A Prayer of Welcome
Comments(0) Leo Clay Lütz Arrived May 13, 2008, 2:31 PM PDT; 7 lbs, 12 oz; 19 inches; to Michael & Elana
As my mother said upon finding herself unexpectedly expecting — her fifth — “Well, there’s always room for one more.” Leo was the 6,667,422,452nd person on the planet when he arrived (approximately). And no doubt the cutest. So let us give thanks to the ancestors, all those who came before, preparing the way for this mysterious, miraculous gift to (and from) Michael and Elana. Let us thank all those early ones who learned to run fast and hide in trees across the Serengeti, who discovered how to tame fire, to cultivate crops, to fight disease, to delve deep into the secrets of existence, to work together, allowing the human race to evolve. Let us give thanks to all those who for generations sacrificed their own needs and impulses for the betterment of their children, who learned to economize in times of scarcity, who continued to strive for prosperity, all those who willingly gave of themselves for the benefit of we who have descended from them. This week — seven days particularly filled with calamity, destruction and suffering around the planet — one group of friends and family in the San Francisco Bay Area, California, the World, has been blessed with the gift of a life. And this we celebrate.
… and people who can’t spell. Walking home tonight up 14th Street, morose as usual, vision focussed firmly on the ground, I walked over this message, then turned back to be sure I saw it right. I mean, you don’t expect graffiti artists to have proofreaders in their posse, but still, if you’re gonna kill someone, try to spell the name of their social stratum right. Killing people who put their spelling ineptitude on public display may be a little harsh, but what are you going to do? Well, in California, the LAST thing you want to do is invest in their education. Might lead to an increase in property taxes or something, heaven forbid. And absolutely don’t let’s squander public funds on activities that could occupy budding artists yearning for self-expression in constructive ways. Better to leave them to their own devices, struggling valiantly as they reach to accomplish something that may unhappily exceed their grasp, such as spray painting two words correctly on the sidewalk. Poor puppys.
We’re underway! The first weekend of the 12th Annual Best of PlayGround festival is over. Two more weeks to see a set of seven fine plays. We had decent crowds, great response, and so far no reviews. Given the content of my play, The Boy Who Did Not Listen To His Mother, I’ve inevitably been drenched in a wave of nostalgia for the days of high school theatrical productions. I was in a few shows, threw a few pies in the Variety Show, warbled through some Gilbert and Sullivan in The Mikado, and most of the time functioned as the sound manager of the stage crew. No surprise to people who know me as Sister Mary Media. The drama club or stage crew or anything connected to theater in high school is such an amazing cauldron. As my play suggests, it really DOES attract people who don’t fit in anywhere else but who are highly aware of not fitting in — and don’t particularly want to. But they find each other. And usually the teachers involved with shepherding this little flock of black sheep are pretty cool — like art teachers and music teachers. In my case, Mr. Jousse drove a little Alpha Romeo convertible, listened to jazz, did impressions of the other teachers, invited us to his wedding, had us over to his house to talk about the art he bought. His canvas was large, and taught us to think that way too. He let us know that “fitting in” amounted to a form of incarceration, that our imaginations were not to be suspect and constrained, rather embraced and expanded. I still remember when Tom Hanks thanked his high school drama teacher at the Oscars. They really are the best!
Today PlayGround moves into Thick House for the next three weeks. Tonight is Tech, tomorrow Dress, and then we go public on Thursday with this year’s Festival. The stage at Thick House is for me one of the sacred spaces in San Francisco. I have seen so many plays there that inspired me to keep writing, to write better, to write smarter, so it’s something of a dream come true that a play of mine — even if it’s only 12 minutes long or so — will be performed there. When I walk into that intimate theatre, for me it’s like walking into a cathedral because I know I’m going to get in touch with parts of myself that resonate with the most profoundly human impulses of others, of true theatrical artists. And as in a cathedral — or a sangha — it makes me feel connected. It’s a lot of expectation with which to saddle a 12-minute piece of work, but I can only hope that THE BOY WHO DID NOT LISTEN TO HIS MOTHER is as true as the work of others I have witnessed and that have inspired me at Thick House. And that it won’t be the last play of mine to inhabit this sacred space.
Most sublime and irreverent Charles Ludlam, avatar of the ridiculous, mistress of theatrical mastery, thy kind and beneficent intercession with those who have the say-so up there, we most humbly beseech, on the occasion of our table reading for the Best of PlayGround Festival – for all of the plays, of course, but in particular for The Boy Who Did Not Listen To His Mother. Please arrange it, if at all possible, so that in the process of crafting a small slew of most modest revisions to the text, I did not end up puncturing the vulnerable inflation of that most fragile soufflé — the script. I know I waited until too close to deadline to work the revision, and it’s true that I spent perhaps a teeny bit more time in the thrall of Project Runway, Top Chef, American Idol, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and X-Tube than would generally be considered prudent, and certainly too-too many hours trapped in that time-devouring house of mirrors that is CraigsList Personals, but it should be noted that penance in this regard could be considered paid-in-full, given the ratio of energy expended to pleasure derived. (Note to self: write treatment for play about parasitic sub-sub-sub-culture of pic collectors). Please, also try to make the actors and director at least act as if they like me, even if they don’t mean it. Thy merciful assistance in these ultimately-inconsequential-except-to-me matters, and in anticipation of thy favorable intercession, we — thy most unworthy, yet persistently intrepid, acolyte — most humbly and gratefully beseech. Amen.
PlayGround held its Annual Benefit tonight at ACT, at which the official announcement was made of the line-up for this year’s Best of PlayGround festival (the 12th annual). My play The Boy Who Did Not Listen To His Mother which was inspired by January’s topic “A Cautionary Tale” made the cut. It will share the stage at Thick House in the excellent company of works by some amazing playwrights: Crish Barth, Garret Jon Groenveld, Daniel Heath, Aaron Loeb, Geetha Reddy, and Lauren Yee. Nancy Carlin will direct, and the cast includes Ken Sonkin, B.W. Gonzalez, Carla Pantoja, and Joseph O’Malley. The Festival is always a terrific evening of theater, so come out and support the world’s oldest emerging playwright.
