mutherphuka! So I am going to make it my mission to reconnect with as many of them as possible. They have all given me so much in my life as a performer. I'm sure by now most of them, have moved on and don't really remember me, but, what the hell.
2) WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE SLAM? I looked on the website, (which by far is the whackest website for Nationals), and read the list of poets competeting. And it looks like a list of has-been-rappers! All these whack ass names! WHY DOES A POET NEED A STAGE NAME? Why are we "spiting" poems? What the hell are they thinking? Then I remember what they are thinking, because I thought the same thing when I entered the slam.
I was coming from Jacksonville a city that had no team, hell there were no teams in Florida at the time. Back then I was a flight attendant for American Airlines and I could fly anywhere for free. This gave me the ability to go to slams at the drop of a dime. When I first heard about the slam it was in 96' when Mouth Almight released the CD from the 94' slam in San Fran. I loved that CD and still own it today. The CD had all these poets with synonyms,flashy names like the Invisible Man,and others. At the time I was looking for the flash so I listened these people non stop. I never NEVER listened to the people with regular names, I mean how good could you be if your name was just Patricia Smith? Then one day I was washing the dishes and the cd just played. The poem was "Undertaker". It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard. And it was by this lady name Patricia Smith. I will never forget how stupid I was. I felt like the biblical Paul who'd been blind, until the scales fell from his eyes. Just like that I got it. It's not about Flashy names, or assumed idenities, but the work. the words. the heart and soul. This is one the one thing I thought poetry had on hip-hoppers. We speak the truth, or at least we should. Michael Harper said "the job of the poet is to tell the truth" and that truth, the personal truth is what should drive us.
So now the next frame of thought is, how did so many poets collectively not learn that lesson? The answer? Poets like me.
Poets like me who love the slam, but eventually left for whatever reason. Because if Patricia had left before I got in, I never would have known. If Regie Gibson had moved on, how would I have learned? They passed that scaredness of the slam to me, and I have left it on the counter. I can not be mad at who ever picked it up. I should have seen it coming before I left. New poets coming into the slam who cared nothing about the tradition, couldn't tell you who Marc Smith was, didn't care about the shoulders upon which they stood. It upset me, but ultimately, what could I do? So I left, following other paths.
I look at the Slam now, like an old girl friend, one that you have a lot of love for, but everytime you see her, she looks worse that she did the time before. I want to hold her, help her, talk to her about our previous lives. But her eyes are hollow now, and when she looks at me there is no recognition in her face.
So, Pat's telling me how bad things are in St. Louis. I've never been to the city to perform or anything of the sorts, but from what he's saying the audience is just not there for a Nationals. I've had my beef with each of the Nationals I've been to, but all of them have had incredible crowds. This one seems to be pretty skeletal. All of this brings up a couple thoughts.
1) I miss the hell out the people I started slamming with. People like Phil West, Mike Henry, Regie Gibson, DJ Renegade, Taylor Mali, Ben Porter Lewis. Great people, incredible poets, and good times. I miss them like a mutherphuka! So I am going to make it my mission to reconnect with as many of them as possible. They have all given me so much in my life as a performer. I'm sure by now most of them, have moved on and don't really remember me, but, what the hell.
2) WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE SLAM? I looked on the website, (which by far is the whackest website for Nationals), and read the list of poets competeting. And it looks like a list of has-been-rappers! All these whack ass names! WHY DOES A POET NEED A STAGE NAME? Why are we "spiting" poems? What the hell are they thinking? Then I remember what they are thinking, because I thought the same thing when I entered the slam.
I was coming from Jacksonville a city that had no team, hell there were no teams in Florida at the time. Back then I was a flight attendant for American Airlines and I could fly anywhere for free. This gave me the ability to go to slams at the drop of a dime. When I first heard about the slam it was in 96' when Mouth Almight released the CD from the 94' slam in San Fran. I loved that CD and still own it today. The CD had all these poets with synonyms,flashy names like the Invisible Man,and others. At the time I was looking for the flash so I listened these people non stop. I never NEVER listened to the people with regular names, I mean how good could you be if your name was just Patricia Smith? Then one day I was washing the dishes and the cd just played. The poem was "Undertaker". It was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard. And it was by this lady name Patricia Smith. I will never forget how stupid I was. I felt like the biblical Paul who'd been blind, until the scales fell from his eyes. Just like that I got it. It's not about Flashy names, or assumed idenities, but the work. the words. the heart and soul. This is one the one thing I thought poetry had on hip-hoppers. We speak the truth, or at least we should. Michael Harper said "the job of the poet is to tell the truth" and that truth, the personal truth is what should drive us.
So now the next frame of thought is, how did so many poets collectively not learn that lesson? The answer? Poets like me.
Poets like me who love the slam, but eventually left for whatever reason. Because if Patricia had left before I got in, I never would have known. If Regie Gibson had moved on, how would I have learned? They passed that scaredness of the slam to me, and I have left it on the counter. I can not be mad at who ever picked it up. I should have seen it coming before I left. New poets coming into the slam who cared nothing about the tradition, couldn't tell you who Marc Smith was, didn't care about the shoulders upon which they stood. It upset me, but ultimately, what could I do? So I left, following other paths.
I look at the Slam now, like an old girl friend, one that you have a lot of love for, but everytime you see her, she looks worse that she did the time before. I want to hold her, help her, talk to her about our previous lives. But her eyes are hollow now, and when she looks at me there is no recognition in her face.
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