This Time of Year

I’m a summer person. I stay huddled inside, swathed in layers of wool, all winter, just waiting for the sun to come out and burn this city up. Maybe it’s the tropical island blood in me. Maybe it’s the memory of summers off from school. It might even be the all the women in their summer dresses. Who knows? But I come alive in the summer. I’m in my element. Sure, I sweat buckets all the time, but I never complain about the heat. I’ve never owned an air conditioner and don’t plan on getting one. I don’t want to miss a second of summer, because I know that too soon, it’s going to be winter again. Cultural stereotypes and “letting down the race” be damned, I’d go around in a loincloth all summer, soaking it in. (Also, body image issues be damned. I’d let the belly swing free.) I want to hold that heat inside of me for as long as I can.

But I find myself…unhappy. With the sun shining and the green grass of the park outside my building beckoning, I’ve got a dark cloud following me. I get snappish, short-tempered, moody. It always creeps up on me as we come into August. It happens slowly and always takes me off-guard. I should be happy, I tell myself, I should be enjoying this. But my spirit darkens and darkens as the days feel like they last forever.

At first, I think I don’t know why. I attribute it to the summer doldrums or whatever. I tell myself that I had a busy spring and it’s just caught up with me. There’s a disconnect. The world is telling to enjoy myself, but something inside of me is lashing out with anger and pain, like a wounded animal. I try to ignore it, but sooner or later, it starts to dawn on me what’s going on. Then I try to ignore it even more, try to pretend that that’s not it, that I don’t need to acknowledge it. But then I realize I do, or I’m going to do something stupid and truly self-destructive.

August 18^th is coming up. And then August 25^th. With my birthday in between.

My brother drowned in an inlet from Jamaica Bay near his house on August 18^th, 2001. His body was found on August 25^th. This year makes it eight years.

Eight years is actually a long time. Someone who was in middle school in 2001 has now graduated from, not just from high school, but from college. Someone born in 2001 is now in third grade and already a little person. This country has gone to war in two countries, had a recovery and a crash, and finally a new president. Amazingly, New York’s only had one mayor. Outside of Law & Order and The Simpsons, I don’t think a single TV show that was on in 2001 is still on.

In the last eight years, I’ve had four jobs. I’ve lived in seven places. I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them never knew my brother. Most don’t even know I had a younger brother.

When this time of year hits and I finally put it together with my low, black mood, I’m hit with a flood of memories, good and bad. Memories of my brother, my beautiful, passionate brother. Imitating Jim Carrey’s “I’m smoking!” from The Mask. Yelling at me, in the middle of some dumb argument, about how much he knew about the Marshall Plan (don’t even ask me what that was about). The way he would talk about acting, his love for it, his struggles with it. How disappointed he was at playing Waffles in a school workshop of Uncle Vanya, but how hard he worked at it. How my older brother and I had to go and get him out of jail so he could make his orientation at Juilliard (another long story…my family is full of long stories).

The first real play I wrote is dedicated to him, long before he died. Oddly, that play is about someone losing a sibling. In it, I put in it the way my younger brother would cry as baby, the way it would well up inside of him, but when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. He’d sit, mouth wide, for a second before the sound kicked in.

There was one time my older brother, my younger brother and sister and I went to play pool. This was rare, having the four of us together like that. I remember sitting there, watching my older brother and my younger brother, sixteen years of difference between them, teamed up, both smoking and totally beating the snot out of my sister and I, and thinking, “Wow, we’re on such different tracks.” But they weren’t that different. One long train ride, my older brother, a sculptor, talked to me and my younger brother about art and how to approach it, as educated black men in the world. My younger brother and I were far more assimilated, far more integration-minded than he was, and he was trying to convince us that the world wouldn’t want what we had. He didn’t, neither of us. But I know we both struggled with it.

I remember the spring before, the spring I graduated from grad school and my mom threw a graduation party for me at her place in Brooklyn. It was the first time in a very long time all five of my siblings were in one place. We took a lot of pictures of that day. It would be the last time we would all be in the same place again.

And I remember the summer he died. A wave of guilt, anger, sorrow and regret washes over me. My brother auditioned for a play I did that summer, walking into the audition room unannounced. I never found out if he knew before he walked in what he was auditioning for. I didn’t know he was coming. He was so nervous, and so was I. He was also so good. We called him back. But, in the end, we didn’t cast him. If I’d known he was coming, if I’d thought about it more, maybe I could have written something for him, changed something. But it was my first full-length show and I didn’t. I didn’t know how to tell him. I held off until my older brother called me and, uh, gently nudged me to make the call. I did and he took it well and professionally. I left that phone call feeling okay.

But then, later in the summer…with my large, contentious family, there’s always someone fighting with someone. And that summer, I was stuck in one in a long line of fights with my mom. In the midst of it, my younger brother called me. I was angry, having just gotten off the phone with my mom, and told him to call me back later. It was a fifteen second phone call. The last thing my younger brother heard from me was “I don’t have time for you.” I carry that with me, always.

Losing someone you love is a terrible thing and, being a writer, it’s incomprehensible for me. Because there are no words for it. No words can convey what it feels like. Saying “you have a pit inside of you” is 1) an awful cliché and 2) just doesn’t do any justice to what it feels like. Because you can imagine a pit, a deep, dark, yawning pit. But you can’t imagine this. This is a place no words can go.

Even eight years later, whenever I see a tall, skinny young black man of a certain color, certain shape, I think, “Is that him? Maybe there’s been a terrible, terrible mistake.” It’s non-sensical. But I do. My brain still knows him, still has him imprinted in there and is still looking for the right thing to fit into the imprint.

Eight years. It will be eight years on Tuesday. It will be a hot, bright summer day. The kind of day in June or July that I love. The kind of day I should be spending, blowing off work and laying in a field, or walking around the city. And I might be doing those things. But inside…inside will be a different story.

Because eight years ago on August 18^th, Edward Craig Scriven died. And I still miss him.

Especially at this time of year.

Dead Letter Office

Well, not exactly dead and not exactly letters. My friend Zaida at Manhattan's Peak has a great post up about importing some old posts from a previous incarnation of her blog and it got me thinking about a similar thing that's been happening in my life for the last couple of weeks. I've been getting old e-mails.

See, I got a new computer a couple of weeks back, a brand new, sleek and shiny laptop. My old laptop had soldiered on bravely, but was slouching towards obsolescence. The battery had failed a while ago, the CD burner came and went and I'd packed it to the gills with plays, short stories, pictures and what-have-you. It wouldn't be long for this world, so it was time for an upgrade.

I figured, since I was upgrading, I'd go all the way. As anyone who's talked to me for more than a minute knows, I'm a resolute and passionate PC guy. Screw Apple and their slick, easy-to-use computers. I like mine tetchy, surly, somewhat unresponsive and difficult. Like my women. Which explains many other things. But moving on.

Since I was getting a new computer, I figured I'd step up to all the new bells and whistles. Yes, that means the dreaded Vista. This would eventually try my patience. Be careful what you wish for and all.

For the better part of a decade now (and, Jesus God, it's weird to write that sentence), I've been using Outlook Express as my e-mail program. I've moved my accounts from computer to computer, set it up on various work computers. It's simple and I like it and, most importantly, I know it really well. So, of course, Microsoft has discontinued it for Vista. *Sigh* Okay, fine, I thought, out with the old, in with the new. I moved over to Microsoft Mail, their new e-mail program, and went about getting my old messages.

Anyone who's talked to me long enough to discover the depths of my disdain for Mac products has also talked to me long enough to realize that I spend a lot of time online and do a lot of e-mailing. In many ways, it's my preferred method of contact. Maybe it's because I'm a writer, or surprisingly shy and reserved, or maybe all of the TV I watched as a child has permanently warped my brain. Take your pick. I use my e-mail a lot, I get a lot of e-mails, sometimes even from actual people and I like to keep archives. For a while, on my computer before my last, I had several years of messages stored in Outlook Express. When, for some reason, I couldn't import them onto my new computer, I hung onto the files, thinking someday I'd either figure it out, or I'd get a new computer and be able to import them. It was honestly one of the things I was most excited about getting a new computer for.

But when I got my new computer, I couldn't find the old files. Which was a major bummer. Still, I soldiered on. I set up Microsoft Mail, hooked it up with my Yahoo account and started downloading the messages. I have about five years' worth. Five years of e-mails is, well, a lot. Something like 60, 000. I'm not kidding. It's a lot. And downloading it takes a lot of time. I set it up and then went and did things like go to work and come home and it would still be downloading.

Which was fine and dandy once. But then, for reasons known only to Bill Gates, every time I opened Microsoft Mail, it would start all over again, downloading the same messages again and again. So I switched to Windows Live Mail. And downloaded 60,000 messages again. But then it wouldn't download any new mail. So I switched to Thunderbird. 60,000 again. Again, no new mail. Apparently, I'm not meant to be downloading messages right now. Or maybe never again.

Watching five years' worth of e-mail scroll by, three or four times over, can be really overwhelming. Names pop up that you haven't seen in years, they suddenly dominate your e-mail, then fade away, replaced by other names. Threads come and go, themes, jobs, you relive old events. Sometimes I would be intrigued by a subject line that I didn't remember, or a sequence of events that I'd forgotten about. Sometimes I would read an e-mail from someone I'd lost. Sometimes I was amazed to find how the same kinds of situations, the same subject lines, the same threads would crop up over and over again. Sometimes I was amazed to find how much I'd changed, how I'd responded to something before. It was like finding a real-time diary.

But maybe the lesson of it all is to let go. Do I really need to carry the last five years with me all the time? Aren't today's message more important than last year's? Live in the present goes the old mantra. Live in the now.

But at the same time, this is my past, my history. My achievements, successes, failures, heartbreaks and fuck-ups are there, in cyberspace. I know that somewhere, somehow, they just might exist forever. And I'm okay with that. How will they ever publish The Letters of J. Holtham without five years of e-mail? Maybe it's a good thing.

But, after a month of seeing my past scroll down my screen over and over again, I'm ready to let it go and start a new archive. So feel free to send me an e-mail. In five years, it might remind me of this moment.

Writing Anarchists: Diary #4 (or The Doldrums or Shaking Hands With Failure)

Page count: 10

In the air right now: Sufjan Stevens, "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"

To quote one of my all-time favorite writers, sorry I haven't rapped at ya in a while. Life...it just keeps happening, right? I took a trip out of town, I survived a yearly review at work, I drank some cheap beers (probably too many), saw a great show, saw a brilliantly awful movie (Everything you need to know about that is here. Read it and I dare you not to want to see the movie.), a little of this, a little of that.

A little of writing. Very little. Too little.

This project started off with admittedly, pretty ambitious goals: write a full-length play, from scratch, for specific actors, rehearse and put it up at least as a workshop all in about five weeks. It's a crazy idea. I managed to sell the Ensemble Studio Theatre, my artistic home, on the idea, at least provisionally, got a director I really like working with on board, and a bang-up cast who all signed on sight unseen. I got the dates I wanted, the venue, the whole kit and caboodle. I even got all of you involved, with my oh-so-witty posts and such. It was all so grand and exciting.

And then I hit the doldrums. Writing can be like sailing (as I, a lifelong landlubber, understand sailing): you set out for a destination, you have charts, maps, hard tack, whatever you need to get there. You've got it all, but there's one part that's pretty much out of your control: the wind. You have your tricks to keep moving forward, but if you hit the doldrums, well, you hit the doldrums. And I hit the doldrums. And with the doldrums, come the sirens.

The sirens sing and sing, but these aren't pretty, aren't singing about how much tail (wordplay!) you're going to get in the murky deep. They basically screech at the top of their lungs about how this whole endeavor is doomed to failure, you were wrong to set out, you were wrong to consider sailing, hell, you were probably wrong to be born, and you should rectify that error at your earliest convenience. All you can really do is lash yourself to the mast and try to ride the current out.

As everyone I know knows, I do love me some Facebook, but this is one thing (among many) that Facebook makes so much worse. Because there's nothing worse when you're struggling than a constant stream of happy, successful people updating about their various summer conferences, workshops, productions, writing adventures. That right there stokes the fires of bitterness. Which just plain ain't good when you're sitting down to write. Writing out of bitterness is the quickest way to kill any inspiration or joy.

So why go on Facebook, you ask. Very smart. Unplug, go live your life, do things. And I do. I get of the house, do karaoke, even go on the occasional date (or pseudo-date), talk to friends, have a gay old time. The last thing on my mind is writing. The very last thing. So far last, it might as well not be there. Which then begs the question of why do it at all. So when I sit down to write, yeah, there's nothing there. I'm thinking about some girl I like, or the ball game I watched, or what am I going to sing for Numbers karaoke (it's a theme night, all of the songs have to have numbers in them). Not about my characters or story, or the fact that I'm supposed to be in rehearsals, trying to pull this thing together.

See? The doldrums are cleverly self-perpetuating.

Sooner or later, you start to listen to the sirens and think, maybe this was all doomed to failure. I've written two full-length plays this year, both of which I'm pretty proud of. That's a pretty good haul. Kick back and coast for the rest of the year. That's the good side.

The other side is I haven't had a production in forever. I haven't even gotten a positive response from any theatres in forever. This career thing is pretty well stalled. So...why am I still at it? I'm barrelling into my late thirties and while I've already let go of being a wunderkind, there isn't a lot of time left for me to be emerging. When do you cut bait, paddle back to port and chart another, easier course? There must be other destinations, other islands or countries, maybe not so far off, across such stormy seas. Quiet, nice little places you can drop anchor and settle down and be, at least, content. That's the less good side.

So, okay, maybe there is one beautiful, lovely, perfect siren. She's the quietest of them all, barely a whisper. When the wind turns just right, I can hear her, telling me how great this idea is, how these doldrums won't last forever, that I can do it and then it will be wonderful. Everyone will be impressed, she coos, and riches, fame, fortune and love will follow right behind. I just have to go a little bit further. That far-off distant land is getting closer, every day, she insists. Just beyond the horizon. When you hear that one, it's hard to turn back. Because the other islands are nice, lovely and all but they're not where you really want to go.

I should be used to all of this. Since it happens every time. But every time, it's all new. And every time, I have to ask myself seriously: what am I doing? Where am I actually going? And what happens if I don't get there? Worse, what happens if I do? If you shake hands with failure long enough, you forget what success feels like. You fear the unknown. It feels like the smart thing to do is just walk it all back.

My mama didn't raise no idiots. But my dad sure did. I'm too dumb and stubborn to throw it in. I'll make some adjustments, maybe, do a reading, not a workshop, aim lower for now. But I'm going to finish the freaking thing. I am. It might suck a lot, but it will get done. I'll get to a little atoll, where I can rest, load up on coconuts and mangoes and then set sail again. I'm sure it's just beyond the horizon. Just a little further.

Apologies for both belaboring and maddeningly mixing my metaphors there. That's just how I roll.

Creating Anarchists: Day One

This past Friday, the company that's going to work with me to create my new play gathered for the first time. Well, most of the company. Our director is at Williamstown, working on another project, and one of the actors is in rehearsal for something else. But the bulk of us were there, on the 6th Floor of the Ensemble Studio Theatre, sitting around the table, looking at a partial outline and discussing the world of the play and how I'm trying to build this play. For a first rehearsal with no script to speak of and an nearly finished outline that just rolled off the presses, it was incredibly productive. Just being in the room with these four awesome actors and watching them interact with each other and ask smart questions about the characters as I described them was food for the play. Since this play revolves around families, both natural and created, feeling the sense of what it's like to have these people together is key. And since the characters are being built specifically for these actors, hearing their voices, talking about family, weddings, politics, whatever just helps create the world we'll be living in.

Of course, I had to hide the incredible terror I felt knowing that in about six weeks, I'll have to have a play. That's a bit, well, terrifying. But it's better to be off and running.

Anarchist: A Comedy - Act 2 Outline

Act Two

Scene 6: In Which The Betrayals Begin

Jodie sends her mother an e-mail, wondering why she hasn’t heard from her in so long and asking if she’s seen or heard from Roger. Roger’s been harassing Jodie, looking for information about Barbara. Roger shows up at Barbara’s, looking for real intel. The conference has begun and the first day was marred by chaotic protests and he and his group need to know if the protesters are going to get their act together to do something organized. Barbara tries to find out what happened to the protesters from him, but he presses her, finally threatening her home and her family. Barbara tries to distract him by invoking their own past and even attempting to seduce him. She and Roger are interrupted, though, by Shango. Shango stands up to Roger and chases him off. The protests fell apart and he and Athena were separated. Barbara and Shango share a moment of concern and connection. They’re interrupted by Joachim, still acting squirelly. Athena arrives, upset that she lost Shango and that the protests fell into chaos. They’re planning a bigger thing for the next day, and Athena pushes Shango to hold it all together. Finally Orst arrives, bloodied and beaten by the police during the protest.

Scene 7: In Which Action is Considered and Re-considered

Alex sends his mother an e-mail, complaining about Roger harassing him as well, and trying to figure out what’s going on with Barbara. She ignores it. It’s later that night. Orst is resting on the couch and Barbara is ministering to him. Shango and Athena are arguing in the backyard about how this affects their plans. Shango wants to step up their action, do something more dramatic and effective. Athena think they should stick to their plan. Barbara comes out and joins them. Athena is reluctant to include Barbara in their plans, in order to protect her, but Shango decides to include her. They were planning to break into the hotel hosting the event, hanging a banner out of the building and spreading fake blood all over the hallways. Barbara encourages Shango to take it further, especially given what’s happened to Orst. Athena argues against any escalation, which would lead to more violence. Orst rises to remind her that violence has already started and if there’s going to be any change it has to be met equally. Athena rejects all of that, and reminds Shango that they’ve already tried violence and it didn’t work. She admits that they’re on the run for a series of environmental arson attacks. She wants change, but is no longer willing to risk her life or anyone else’s to get it. Shango finally agrees with her and they head off. Orst tries to tell him that he found an old, bomb-making friend at the protest and he could give them supplies. Shango tells him they don’t want any. But, when they’re gone, Barbara asks him for more information about his friend and the bomb.

Scene 8: In Which The Best Laid Plans Go Awry

Roger sends Barbara an e-mail, thanking her for providing such useful information, finally and assuring her that a check will be on the way. Barbara is watching the demonstration on television. It’s total chaos, again, but even worse. The police are overreacting, the demonstrators are nearly rioting, it’s awful. The police response is so coordinated, it’s like they know what’s coming. She’s obviously very upset about what she’s seeing. As she watches, Joachim enters. Barbara’s surprised to see him. She expected that he would be at the protests. He hems and haws, hiding a bag behind him. Finally, Barbara gets him to tell her his secret: he loves the circus. It’s not really about the animals or the activism for him. He always wanted to be a clown, but his family pushed him to do something “meaningful.” But he’s found happiness in the circus. He isn’t sure if that’s enough. Barbara is at a loss. They both watch the news unfold.

Scene 9: In Which Revelations Leads To Action

In the aftermath of the disastrous day, Shango, Athena and Orst try to piece together what happened. Barbara is out, getting food. Orst is pretty sure they were betrayed by someone from the inside, but Athena refuses to believe that. Orst can’t see any other way that the authorities knew as much about their actions as they seemed to. Although they all just barely managed to escape the police, Athena thinks it’s not a total waste. They can use the still-roiling anger of the protesters as leverage to force a meeting with the conference attendees. If they fear more chaos for the final day, and Shango and Athena can keep the protesters at bay, that could give them the upper hand in negotiating. Shango is frustrated at that plan, feeling like it won’t be enough. Their argument gets pretty heated. When Athena storms off, Shango asks Orst about his friend the bombmaker. Orst says he lost track of him during the protest. Shango has been further radicalized by the events of the day and wants to take more drastic action. Orst says he can make a few calls and see what he can find out. Barbara arrives to find Shango alone, still fuming about it all. He vents to her about his feelings of helplessness and loss of control. They bond over that feeling, and Barbara says that they can do something about it. She tries to show him what she’s got in her bag, but they’re interrupted by Roger. He’s come to negotiate on behalf of the conference. Shango is shocked to find that he knows Barbara. He outs her as an operative. Shango won’t believe her when she protests and storms out. As he goes, Athena comes down, far more professionally dressed. She’s actually the person who called Roger. She had provided inside information on the protests to him in an effort to win a place at the table. Barbara is shocked that she would betray everyone, but Athena argues that it’s the only way to make real change. She and Roger head off to meet with the bigwigs. Joachim enters, heading out to leave town with the circus. Barbara is left with her mysterious bag. Orst reappears, having been unsuccessful in his attempts to find more bombmaking materials. He admits that he wasn’t really trying all that hard. He likes the protests, the easy love and the conversation, but all of the drama just gets in the way. He didn’t really expect Shango to take him so seriously and want to take action. He figures that the last day will be a bust, so he’s already heading down to Mexico to protest at a resort or two. Once he’s gone, Barbara opens her bag to reveal a bomb. Shango re-enters and finds her with it. She says that she wanted to do something to take action and make real change. Shango tries to talk her down and get the bomb away from her, but she won’t let it go. The family she’s built is dissolving around her and she can’t stand it. Shango tries to talk her down as she becomes more frantic. As it seems like she’s going to set the bomb off, Shango grabs it from her. Athena returns for some of her paperwork and materials, and sees Shango with the bomb. She freaks out and starts calling the police. Shango goes to get rid of the bomb in the backyard, but it goes off. Barbara and Athena are left in the wreckage.

Scene 10: In Which A Death Has Consequences and Decisions Are Made

Barbara sits in the wreckage of her living room, bandaged and wrapped up. Jodie and Roger are there. Alex didn’t even bother to come back. They’re obviously distraught about what’s happened to her and the house. Jodie is now threatening to stay and take charge of her mother’s life. Roger is in agreement. Barbara clearly can’t be left on her own, they reason. They’re going to fix up the house, maybe sell it, move her away. Barbara takes it all in, not speaking. Jodie and Roger get frustrated with her and demand that she explain what’s been happening. She doesn’t answer them. She just gets up and goes to her computer, and checks her e-mail. They try to get her to focus, but she ignores them. She opens an e-mail from Joachim. She sees him in full clown regalia, juggling. He tells her how happy he is in the circus, how it’s where he’s always wanted to be and the important thing in life is finding the things that make you happy. Barbara laughs with joy at Joachim’s tricks and joy. The lights fade on her.

-End of Play-

Anarchists: A Comedy - Act 1 Outline

ANARCHISTS: A COMEDY

Outline and Character Breakdown

CHARACTERS:

BARBARA

JODIE/ATHENA

ALEX/JOACHIM

ROGER/ORST

SHANGO

Setting: A nice house in a development, not too far from a large-ish city in the western part of the United States.

Time: The summer of 2008.

OUTLINE

Scene 1: In Which A Death Has Consequences and Decisions Are Made

It’s the afternoon of Bob DeWitt’s funeral. His son and daughter, Alex and Jodie, and his best friend, Roger, wait for Bob’s widow, Barbara, to pull herself together. It takes some time. They need her to come to some decisions about what’s going to happen now that Bob is gone. Roger lets them know that Bob’s business investments hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped, and the family is now broke and in danger of losing their house. They need to decide now, because Alex and Jodie are out of there, ASAP, and Roger needs to focus on work. Barbara isn’t sure how she’s going to pull herself together and keep the house. Everyone reminds her of what a bullying jerk Bob was, and how they’ve all hoped and waited for the day they were free of him. Jodie, in particular, yells at her mother for being a doormat all these years and being unable to stand up for herself or do anything proactive because of Bob’s iron rule. She declares herself done with her family unless they can get their act together. Alex is similarly detached, lost in a haze of alcohol. He and Jodie leave Barbara and Roger to figure it out. Barbara is confused and distraught. Roger makes a pass at her, but she rebuffs him. He offers her a job to get out of the pit they’re in: his security firm needs intel on a group of radicals coming to town to protest a conference. He wants her to let them in her house and gather information. Barbara isn’t ready to do anything like that. He says that she’s in a desperate situation and will need to do something. He leaves her the web address of a listserv for radicals.

Scene 2: In Which A Connection Is Made

Barbara is deeply ambivalent about going on the internet to check out the listserv, but finally, with a little liquid courage, she goes on and reads some of the postings. We see the people as she reads. Joachim, a young man, who’s following the circus, spying on their animal treatment is one. Orst, a middle-aged European of nebulous origin and not particularly great English, is backpacking across the U.S., looking for fellow travelers. Athena, a young woman, is heading to protest at the conference and looking for a place to crash with her partner. Barbara steels herself and starts to respond.

Scene 3: In Which New Tricks are Learned and Old Dogs are Discussed

Joachim is the first to arrive. He’s a quiet, studious young man, recently dropped out from a good college back east. His parents are quite supportive of his new lifestyle, almost to the point of pushing him into it. He’s quite nervous about his audition for the circus the next day. He’s been working on various tricks in order to impress them. Barbara isn’t sure how to deal with him, but watches his tricks and tries to help him out. She remembers how her own son liked to juggle when he was young and they talk about childhood pets. She connects with him and sends him off to bed. After he’s gone, she sits down to e-mail Roger, but leaves out the details of Joachim’s circus mission.

Scene 4: In Which The Old World Meets the New

The next night, Orst has arrived and the three of them are celebrating Joachim’s successful audition. Orst is convivial and charming. He’s very Old World, a survivor of various revolutions and actions. He brings pot and encourages drinking. Joachim is obviously put off by him a bit, but Barbara is fascinated. Orst talks about revolution and uprising, passionately. Joachim tries to keep the focus on the circus, but Orst keeps bringing it back to radical actions. He tries to push Joachim to do something big, grand and violent, like setting the lions loose on the clowns or bringing the big top down in a hail of fire. Joachim is definitely not interested in that, and finally leaves to go to bed. Orst turns his attention to Barbara, but she resists. He heads out to look for more fun people, and she again leaves out the important details in her e-mail to Roger.

Scene 5: In Which The Gods Arrive

Finally, Athena and Shango arrive at Barbara’s. They are seemingly very in sync, even though they’re quite different. Athena is a bit of hippie, and Shango is a bit of a punk. They are clearly quite close and have a real bond. They are also clearly hiding something. When Barbara asks about their names, they clam up and evade. They also talk in code about an big event they’re planning, a major action at the event. Shango and Orst bond, sharing visions of revolution and dramatic acts against the establishment and Athena and Barbara bond. Joachim enters, but is also clearly hiding something. Barbara, though, brings the whole group together for a “family dinner.” Although they’re strangers to her and new to the house, Barbara is happy to have people in the house. They share a toast together to the future.

- End of Act 1 -

Writing Anarchist: Diary #3

Page count: 5 (Well, five pages of outline)

I'm not usually much of an outliner in general. I'm more of a stewer, mulling over an idea or storyline for months, years, however long, before I sit down and do the writing. But doing this open-source, develop the play with actors thing means having to work a little differently. Hence: an outline. And it was actually okay to do. Not so much fun, but interesting. Writing an outline, at this stage for me, is mostly all about figuring out the structure of the thing. And that's kind of the fun part. I like seeing how things can play out, what the possibilities are. It's just a guideline, but it's a start.

Here's another departure: I'm going to post it here. Not really how these things go, but since I'm trying out this whole "open-source" playwriting thing, it seems like the thing to do. Read it, share your thoughts or ideas. It's a rough outline, getting the shape of the thing down. Hopefully it won't be a huge spoiler for you.

More to come...