A few months back I was bemoaning what torture it was having to write character descriptions. I seem to have survived to complain another day. Actually, no complaint. Just wanted to share some stage directions that I think are pretty swell. Aspirationally swell. As in I want to write stage directions/description like this.
Karin (interrupting): Perhaps, Mr. Bergman, you would please sit down over there beside Mrs. Martha. And Torsten, you sit beside Anna. Then we can say grace.
All: For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.
They all hurriedly bow and curtsy, then sit down among much cheerful chatter. Miss Siri and Miss Lisen in black and white, and starched caps, appear with fresh asparagus and mineral water.
Henrik Bergman is now afflicted with further trials. He has never seen asparagus before. He has never before had a four-course dinner. He has never drunk anything but water, beer, or schnapps with his food, and he has never in his life seen a finger bowl with a small red flower swimming around in the water. He has never seen so many knives and forks, and he has never before conversed with a sarcastically good-humored lady with a strong Russian accent. Walls loom high and chasms open.
And then there is a wonderful monologue by the good-humored lady with the strong Russian accent. Then more description.
In addition to asparagus, the menu includes salmon mousse with green sauce, spring chicken (hard to handle), and Anna's masterpiece, a trembling crème caramel.
After coffee in the salon, they make music. Dusk is falling and they light candles around the musicians, who are playing the slow movement of Beethoven's last string quartet. Johan Åkerblom plays the cello; Carl is a good amateur violinist, member of the Academic Orchestra. Ernst plays second violin, with great feeling but less success. A retired member of the Royal Opera House orchestra comes down for coffee from his apartment above, with his viola, a courteous shadow, benevolent and somewhat haughty. He can hardly bear to make music in this company, but the superintendent of traffic has underwritten loans for him and his suffering is prescribed.
Music and dusk. Henrik sinks...all this is dreamlike, outside and beyond his own colorless days. Anna is sitting by the window, looking steadily at the musicians and listening with attention, her profile outlined against the dying light outside. Now she senses she is being watched and controls her first impulse, but then gives in and turns to look at Henrik. He is looking gravely at her, and she smiles slightly formally, slightly ironically, but then becomes grave in response to Henrik's solemnity. I see you, all right. I see.
Now it is time to leave, and farewells are being exchanged. Henrik bows and says thank you in all directions and for a brief moment finds Anna in front of him. She stands on tiptoe and whispers quickly into his ear, her hair fragrant, a light touch.
It's roughly nine days until NaPlWriMo 2010. You can see the official count down here and you can also join our community and write a play with us if you're so inclined. I hope you will.
This is my first year managing the event. Dorothy Lemoult, who founded NaPlWriMo, generously handed the reins over to me a few months ago and it's my new baby or rather, my adopted baby (I always wanted to adopt). I'm excited about taking on this new project because Dorothy has fostered such a vibrant, supportive community and I've been happy to be part of it for the past 5 years.
I've done pieces of it in the past two years. In 2008, I was the dramaturg, which kept me jumping. Last year, I managed the Twitter feed and contacted people about contributing Rhino Bursts (weekly pep talk-type posts) and wehadsomegreatcontributors.
Luckily, I have a great supporting team because I'm still learning how to navigate the site and keep up with all the little details. But if you're interested in getting involved, we can always use more help. Just email info@naplwrimo.org and let me know your interest.
Technically, the play I'm working on won't count for this year's event because it doesn't follow the official rules - the first one being that you can't have written any of your play. I think I'll be busy enough just trying to keep up with the back end of the event and finishing my play and that will have to be enough.
And the thesis? I didn't get it done. My advisor shut me down last Tuesday and I was devastated. Mostly because I was pretty sleep-deprived by that point and the writing routine since July has been exceptionally grueling (balancing or I'm not sure there's been any balance to it - juggling writing the play and the thesis and life - it veered over into the area of No Fun and stayed there for many a week.) It's been fruitful, but physically and mentally excruciating. I've taken the past week off to try to catch up on sleep and other life maintenance tasks, but to be honest haven't really accomplished much beyond the sleep thing and NaPlWriMo tasks and playing with my kids (this writing routine has upset their lives the most and they reached their limit over a month ago). My oldest son actually cried when I told him I didn't get the thesis done and couldn't turn it in. He sobbed: "That means this has all been for nothing." Yeah. Or maybe not. There's still a chance I'll be able to finish and turn it in next semester. It looks like it means dealing with some administrative bureaucracy and of course, paying for another semester of school. But. So. Close. So close.
Getting started early. via Bob Lefsetz. I've been subscribing to Bob's email updates for about two months now and I tell you, he is Come-to-Jesus-Wall-to-wall (even when I think he's full of it). We need someone like this in theater.
In a stable of boats I lie still,
From all sleeping children hidden.
The leap of a fish from its shadow
Makes the whole lake instantly tremble.
With my foot on the water, I feel
The moon outside
Take on the utmost of its power.
I rise and go out through the boats.
I set my broad sole upon silver,
On the skin of the sky, on the moonlight,
Stepping outward from earth onto water
In quest of the miracle
The village of children believed
That I could perform as I dived
For one who had sunk from my sight.
I saw his cropped haircut go under.
I leapt, and my steep body flashed
Once, in the sun.
Dark drew all the light from my eyes.
Like a man who explores his death
By the pull of his slow-moving shoulders,
I hung head-down in the cold,
Wide-eyed, contained, and alone
Among the weeds,
And my fingertips turned into stone
From clutching immovable blackness.
Time after time I leapt upward
Exploding in breath, and fell back
From the change in the children's faces
At my defeat.
Beneath them I swam to the boathouse
With only my life in my arms
To wait for the lake to shine back
At the risen moon with such power
That my steps on the light of the ripples
Might be sustained.
Beneath me is nothing but brightness
Like the ghost of a snowfield in summer.
As I move toward the center of the lake,
Which is also the center of the moon,
I am thinking how I may be
The savior of one
Who has already died in my care.
The dark trees fade from around me.
The moon's dust hovers together.
I call softly out, and the child's
Voice answers through blinding water.
Patiently, slowly,
He rises, dilating to break
The surface of stone with his forehead.
He is one I do not remember
Having ever seen in his life.
The ground I stand on is trembling
Upon his smile.
I wash the black mud from my hands.
On a light given off by the grave
I kneel in the quick of the moon
At the heart of a distant forest
And hold in my arms a child
Of water, water, water.
- James Dickey
written while Dickey worked for the above mentioned advertising agency and on their time (instead of the fertilizer copy he was supposed to be working on).
Wow. Wacky weird sisters, way to bust a rhyme. Honestly, if I could see anything half this creative done with Shakespeare, je ne sais quoi. I look at certain parts of this scene and find myself thinking that if I were acting it, there's a point where I'd feel absolutely ridiculous and at the same time as if I'd jumped off a cliff into nothing. In other words, I'd be pretty happy and engaged.
I only was able to see a few scenes from this on Wednesday night. But. Oh. My. Patrick Stewart. Kate Fleetwood. Can't get the little I saw of it out of my head. Amazing how well some Shakespeare translates to film.
Have it on the DVR (all three hours of it). Waiting for when I finish this beast of a thesis - which must happen this weekend. Had to postpone my LA trip. Wah. Have a marathon of writing ahead of me. Cheers and virtual attaboys (er...grrls) much appreciated. It gets lonely at night.
James Franco, Howl, Allen Ginsberg, Dianne Lane, John Malkovich, Secretariat. Really. Does it get any better?
I have an Allen Ginsberg story. Two actually. One good. One bad.
Good. I found myself standing next to him at a book festival in SF back in the late 80's. We were standing on the curb outside of some conference center and it was the return of Furthur and a prankster trip across the U.S. to donate the bus to the Smithsonian. And there we were next to each other and he glanced at me and smiled.
Or maybe it wasn't him.
Maybe he was the cranky old man I met years later at a bookstore signing. Gosh. I can't remember how many years ago it's been. But I went to his book signing. The very last book signing I went to until last year when I asked Edward Albee to sign my collection of his plays. Because the Ginsberg signing was, oh. So. Compromising. Terrible. Never again.
I bought a book of his poems. And there were very few people who actually turned out for this signing. So he was just sitting at table in the big empty area of one of my favorite book stores (which is no longer). And I went up to get my book signed. And he ignored me. And kept talking to this youngish looking guy, and yeah I get it, I understand. And he kept ignoring me until one of the store clerks pointed me out and then he turned and not once did he look at me or acknowledge me in any way. Signed the book and pushed it towards me. And I said:
You know what? I think I'll pass.
And yes. He looked up then.
And I turned and walked away.
When I think about the authors I've not seen - like David Foster Wallace - because I refused to feel that suck up feeling for an author ever again. Geesh.
But I love Howl and that young, beautiful Ginsberg.
I attended this lecture by Joan Acocella and was excited to find it online yesterday when I was cleaning up my bibliography. Yes, peeps. I'm almost to the point where I no longer have to say this thing's to do. Goodbye old ghost.
For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. - Isaiah 55:12
