Fun day all around. I wish we had been able to take Kevin Doyle's suggestion though and take the mics with us to The Archive Bar the conversation of course really got going once we were all there.
Thanks to the Round Table participants and audience and thanks to the Performers for such fantastic showings. Lots of music last night. Still trying to process the confluence of that within the context of communication/communitas. I'm sure Grotowski had something to say about music/singing that would land us in our UR-humanity and explain why music is such an integral part of creating a sense of shared something.
The Live Writers have started up too. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001568541102 is probably the easiest place to engage or use the twitter hash tag #prelude.
Thanks also to the Chos - those with us in person and those in voice for a beautiful writing session. I can't wait to read all the plays others wrote.
Here's the Play I wrote with the Chos. If anyone else wants to share their plays please just send them to me (firstname.lastname@example.org) or go ahead and post them in a comment on the Facebook Fan page for Prelude.
realism can only be an experimental project
that is the real thing that I drew
that is the title of the play I am writing
la la la la la de da
"theater is a form of singing"
"energize the familiar"
get at the D - take out the lllllllls
add them through a form of miosis and then unravel the rings around them that begins reverberating through the space
into the flowers that are sitting on my bag slowly dying or quickly decaying or moving somehow along that >>>> access.
How do you stage live decaying flowers? Is it a theater in which nothing happens - watch them for days slowly or quickly depending on how you measure the time.
And then the other character sitting here asks in the deep Richard Foreman Voice - is this true?
and I respond - no no no the question is - is this real?
and someone picks up a pencil and draws another drawing.
and the entire process comes to a halt with the music and begins again.
last night I was in the Hole.
the floor wasn't sticky, which is surprising
there were people with "real" jobs there being introduced to other people with "real" jobs
and to artists
there was video playing
it didn't smell like stale beer
the food spread replaced the other kind of spread that is sometimes there
the fruit was ripe and delicious
there was a little man about 2 feet tall in a seer-sucker suit - he was the smartest one in the room
he was thinking about being hungry and wanting that other little girl's wooden doggy
and how beer is much yummier than the juice his dad really wanted him to have
but that perhaps he shouldn't eat the sausage that the grown-ups were eating.
it was thinking oh man why does this little girl drag me around everywhere - it hurts my joints and my little ropes and it doesn't put to use the wheels I was built with so she could drag me behind her on the street
it was thinking I like being wood with white spots and floppy ears.
wood with spots and floppy ears
and a simple life
lugged around and loved
and tugged at by others who would want to love it too
and handed to mom when something more exciting is happening that would otherwise be hindered by the lugging of it
and put abandoned on a riser because what adult would want to lug it around
to lug a piece of wood with spots and floppy ears
that is absurd
especially one so large
adults don't lug around the absurd
pink fluffy bunnies some how arise in the brain now
pink fluffy bunnies
invisible, but you still know they are pink
"theater feeds the sick desires of the people who have forgotten god"
if the bunnies aren't visible are they real?
or are they the sick desires of someone who has never remembered god?
> interruption from my little brother> who has just realized that the supermarket is "one-stop shopping for all the crazy neo-con-lit"
and I got distracted from something about Meryl Streep (sp?) and a directive to remember a movie she was in and my three least favorite playwrights - I fail on both accounts.
watching the cursor blink and blink and blink
wishing there were more pink fluffy bunnies in the world
I haven't done anything with intention in a long time
or at least I can't remember doing anything with intention in a long time
so what does that mean for the pink fluffy bunnies?
or for god
or for writing plays
or for dying flowers
or decaying plant life
or for making live theater out of decaying plant life?
or for neo-con-literature cluttering up my grocery isles?
what happens when you have writers block in a session that is teaching you how to write?
okay I can write about silence - the refusal to participate in being human, in the practice of being human, of making and sharing and breaking signs - the refusal to acknowledge other people's humanity