About Lying

“We navigate through a farrago of lies, deceptions and self-deceptions. But they do not prevent us from seeking the truth, from looking outside our mental prisons and trying to uncover the true nature of the world that surrounds us.”

Filmmaker Errol Morris contemplates the nature, utility, and ubiquity of lying in a couple of blogs posted by The New York Times. The essays include a conversation with master of deception Ricky Jay. He presents a lot to contemplate about the dissonance between what people think and what they say. Playwrights? Hello?

NPR’s Tortured Language

Glenn Greenwald, a blogger on Salon.com, would meet with disapproval from my doctor at Kaiser. Reading his column elevates my blood pressure instantly. His take yesterday, for example, on NPR’s weasling on the subject of the word “torture”, is a case in point.

Standing By My Man

Thursday at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, I get to reprise my number from Holy Daze in 1980. Show begins at 6:30. The event is Ritual and Mayhem (or something like that).

Does Facebook Kill Blogs?

Or do bloggers kill blogs? Facebook is great, especially having a few games of Scrabulous going at once. And it’s an easy way to keep up with what trouble my friends are getting into. But it does entice me to spend time in that neighborhood instead of blogging. But that’s about to change, again. Because blogging is ultimately more satisfying.

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So, what’s up? Well, PlayGround will reprise The Boy Who Did Not Listen To His Mother on Sunday, July 27th at the San Francisco Theater Festival at Yerba Buena Gardens. So if you’re mad about The Boy, or merely missed the chance to catch it at this year’s PlayGround festival, here’s another opportunity to see it.

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Project Runway started again last night and it looks like we’re in for a wild ride this season with some really heavy hitters in the line-up. (Maybe I can only handle a set number of addictions at once, so jonesing for Project Runway loosens the grip that Facebook has on my limited attention span.) The truth is, I’m working rather intrepidly on a new play, and all of my time-wasting, attention-diverting activities are receding somewhat into the background. They are just not as compelling as working on the script. Hope to have more to report before too long.

Wedding/Earthquake Photos

Scenes from “real life” can be exponentially more dramatic than any scenario a theatrical imagination could conjure. To wit:

Leland Wong’s Journal

The World’s a Stage

With my usual sharp connection to the cutting edge of pop culture, I recently came across the great song by The Decemberists, I Was Meant For The Stage, which was only released in 2003. I had been researching possible intro/outro music for my play THE BOY WHO DID NOT LISTEN TO HIS MOTHER, currently playing in the Best of PlayGround Festival, and a chill went through me when I discovered this song. I couldn’t find a decent music video performance by the band itself, but discovered a couple of covers that intrigued me. The thing that really got me is how, with the advent of YouTube, we now have worldwide access to the dreams and ambitions of kids who, in the very act of posting their videos, are acting out the message of the lyrics. There was a time when performers had to actually venture out into the world and find a stage on which to connect with their audience — and yes, yes, that’s still true and unavoidable — even desirable. Except, today, it’s also true that these kids can bring the world into their bedrooms and open their hearts to us by performing songs that speak of their dreams, as this one does with such clarity and affirmation. Maybe it took me five years to find this song, but so glad that I did. And here are two of those intimate performances.

A Prayer of Welcome

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.

Looking Down

… 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.

Stage Crew

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!

Sacred Space

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.