I’m spending my evenings reading plays now, mostly new-er plays, and thinking about going to plays and live theater, and wondering why I stopped writing plays and poetry and it just seems like so long ago. And it was like over a decade ago, and I wonder- why did I stop doing that? Maybe I thought that there wasn’t anything in theater left, that it was a husk waiting for the image flickering image industry to burn away until ash remains? I don’t know. Or maybe life went on moved on and I stopped acting too and maybe all these things that I were just stopped being. I stopped playing guitar, I just stopped, I don’t know why I stopped. Maybe something took over my life, sucked my creativity away. Maybe I just moved on for a bit and now returning to it…I don’t know.
Or maybe it’s all the same thing anyway, who knows? Everything changes, nothing changes, everything’s the same, nothing’s the same. I’m reading Annie Baker’s plays right now, mostly. I like how her conversations kind of break up and fold in on themselves and almost seem like actualities, and they hide the rest beneath the skin, so that all conversations are like real conversations in a way, with the meat of it hidden between the words looking to be looked for.
It’s an interesting thing that is and I’m thinking about this new way I’m writing (but somehow it’s an extension of the old way) where I really feel like I write how I think- in this rambling way, in these long sentence short sentence everything kind of falls out and splashes around, and there is meaning in there somewhere. I’m trying and focusing on removing all these authorial ticks I’ve taught myself over these years of writing that we kind of hide behind, and moving towards this natural thing, the way I am thing, the way I write thing. It’s not abrupt anymore, but long and going on, because I think that’s how my thoughts are and how I talk and everything.
With lots of wandering around in the confused forest of ideas…it’s a nice forest though, misty floor and all that but with long pine needles and the sounds of birds somewhere else just out of earshot…and a forgotten graveyard covered in vines and the limestone is worn down with rain fingers deep nestled in the center where you wouldn’t think to quite look…
So yeah, plays. I’m reading hers and I like the way people talk. It feels like it’s a permission slip to keep doing what I’m doing writing wise. I’m still on the fence about writing a play right now. Though I do have a book idea, a novel idea about the experience of a play, a polyphonic concept that’s full of all these parts of it, audience parts and actor parts and then play itself…and I think of it happening in real time, with the bits and pieces coalescing, so when the reader is done they feel like they sat and watched the thing, or acted in it, or had the experience of it…
But that’s just a sketch, an outline. It needs more details in the center of it, and I’m not sure I have those yet. I don’t want it to be filled with all those annoying hooks we see everywhere these days- I want it to be about things, people, experiences. Something like that. Maybe burned into it, somehow.
Either way, I want to keep writing and finish this novel I’m working on now first, and I keep telling myself I have like five short stories and some fistful of poems I need to keep sending out to other places. But I’m so exhausted these days, like my ribs were scraped out and my heart was filled with a nest of birds or something. That kind of feeling, if that makes sense. I need to push past that feeling though, and keep out there, head above the water waves that churn around to drown me.
I also think of some ideas I have for some essays, a bit of creative thought in them. But I can’t seem to write them down just yet, like the moment I need, the words I need, haven’t fulfilled the promise of what they are yet. So right now they’re half finished things, wandering around in my thoughts, waiting to anchor down and become a reality.