The last few weeks have felt like a year. That happens when you're going through a growth spurt and things are really Happening. On Saturday, the Study Abroad on the Bowery program wrapped up our three week workshop with a final performance and 'graduation ceremony'. Names were called out while workshop students whistled a heinous rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance". I met some really cool people over the last few weeks and was sad to see them go, but I'm ready for a break. By a break, I mean that I have to start applying all the shit I've been absorbing over the last few weeks. It's like I've spent too much time in a good art museum. After a while, I overload on the visual stimulation and just start mindlessly looking at blotches of color mounted on walls.
I've been obsessed with Spalding Gray over the last few weeks. Actually, I have been a huge fan of Spalding Gray for years. I have always been a huge fan of The Killing Fields and when I heard that a performance artist had done a monologue of his experiences in making the film, I immediately went out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. The movie was incredible. Here was a guy who sat at a desk with a glass of water and a microphone and delivered a stunning, storytelling display that effortlessly blew away 90 percent of the acting I'd seen. I immediately went out and rented Monster in a Box and Gray's Anatomy which proved to be equally-fulfilling. When he committed suicide early last year, I was crushed. His style of performance was referred to as a 'talking cure' and his neuroses, insecurities, and discoveries often seemed to mirror my own. Spalding felt like a passive-aggressive member of my unspoken club where We all struggled to Keep It Together through our art. I had never met the man nor had an opportunity to see one of his live performances, but I felt a kinship. It's hard not to when the work you love is of such a personal nature.
After I'd graduated with my MFA in playwriting, one of my professors told me that my writing style was similar to Spalding's work. He suggested that I rent out a theater and put on a one-man show. Of course, I was flattered to have my writing compared to Spalding's, but the idea of memorizing and performing anything over 10 minutes was laughable and the suggestion that I do it solo was a double-decker sandwich of Laughable and Horrifying. After 3 weeks of performance poetry though... I've been watching my copy of Swimming to Cambodia and thinking that, maybe, the sandwich has become more of a Snort and Grimace affair... and not so ludicrous an idea.
NPR did a very good retrospective on Spalding and his work.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Volunteering at the Howl Festival
The last weekend was the final Movement in the 3rd Annual Howl Festival. "Howl", for those of you non-poetics, is the poem that Allen Ginsberg wrote that happened to revolutionize the poetic world and embolden the a whole generation of writers who would later be known as The Beats (and a few generations beyond). Even today it is a powerful piece and very appropriately named. There is no underestimating the profound effect "Howl" had on so many artists.
Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:
1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.
The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.
The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.
Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:
1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.
The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.
The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Yesterday, I sat through an extended lecture from Hettie Jones, one of the self-labelled 'beat chicks' from the Beat Era. I had read an autobiography by Diane DiPrima called Recollections of My Life as a Woman. It was an ingriguing piece and gave me an interesting perspective on the NYC art scene of the mid-50's to mid 60's. DiPrima hadn't painted a very flattering portrait of the times but, like anyone speaking of their childhood, she still managed to give it that nostalgic, sepia lighting.
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Friday, August 19, 2005
three-drink minimum Before performing
I have had exactly One positive performance experience in my life. I was drunk and I had three hot, extroverted actresses who were eager to be my backup singers. I did a late-night karaoke performance of "Love Shack" (I didn't pick it). My success that night hinged upon a complete disintegration of restraint and an ability to channel blinding terror into one of the loudest, gayest Fred Schneider impersonations ever witnessed by humankind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance that I remember fondly. I am certain that such a feat couldn't be repeated for all the vodka in Russia.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
shakin' it at the Bowery Poetry Club
The only shot I've got of getting blog entries out over the next three weeks is to do it fast-and-dirty, so hang with me.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
but i wanted to watch oprah
Maintaining a blog is much like starting an exercise routine. Motivation arises from an intense discontent. My first entry was energizing and euporic. I had never written or posted to the net and within a few minutes, I had a blog and web design posted to the World Wide Web. I tried out the weight machines of pre-fab templates, text coloring and boldface, then I even tested the free weights of html coding on the fly to fix a formatting problem. Holy shit! There I was, doing it. The thrill of having actually 'done it' more than made up for any exhaustion of effort.
The next few entries were encouraging. I worked to fit a disciplined routine into my manic life. The intense discontent fed my writing as I earnestly attempted to communicate thoughtful ideas in a well-formed manner. A total stranger posted a comment on one of my posts and I regained that initial thrill of posting, like the day you walk by the mirror after a shower and discover that you can see a little more definition in your shoulder than you had before. Progress was being made! People were hearing me! After years of quiet brooding on the subway or within the depths of my cave, my voice had carried beyond my self.
After about a week or so, it became that the Impulse was fading. I had been heard. I had done it. I had exercised my brain and diatribed. Now, blogging was going to start taking a little more effort. My belief in the blog was going to soon be expected to prompt me to continue... well, that and the guilt that I was thinking of quitting something that felt so imperative only weeks before. The routine became forced and uncomfortable. As I began to learn the skills to write concisely, it became evident that there was a little craft to be learned here and that I won't be picking the whole thing up overnight. Every topic felt like the whinings of a spoiled child who should know better. Then came that first day where I got sloppy. I wrote the first thing that came to my mind and ran out of the gym. The feeling of accomplishment had been sabotaged and all I could think was, 'It's out there.' People are reading that lazy piece of crap and clicking away before reading that really cool post I did about fallen cathedrals. Or worse, they're clicking away, deleting their browser history and vowing to themselves to never return to my blog.
First thing the next morning, I went online and deleted the offending entry. Then, I tried to explain myself in a follow up entry, like those friends that keep explaining to you why that exercise routine they were going to do didn't work out because they have this-and-that taking up their lives and the gym is just not very accomodating in it's hours and besides the only time that they can work out is the busiest time of day and all the exercise bikes are being used at that time anyway.
So here I am, taking the big breath to chill myself the fuck out and regain a little focus. Well, at least I didn't have to buy the 1 year membership to join the gym.
The next few entries were encouraging. I worked to fit a disciplined routine into my manic life. The intense discontent fed my writing as I earnestly attempted to communicate thoughtful ideas in a well-formed manner. A total stranger posted a comment on one of my posts and I regained that initial thrill of posting, like the day you walk by the mirror after a shower and discover that you can see a little more definition in your shoulder than you had before. Progress was being made! People were hearing me! After years of quiet brooding on the subway or within the depths of my cave, my voice had carried beyond my self.
After about a week or so, it became that the Impulse was fading. I had been heard. I had done it. I had exercised my brain and diatribed. Now, blogging was going to start taking a little more effort. My belief in the blog was going to soon be expected to prompt me to continue... well, that and the guilt that I was thinking of quitting something that felt so imperative only weeks before. The routine became forced and uncomfortable. As I began to learn the skills to write concisely, it became evident that there was a little craft to be learned here and that I won't be picking the whole thing up overnight. Every topic felt like the whinings of a spoiled child who should know better. Then came that first day where I got sloppy. I wrote the first thing that came to my mind and ran out of the gym. The feeling of accomplishment had been sabotaged and all I could think was, 'It's out there.' People are reading that lazy piece of crap and clicking away before reading that really cool post I did about fallen cathedrals. Or worse, they're clicking away, deleting their browser history and vowing to themselves to never return to my blog.
First thing the next morning, I went online and deleted the offending entry. Then, I tried to explain myself in a follow up entry, like those friends that keep explaining to you why that exercise routine they were going to do didn't work out because they have this-and-that taking up their lives and the gym is just not very accomodating in it's hours and besides the only time that they can work out is the busiest time of day and all the exercise bikes are being used at that time anyway.
So here I am, taking the big breath to chill myself the fuck out and regain a little focus. Well, at least I didn't have to buy the 1 year membership to join the gym.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
baby steps to the street
I left the cave yesterday. I didn't want to go. I had, in fact, spent the better part of the morning telling myself that I didn't need to go out. I had promised myself that I would get out of the cave every day this week. The cave had begun to take the shape of an very large bell jar and I didn't want two straight weeks of the same old thing.
Last week, I suffered another one of my occupational whiteouts where panic attacks tag-team with gutteral depression to render me essentially inoperable. These incidents usually begin with food cravings. After one or two days, I realize that my comfort foodsare not fulfilling their namesake. As the storm advances on my position, I become disgruntled with my career and where it is headed. I sit down and make sweeping plans for my future as well as all the important modifications that must be made to my personality/body image/personal finances in order for these plans to be realized. With renewed vigor (as well as some Clash or Nirvana for theme music), I sit down and begin to write the first few descriptions of a screenplay that will be sold this summer on my way to winning the Tribeca Film Festival two years from now. Of course, I hate everything I write because I'm not writing like Hemingway or Steinbeck so I jump to my stacks of unpublished poetry and my 2004 Edition of Poet's Market and begin to hammer out where and when I will be sending my poems so that I can win some festivals, gain literary credibility, then get an advance on my first novel that will be written and published in the next year. After 2 hours of editing my poetry and raging about how it has all the depth of the love songs I wrote in 9th grade, I quickly switch gears, squeeze out a little vermillion and yellow ochre, then settle down with the still life oil painting that I've been working on for 2 weeks. After mixing paint for 30 minutes in the fruitless attempt to match the color on my pallette knife with the beer bottle in my composition, I wash my brushes, change out of my turpentine-flavored clothes, and dive into the obtuse life of an Irish Catholic lad in James Joyce's Ulysses. Hmmm... maybe I'll just put that down for a sec and read the "Fables & Reflections" book of the Sandman graphic novels I've got on my shelf. An hour later, I am strumming my accoustic guitar and working on getting that smooth transition from the 'A' chord to the 'D' chord so I can master that David Bowie song, then compose an album that will revolutionize the music world and bring alternative rock back into the mainstream.
Some people might call this a Renaissance Man lifestyle. I think a therapist back in college called it manic-depression.
So, I got out of the cave yesterday. Just when I'd talked myself into playing 4 straight hours of Civilization 3 or Madden 2005, my girlfriend had to call me up and bully me into leaving the apartment. Well, to be fair, all she did was asking me when I was going out and I couldn't think of any of the great rationalizations I'd put together in my head. So, in the end, I took the 'A' train cave to Pearl Paints, bought a few items for my manic needs, took a swing by the East Village to thumb through a few LPs and cruised on over to Avenue A for a few happy hour libations. Ahh! Nothing like alcohol to cure depression, huh? It's good to be cruising along the old career track.
I need a day job.
Last week, I suffered another one of my occupational whiteouts where panic attacks tag-team with gutteral depression to render me essentially inoperable. These incidents usually begin with food cravings. After one or two days, I realize that my comfort foodsare not fulfilling their namesake. As the storm advances on my position, I become disgruntled with my career and where it is headed. I sit down and make sweeping plans for my future as well as all the important modifications that must be made to my personality/body image/personal finances in order for these plans to be realized. With renewed vigor (as well as some Clash or Nirvana for theme music), I sit down and begin to write the first few descriptions of a screenplay that will be sold this summer on my way to winning the Tribeca Film Festival two years from now. Of course, I hate everything I write because I'm not writing like Hemingway or Steinbeck so I jump to my stacks of unpublished poetry and my 2004 Edition of Poet's Market and begin to hammer out where and when I will be sending my poems so that I can win some festivals, gain literary credibility, then get an advance on my first novel that will be written and published in the next year. After 2 hours of editing my poetry and raging about how it has all the depth of the love songs I wrote in 9th grade, I quickly switch gears, squeeze out a little vermillion and yellow ochre, then settle down with the still life oil painting that I've been working on for 2 weeks. After mixing paint for 30 minutes in the fruitless attempt to match the color on my pallette knife with the beer bottle in my composition, I wash my brushes, change out of my turpentine-flavored clothes, and dive into the obtuse life of an Irish Catholic lad in James Joyce's Ulysses. Hmmm... maybe I'll just put that down for a sec and read the "Fables & Reflections" book of the Sandman graphic novels I've got on my shelf. An hour later, I am strumming my accoustic guitar and working on getting that smooth transition from the 'A' chord to the 'D' chord so I can master that David Bowie song, then compose an album that will revolutionize the music world and bring alternative rock back into the mainstream.
Some people might call this a Renaissance Man lifestyle. I think a therapist back in college called it manic-depression.
So, I got out of the cave yesterday. Just when I'd talked myself into playing 4 straight hours of Civilization 3 or Madden 2005, my girlfriend had to call me up and bully me into leaving the apartment. Well, to be fair, all she did was asking me when I was going out and I couldn't think of any of the great rationalizations I'd put together in my head. So, in the end, I took the 'A' train cave to Pearl Paints, bought a few items for my manic needs, took a swing by the East Village to thumb through a few LPs and cruised on over to Avenue A for a few happy hour libations. Ahh! Nothing like alcohol to cure depression, huh? It's good to be cruising along the old career track.
I need a day job.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
