Just Wrought

May 31, 2005

Returning to posting entries from my attempt seven years ago to filibuster my second child into the world. After skipping several (too boring, too much family laundry) I prepped this one to post.  Then yesterday happened.  Then I looked at the piece again and thought “Well, it’s got a little hope in it, why not?”

Blessings and hope to you all. (And happy 10th birthday, Decky.)

 

Tue May 31 2005 at 5:52:2 UTC

2005.05.30 at 21:49 doyle says re May 30, 2005 : life is in the mundane details--the key to happiness is not just knowing this, but believing it--you have a head start as a mick--just having food on the table is a fucking miracle. god bless. the baby is coming in the next 36 hours-a

2005.05.30 at 21:49 doyle says hunch, but a strong one.

Wisdom plus prognostication from the Good Doctor! And how can we argue or doubt him? Well, my wife is hoping that he's wrong with his prediction at least, since that would most likely make the new baby's birthday the same as my three year-old son's, but frankly I could care less, since the two anniversaries are going to be too close for little kid comfort in any case.

I was thinking about what Doyle said while I was meditating today. Of course, that's a no-no. You're not supposed to be thinking about anything, really. Then again, you're not supposed to get distracted by fighting the inevitability of random thoughts either. But hell, it's that damned-if-you-do-and-don't essence of Zen that attracted me to it in the first place I should backtrack a few hours. Heather, Declan and I went to Northwest Folklife at Seattle Center this morning. Our first stop was a stage where some girls were doing Irish dancing (god help me!). Now Declan loves dancing, but he was a little queasy from the bus ride down, so he kinda just sat in his mamma's lap and watched, rapt. I pulled the stroller over to the side of the stage so I wouldn't be blocking everyone's view. In front of me were two toddlers, girl and boy, slightly smaller than my boy, dancing away to the infernal Hibernian strains. The little girl was a gorgeous strawberry blonde delight, clearly a danger to hearts decades hence. And she twirled with delight and abandon. A plain day miracle. My favorite kind.

Then I felt someone touching my shoulder. "Paul? Paul Mullin?" I turned and saw a familiar face, though the woman was at least a decade older than the image in my head. "Kim" was the name that flashed into my head.

"It's Kim! I knew it was you. Mark said he was sure because of the scar."

"Of course. Kim. We worked together at My Friend's Café." I was starting to put it together. Kim and I shared one of the shittiest restaurant gigs ever, 50¢ over minimum wage plus zero tips, slinging breakfast at Green Lake yuppies in a café run by a grand Canadian git named Wayne.

Then Mark walked into my field of vision. His name flashed into my head much like "Kim" did. He, too, looked a decade past my memory of him. Did Mark work at the café, too? I couldn't remember.

And then Kim was kind enough to piece it together for me, while not letting on that she knew I was half clueless. The short story is this: Kim hated the café gig even worse than I did. She was desperate for something new, and my then live-in girlfriend, soon-to-be-ex-wife, who was banquet manager down at the Rainier Club, landed Kim a job waitressing down there. Mark was a busboy at the club. Kim met Mark-- I think their first kiss may have even been at one of our notorious parties—and the rest is history, except for Annabelle. Annabelle is the future.

The strawberry dancing miracle that had delighted me to begin with. Kim and Mark's two-year old daughter. Annabelle.

It really wasn't that extraordinary an episode at first glance. I'd half-forgotten about it until I was sitting there in zazen, thinking about what Doyle messaged. But let's break it down for a moment. If it hadn't been for me, slaving away in the steaming food grime and coffee grit of that café another lifetime ago, then meeting Kim and introducing her to the great failed relationship of my life, then this little wonder wouldn't be. And it wasn't anything in particular I did. It wasn't the power of my words as a playwright, or my sharpened perception or deepened compassion as a Buddhist. No. It was just me, living, struggling, connecting to someone else, living, struggling: and, thirteen years later, here's Annabelle!

Lao Tzu, via Ursula Le Guin's "version" says: "Live long by looking long." In Tao years, Doyle's six-hundred and forty-nine years old. Today I'm exactly one day older than I am.

And Doctor Doyle, if you're reading this, we're approximately six and a half hours into your 36 hour window as I type.

The Problem Intiman Faces (And Every Other Theatre)

We've been batting around over at Facebook the recent news that the Intiman's landlord, the City of Seattle, has essentially put a "For Rent" sign in the Playhouses window.  (See here and here for more details.)

Annex Theatre's Managing Director, the inestimable, incomparable Stephen McCandless framed the problem as accurately, as succintly and as implacably as I have ever heard it put:

"The economics of producing a play and running a venue are not entirely complimentary. To frame it in business-school vocabulary, producing a play requires an Entrepreneur, the venue a Manager."

May 25, 2005

This is a weird one.  I considered not posting it.  (I promise I won’t post them all.)  However, I found the second dream fascinating, and the improvisational flow of the post satisfying in a way I’d love to get back to, if somehow I could.

So, if you've been following my last few postings (and I can't really think of a sound reason you should) you'll know that a strange mandate has crystallized for me. To wit: I'm going to keep writing and posting at least five hundred words a day until my second child arrives. Yes, it's my own odd version of the filibuster. I'm completely committed to literally daylogging that baby out of my wife's womb. Absurd, you say? Anymore or less absurd than continuing to write here, or anywhere?

I'm suddenly reminded, as I often am, of the story of the Hopi Indians that Elaine Pagels likes to tell as an example of religious ridiculousness, but really just winds up looking ridiculous herself for posing so superior. Apparently a particular sect goes through an elaborate ceremony to make the sun rise every morning. When asked what would happen if one morning they simply neglected to perform the rite, they reply: "Oh sure, let's plunge the world into eternal darkness for the sake of your stupid experiment."

And so it is with us writers. Nearly every one of us got into the game because we believed our writing could make the world a better place; and nearly every one of us who stayed in the game came to realize that writing can't make the world better; it can only make it bigger. And there's a lot to be said for that; but let's not fool ourselves into believing we can make a baby be born or the sun rise. Unless of course, it makes us happy, or gives us an excuse to reach out, plug in, take time, get smart, fall on our knees, be human.

Last night I had the classic big wave dream. I'm at the beach. The surf is enormous, gloriously intimidating. Do I surf it? How do I surf it without drowing? Man, I wanna surf it!

Then I dreamt that some sort of Zen monk was telling a story to a young woman about a stone carver who was carving the perfect stone to use as a counter-weight in some simple machine being built for the temple. The stone was exquisite, beautiful, but it was much too big for the carver to carry over to the machine. Then the monk telling the story obliged with the solution: one must break the stone in two. Wave of enlightenment crashes over all characters in my dream: the monk and the woman lose themselves in each other's laughter. You have to break the perfect stone in two.

Uh . . . yeah, I have no idea either really. Just inklings.

I wish I could write like the writer of my dreams.

Heather spent the morning pulling weeds in the front garden, hoping to "get something started." More absurdity. It's like eating spicy foods or having sex to trigger labor: all science on the issue emphatically cries, "bunk!" But then again, the garden did need weeding, spicy food can be yummy and . . . well. . . you get the picture.

As of this five hundred-and-fortieth word, Baby Mullin Two remains unborn. The perfect stone, unbroken.

May 24, 2005

In this entry from my on-going attempt to filibuster my unborn child out of my wife’s womb seven years ago, I whine about writing, and whether or not I should stop.  For about a decade this was a standing question for me.  I thought, talked, and wrote about it constantly until I realized, “Hey wait a second!  Writing about whether or not I should write is just a really lame excuse for writing.”  I have since moved on to other lame excuses.

Tue May 24 2005 at 1:30:14 UTC

Five hundred words.

This is the daily quota that JohnnyGoodYear reminds us that Graham Greene suggests we writers try and meet to stay in shape. And--good God!-- who would want to argue with Greene, possibly the most prolific and compellingly readable author of the prior century?

It's just that . . . well, does it apply to playwrights? And does it apply to playwrights who often fervently wish they didn't write at all? It seems to me this discipline that Greene demands, and GoodYear promulgates, presupposes a devotion motivated by . . . what? That one's writing betters the world? Oneself? More often than not it seems to me that this sort of devotion requires a faith that I long ago forswore. I cannot abide a God that insists I believe in Him any more than I can dedicate myself to a vocation that demands I ante up all my dutiful attentions whether or not it feels meaningful to me. And yet . . . and yet . . . Here I am writing.

I promised I'd keep you all posted on the progress towards my second child's birth ever since my wife lost her mucus plug three days ago. But now, with so little progress to report, I'm starting to regret it, in a way not unlike my regret of the vow I made to myself some decades back to be the best playwright possible.

We get caught.

We get caught in these ideas of ourselves and what it is we're supposed to be doing. It's all so noble I could be sick if I focused too long or too hard on it. We get into this writing business because we're convinced that our minds might make the world a better place, and then we discover that the wisest men understand that the world needs no bettering.

We bring children into the world because, let's face it: it's fun— both to make them and then to be with them once they're here. Only a fascist fool could honestly believe he has anything to teach a child, except maybe how to blow a bubble or use a kazoo.

So for now, I'm going to stick with this, through downvotes and upvotes, through your boredom and mine, through frustration and occasional elation, until I become a better playwright, a better writer, a better husband and father, a better man . . . or . . at least until the baby comes.

Okay, so about that, here's the nitty-gritty: Heather went to the doctor today and was told that she's dilated to 4 centimeters, and that her cervix is 50% effaced. And what does that mean in bottom line layman's terms? Well, that she'll be having a baby. Some time soon. How soon? Only the Credophage knows.

And I know yesterday I said I wasn't anxious— but dammit!—it's creeping up on me.

Come on, baby. Come on! You're almost here.

And I am almost there . . . five hundred.

May 22, 2005

From exactly seven years ago, the second day of my filibuster for Kiwi’s appearance ex utero.

Sun May 22 2005 at 22:32:28 UTC

I have a theory that the twenty-plus years I've spent doing theatre have somehow warped my natural anxiety response to looming major life events. Lawrence Olivier once contended that the amount of adrenaline coursing through the veins of an average actor performing say, Hamlet, on a given night was enough to kill a normal man. I have no idea if this is true; it certainly sounds dubious. As a playwright who has a side specialty in writing plays that deal with science and technology, I can never underestimate the capacity of artists, even venerable ones, to get the science of nearly everything wrong. Still, there's some sort of Picasso-like truth in this, I think. When faced regularly with situations that tend to make you feel like crapping your pants, you're going to make an adjustment—psychologically, physiologically—however.

My involuntary adjustment to countless openings of original plays I've poured my all into has been a shortening of the advanced dread period, down from a month, to a week, to the day before, to the day of, till now, when I open a play, the terror only starts to gut me a few hours or so before curtain. Somehow my body and my brain have decided that diminishing the time I'm exposed to the anxiety is healthier. Who am I to question them?

So when the attractive mom of two, who occupies the cube across from, asked me the other day if I was starting to get excited about my baby coming, I explained how, no, it hadn't really hit me yet.

And it still hasn't hit me yet. Heather's lost her mucus plug. Yesterday morning she had a bout of contractions that lasted about an hour. And still, it hasn't hit me-- at least not on any visceral level-- that another life is coming into the world very, very soon: one that I will be responsible for until the day I die, and possibly, if you ask the Mormons, beyond. (Or maybe it's the other way around. I must confess I never really understood what has always seemed to me to be the comic book version of Christianity, or perhaps more fairly, the graphic novel.)

So here comes this life. Healthy? We hope, and have no reason to doubt. Male? Female? We don't know. One more detail to raise the stakes on my anxiety when it finally punches in. Of course, I'm leaning in my hopes for a girl, but only because I already have a son and he's so special it's hard to imagine having another one.

Of course, it's all pretty hard to imagine, isn't it? And that's the best part of living life: you could never dream this stuff up.

More to come . . .

May 21, 2005

Seven years ago today, on a bizarre, pre-Facebook social site for writers called Everything2, I began an endeavor to filibuster our second baby out of my wife’s body, writing a minimum of 500 words every day.  Had I known that it would actually be another 18 days before Kiwi would come into the world I might have thought better of the effort.  But that’s one of the highest glories of parenthood: even when you think you know what’s coming, you actually have not even the rawest idea.  Heck, had I known then what I know now about the restlessly wriggling energy ball of fierceness and joy that was hurtling his way toward our family, every night up until his birth would have been a sleepless Christmas Eve (and since every night for a year and a half after was semi-sleepless, I’m glad I got that rest instead.)

So I’m going to share some of these filibuster “Day Logs” over the next week or so because sometimes, when you force yourself to write in circumstances you don’t normally, you dig out some jewels you might not otherwise ever know were hiding. 

Sat May 21 2005 at 23:28:15 UTC

Heather lost her mucus plug yesterday.

Oh, you don't know what that is? Isn't that funny? How many countless scenes of birth have been brought to us by Hollywood and yet not one of them employs the words "mucus plug". No, we have to wait until we prepare to experience the real thing before we learn about that little friend. The mucus plug is about what it sounds: a snotty bung for a barrel designed to keep things where they're supposed to be until, well, they're not supposed to be there any more. In any case, what you need to know is that its demise signals that labor's a pretty safe bet in the next couple weeks.

An even stronger signal is the fact that Heather was up from 4 to 7 am this morning suffering contractions, back pain and cramps. She quietly took herself into the living room couch, deciding not to wake me until she was sure this was the real thing. It wasn't. The contractions subsided. We had a normal breakfast of french toast. Then we took Declan to the Pacific Science Center and had a good time poking around there, though the boy was a bit scared of the animatronic dinosaurs and super-sized insects. He was even a little freaked out by actual fly-bys in the butterfly room, but on the other hand his dad reckons this is the coolest thing I've experienced in a long time. Living gossamer leaves of color flittering right past your face in all directions. It's enough to make you glad you're bringing another life into the world to share it with.

Then we went to the Red Mill, the best "fast" burgers in Seattle. Heather and I each had one. Declan, per usual, happy to merely poach our fries and some of our shakes. The boy would rather eat dirt than burger. Go figure.

Anyway, I got this nifty laptop that my work has loaned me because my boss wants me to spend as much time at home with the baby as I can. (Sometimes even corporate America can be cool.) I'm thinking I may take it with us to the hospital and tell y'all as much as I can during the process.

Or that might not happen at all. You parents out there know how these things can go.

In any case, wish us luck. It won't be long now.

White Boy Can Take a Punch

The only thing disappointing about an evening of theatre like last night’s Hoodies Up! is that it only happens once and then it’s gone forever. I suppose that’s part of what makes it special. I certainly felt blessed to watch some truly gift actors bring back to life a cherished chapter from my days working in D.C.  Witnessing such miracles is one of the unique perks of being playwright that helps explain my continuing gluttony for its punishments.

Because it is unlikely that my contribution to last night’s offerings will ever be staged again, I offer the script here to anyone who missed it and might want to check it out in script form.

Theatre Requires Hope Beyond Logic

Nobody in the last fifty years has gone to live theatre to kill time like they would slip into a cineplex.  Nobody has sat and blankly watched theatre like they would TV because they don’t have anything better to do. There is always something better to do.  People go to the theatre because they hope—more often than not against their better judgment—that what they will experience there will change them, open them up, break down some poisoned part of them, help them live with some unbearable pain, give them more hope.  People who go to the theatre are frequently disappointed.

Tyrone Brown asked me to share with my colleague Sharon Williams the honor of giving the curtain speech at tonight’s sole performance of Hoodies Up!, a series of short plays inspired  by the Trayvon Martin tragedy.  Tyrone surely intends for us to keep our remarks exquisitely brief and practical tonight, but as I started thinking about it my brain, as it is sometimes wont to do, erupted in about five different directions.  These moments of mind spasm are, in part, why I created Just Wrought: that is, to spare everyone me blathering on at curtain speeches and the like.  Here’s what I won’t be saying tonight:

My reason for joining the Hoodies Up! writers team can be boiled down into one word: selfishness. I wanted to work with Tyrone Brown, a director whom most folks in the “Seattle theatre know” recognize as a coming powerhouse. I wanted to write for African American actors, a chance as rare as hen’s teeth in the Pacific Northwest and, sadly, in the nation at large. I wanted to tell a story I had never publically told before, from a time in my life that I cherish. All good selfish reasons. (When I start doing theatre for non-selfish reasons let’s all start worrying, okay?)

Hermann Göring famously declared, “When I hear the word ‘culture’ I reach for my gun.” Nazism at its nastiest, and most honest.  Fascists hate art and anything else they don’t understand, or that causes people to prick their ears up and say, “Whoa!  What’s going on?”  Of course, there’s a simple syllogistic trick that flips fat-headed Göring on his ear: “When I hear the world ‘gun’ I reach for my culture.”  That’s what Tyrone did when he began processing the Trayvon tragedy, and that’s what the writers he invited did in turn, and then in turn the actors and directors.  Tonight it’s your turn: the audience, the final hopeful piece of this hope-against-reason puzzle. Tonight, when you come watch Hoodies Up! you’ll be reaching for your culture, and countering the insidious icon of the gun that holds America mesmerized.  You will be taking the risk of being bored, confused, annoyed and generally disappointed, but you will have chosen hope over every empty and utterly logical reason why you shouldn’t have bothered.

Because theatre requires hope beyond logic. 

Just like living.

A Pair of 14/48 Rumors

Just heard a delicious brace of rumors about 14/48’s 2012 Summer offerings.  I am solemnly sworn to secrecy, but suffice it to say that the news involves innovation and once again pushing into territory heretofore unexplored.  Doing the undone is what makes Seattle theatre World Class, and 14/48 has consistently shown "go-big-or-go-home" leadership when the putative leaders of Seattle’s Big Houses have shown little.

Watch this space for more news when I’m allowed to break it, or better yet, “like” 14/48’s Facebook page to get the latest first hand.

Just Opened My Big Mouth over at HowlRound Again

Here.

I guess I can't help myself.  But also I cannot help believing that unless we speak up-- especially when we have this short-lived national spotlight-- everyone will assume that it's all going peachy and in the right direction, when the sweet Lord knows it ain't.

So join the fray if you can.  We need intelligent voices to counter the advocates of half-measures, old thinking, and worst of all: "politeness-at-all-costs."