tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60117452011-04-21T17:46:56.342-07:00Simple A talk at and around.Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comBlogger171100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1116432985230052672005-05-18T08:49:00.000-07:002005-05-18T09:17:36.946-07:00So what do you do in a third section? Okay, first section is about lives surrounding this rape case in Eagle, CO -- the investigators, the accuser, the accuser's boyfriend. The second section is about the life of a female, African-American academic who has analyzed the rape case. Then what is the third section? Some sort of a synthesis. we see this community, then we see another community -->Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1098112648225817142004-10-18T08:17:00.000-07:002004-10-18T08:17:28.226-07:00Chapter One
James Wong made one mistake. It wasn't even a camera -- it was a camera case. He was the number 2 pilot in his class, a handsome man, just gaining experience with women. Not necessarily a popular man -- awkwardness and quirky humor were his barriers -- James was still hopeful. He had wanted to fly fighter jets for so long, and he did. And he would, he thought. Forever. But forAlechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097609207262086032004-10-12T13:26:00.000-07:002004-10-18T08:16:55.140-07:00Prologue
A sharp breeze caught him in the legs and carried him off of his perch, 175 feet above the San Francisco bay on the Golden Gate bridge, sending him tumbling toward the brittle waters beneath – it was too soon. The decision to release his hold was not made by him and, in his reckoning, the moment came too soon. He wanted it made on his own terms, although he was sure he would have Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097531627266121502004-10-11T14:45:00.000-07:002004-10-11T15:04:37.476-07:00Jesus, gotta figure out what happens at the end of the show. After Copernicus's transformation into a tree. What of the other characters? What are they left with? Memories of Copernicus smashing a wine glass. Perhaps Marx smashes his glass. And then Galileo plays the diminished arpeggio from Die Stadt. Is that enough? Is that enough of a denoument (sp?)?
Anyway, just gotta figure out Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097529410999970452004-10-11T13:12:00.000-07:002004-10-11T14:16:51.000-07:00Bats onstage, or in a netted area next to the stage?
fuck you if you say dialogue is key.
we're talking Artaud, not Brecht.
Evocation, not evidence.
Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097456261223156572004-10-10T17:49:00.000-07:002004-10-10T18:21:53.623-07:00Maybe I'll have the sound of the brook's lullaby coming from under the floorboards, all the time, very softly. Copernicus pries away the boards at some point and the audience hears the song clearer.
Well, anyway, so the idea is to have real big things happen onstage. because talking only gets you so far in a play.
maybe Einstein's on the internet, YM-ing. is that too "hip" to do? Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097434515583405412004-10-10T11:49:00.000-07:002004-10-10T12:58:09.846-07:00Okay, last night's blogging did me real good, so I'll try it again. After I typed last night, I decided to just shock and awe my script, cutting a lot of crap. I'm not made to write dialogue that actually discusses something. so i cut out all my crappy attempts at that. I deal with silent space onstage much better. so there's now much more room for us to develop that kind of thing during Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1097369954695196802004-10-09T17:47:00.000-07:002004-10-09T19:36:30.533-07:00So this is my problem: I'm writing a play, feel woefully uneasy about writing traditional character development, arc of action, climax, resolution, etc. so i guess i'm still stuck with Godot. and i think that that is fine. but SOMETHING has to happen in my play, right? like at least they have to get up from their couches and do something, right? like dance? or throw crockery? or play "Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1069365961714661982003-11-20T14:06:00.000-08:002003-11-20T14:06:08.966-08:00I walk with a long, black umbrella when it rains. And then sometimes down corridors, it will be by my side.
THis is what the people don't like:
Inside, I walk with my umbrella like a cane, it making a rhythmic tap. . . . . . .tap. . . . . . .tap as I walk. One woman was walking in front of me down a long corridor, and she couldn't stand the persistent tapping coming from behind her. As Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1068671194059746312003-11-12T15:23:00.000-08:002003-11-12T15:23:56.223-08:00I met Rajani and was perhaps to marry her. I met her at her novelty shop for tourists in the Thamel district of Kathmandu. She sold big, funny hats and colorful knitted water-bottle holders you could slip over your shoulder. Rajani was young, and I was younger. I had not even graduated college. She was maybe two years older than I was.
Rajani was lovely. And sure was sweet.
I had beenAlechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1068578559431779652003-11-11T11:22:00.000-08:002003-11-11T11:22:44.170-08:00American pastimes:
baseball
stamp-collecting
lemonade
summer
barbeque
Horatio Alger
moral superiority
razor blades
suicide
automatic weapons
cuckoo for cocoa puffs
grass is greener
personal comfort/convenience
Celebrity
Mexicans
Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1068578164785118422003-11-11T11:16:00.000-08:002003-11-11T11:16:09.613-08:00I agree with most Americans. Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1068504475754767122003-11-10T14:47:00.000-08:002003-11-10T14:47:59.950-08:00A New Proposition:
I implore Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1068049212380970212003-11-05T08:55:00.000-08:002003-11-05T08:56:41.746-08:00Wesley Clark and I were standing in the scotch bar of the ship. "Michael's Lounge." A jazz trio was playing "A Child is Born" and Wes was offering me advice.
"A married man -- no go, my friend. You should cut it off as soon as possible. That could get you kicked off the ship."
I turned to Wesley, Bowmore in hand, and let loose.
"Wes, what the fuck -- you can't even understand. You Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1067888576336646362003-11-03T11:42:00.000-08:002003-11-03T11:42:58.783-08:00This from an inside source: the inmates at Fort Dix in New Jersey are now using cans of mackerel as currency. Why a can of mackerel? Because it costs exactly $1 at the commissary. You ask: Why don't they just use dollars as currency, then? Because I have no idea.
Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1067634206940924992003-10-31T13:03:00.000-08:002003-10-31T13:03:29.166-08:00So yesterday, there was a man on the evening MetroNorth commute up to his Westchester home who dropped his cell phone in the train toilet. He then got his arm STUCK in the toilet, the train had to stop at 125th St station and fire and emergency people had to DISMANTLE the toilet so they could free him. This is in the New york Post today. http://www.nypost.com/news/regionalnews/9614.htm
First Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6011745.post-1067533850195913172003-10-30T09:10:00.000-08:002003-10-30T09:14:56.480-08:00My friend Dave is on a cruise ship in the Atlantic. He is a piano player and performs twice nightly with the boat orchestra. He is in love.
Dave and I have known each other for ten years, more or less. He and I first met when we were arrested at the Oakland Hilton as part of a union sit-in. Neither of us worked at the hotel -- we had come out in support of the workers. I had heard of Dave Alechttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14293997853359510543noreply@blogger.com