The day begins in despair.
The day begins with loss and sorrow.
No, I have that wrong. The day never ends.
It’s constant despair playing out
of a damaged reel-to-reel.
The Play Must Go On
Goddamn it. Theatre is a collaborative art and the most egalitarian. It’s those aspects that I’m having to come to grips with.
To be specific I’m talking of the writer-director-actor triad. Together we become, like god, responsible for making and learning from creation.
I want to get lazy, throw up my hands and accuse Kaufman of dropping the ball, of failing to develop the characters. But that’s a novelist’s job, not a playwright’s. In the theatre that role is handled by a triad. A tribunal.
That committee had better be empathetic, passionate, and dedicated to learning and creating.
I think we are.
But it’s nerve-wracking, and I feel powerless. My last collaborator bailed. Left me holding, and I couldn’t complete the play without her.
So, yeah, I have some trust issues…and the collaborative aspect of theatre freaks me out.
It’s like this.
The writer splits early, and all we are left with are words, and it takes talking to figure out what they mean. It takes the interplay of sharp accepting passionate minds to come together.
Don’t bail on me.
You heard it here first.
In the future the guardians will give away music, but mastered at such a low level you can’t hear it on a windy day. And all of the days will be windy.
Take a breath
It’s a beautiful day.
Take a breather.
Here’s something to listen to while you do.
TOUSSAINT – REQUIEM
Communion ” Beati Mundo Corde” (1:36)
Choeur Grégorien De Paris Et Schola Greg. Pragensi
Toussaint Requiem – Chants Grégoriens À Fronfroide
*
Grief will fuck you up Monkey
One of the first articles I read this morning was on the mourning habits of the marmoset. This chunk leapt out at me:
…several months after her death, the male disappeared from the marmoset group, never to be seen again.
And gave chase
Looping over and…
getting tangled-up,
in everything.
Like how every pop and shush
of steam from the coffee maker
is nestled in woven loops of
never to be heard of again
Maybe that’s why I never made that second cup.
I mean, fuck—out pops a clown:
if all I get out of it is grief,
why should I even turn you on,
oh ye coffee pot o’ doom!
That was close wasn’t it.
You can always count on a clown,
though, ride in last minute,
keep you alive another day.