Well.

Playwright Willam S. Gregory came up with this rather off-center but inspired idea to have the Portland Center Stage playwrights group write short pieces about food and horror, tie it all up in a bouquet garni, and present it around Halloween under the title “Frenching the Bones.” That’s a culinary term regarding a technique for artfully removing meat from ribs, and you can fill in your own joke because those in the group have pretty much exhausted them all.

Anyway, the meal was served last night at Portland’s CoHo Theatre, and it was quite well received. Had a pretty near full house, and you could feel the audience was riding right along with the plays, laughing, groaning, or gasping at exactly the right times. Kudos to the splendid playwrights involved, but special notes to Chef Gregory, Matt Zrebski who directed, and some very fine actors who gamely took on 28 roles in one evening. The meal was delectable, the presentation impeccable. The diners completely satiated.

In short, as the late William S. Burroughs would have said in a rasping, nasty voice dripping with sardonic menace: it was unspeakably toothsome.

Steve

This is a playwright’s life: wait.

It’s a continued sequence of moments to come. You’re always working, always thinking; nothing comes without the effort. But so much is predicated on that which you cannot know.

A good part is spent waiting for theatres to get back to you, and, even for the hottest playwrights, the answer is usually…no. Politely, but…no. A good day is…no, but send more. That particular dialogue can go on for years, but it’s better than plain…no. Getting a script back without a note means…hell no. (Luckily, it’s been awhile since that’s happened to me.)

A lot of times, especially in these days of electronic submissions, you’ll never hear back at all. Your script simply vanishes. Maybe it’s being done under an assumed name in Montevideo, but most likely it’s forgotten on a dead hard drive. Or you’ll hear back so long after sending it that you have to go back to your notes to figure when you sent it. At the moment, I’m attuned to this phase because I have a lot of stuff out right now.

Then there’s waiting for ideas, which do not come unless you look for them, but which never appear while you’re looking for them. They come in the space between, when your attention is elsewhere. If, however, you do not look, they will not appear unbidden. And they wonder why writers drink too much or smell of various varieties of smoke or totally melt down when they can’t find their lucky pen.

When the script is done, you wait to hear back from your first, trusted readers. Then you wait to have a workshop reading accepted. Wait for the reading date. Wait to see if it goes on to a public reading. Wait for that date. Wait for actors to show up for meetings, rehearsals, performances. Wait for the audience reaction. Wait for all your emotions to settle before rewriting. Wait for another reading. Repeat endlessly.

If your play is actually accepted for production, suddenly the opening date glows red on your calendar, and every day is a step closer to that point. Which takes forever. When you finally get there, you wait for the time to leave for the theatre. You wait on every streetlight, which will turn red as you approach the intersection. You wait for parking. Once in the theatre, you read and reread the program, waiting for the lights to go down. (And you crush the hand of your significant other in those last few seconds before total darkness.)

Then, if you’re lucky, for ten minutes or an hour or two hours, you are waitless.

Finally, after the damn thing opens, you wait on the reviews, which is like waiting to get your biopsy back.

This is why every playwright should own a copy of Tom Petty’s song “The Waiting.” It’s built off a cliché, but it’s a good one:

The waiting is the hardest part

Every day you see one more card

You take it on faith, you take it to the heart

The waiting is the hardest part

I awoke this morning to the radio announcer saying the Santa Ana winds were dying down and kind of took a deep breath: much misery to come in California, but maybe containment can begin.

Meanwhile, right in the apparent indie art vortex of the universe (I guess they’re talking about Portland in New York or something), here’s some info regarding “Frenching the Bones,” a fun, one-night show I’m involved with, written up on Mead Hunter’s witty Pu Pu Platter blog:

http://meadhunter.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, October 30th…mark your calendars. It’s free and it’s going to fill up quickly. And the plays are, uh, well, absolutely wrong…in the best possible way.

So a good part of San Diego County burns down and the media annoints Portland as the Next Big Thing; I predict property values will go up.*

Steve

[Note: Not to be interpreted as flip. I can’t tell you how much California’s disaster pains me. San Diego County is one of the most beautiful places in the United States, rich in history and talented folks. Here’s wishing them safety and recovery.]

“Draw bamboos for ten years, become a bamboo, then forget all about bamboos when you’re drawing.” –Georges Duthuit–

There’s a perfect light just before the sun goes. When colors deepen and saturate. As with most moments of grace, it’s fleeting. But it’s worth waiting for. Once a day. Twice if you, you know, get up to see the sun rise too. Though that’s less relaxing because you need to be awake and everything. Else you’re just as likely to suddenly jolt awake, you’ve missed the perfect moment, and there’s drool on your chin. Sunrise, coffee…forget it. Not the same.

Did I mention that perfect light thing?

*Dull thud as head hits the desk*

“See your future. Be…your future. Make…make it! Make your future. I’m a veg, Danny.” –Ty Webb–

If you’re a producer, you see the audience from several vantages: as they’re lining up at the box office, as they’re being seated, one-on-one when they present problems (lost, late, drunk, wanting to use the can 30 seconds before curtain), and, if you choose, from the seats next to them.

If you’re a playwright, you tend to experience them anonymously as another audience member (or you hide and peek at them through curtains or the tech booth window). Playwrights seldom take bows. Once in awhile, usually when you’ve written something that really sings, the cast may acknowledge you during their curtain call, which feels somewhere between being honored and having your cover blown. Some playwrights react to this by glowing or preening, while others seem to retract into their clothes, becoming ever-so-tiny; I tend to nod, smile, and wave while wearing a thousand-yard stare.

But the producer and playwright share a common thought: who are all you people?

Which is not to say we’re not grateful you’re there. Believe me: we are, whether there’s 300 of you or four. It just seems like some kind of magical trick, conjuring up strangers with this goofy thing you’ve essentially made up, and it’s impossible to separate the experience from what has gone before, all the things the audience will never know about: the weird discomfort of fund raising, the intricate dance of casting, the late nights stuffing press releases in envelopes and remembering to put on the postage, and the inevitable moment during rehearsals where everyone’s exhausted and someone says just the right thing at the right time and everyone collapses into hysterical laughter and you have to call a break. (Sometimes those will stay with you longer than any other memory from a show.)

And, of course, there’s the 2:00 AM panic attacks, waking into hyperventilation–did I remember and what about and did I call and what time did we schedule?–followed by a hand-trembling, solitary cup of herbal tea rattling a teacup and saucer in a darkened room, headphones cranked until your ears ring. (I keep a copy of “Wild Horses” cued up–I think it’s that bit: “no sweeping exits or off-stage lines/could make me feel bitter/and treat you unkind.” I’m sure every producer/playwright has their own 2:00 AM music, and that it runs a gamut from “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” [“…everything’s going my way…”] to “Psycho Killer.” [“…I hate people when they’re not polite…”].)

Eventually, the fatigue will overtake you, a ferocious riptide, and it’s a fatigue that I can only liken to dealing with a life-threatening crisis. Only it’s self-inflicted, and we do it for fun. You finally fall asleep to a shifting, blurring montage of expectant faces, rustling programs, and extinguishing cell phones.

God bless you, but who are all you people?

Then the lights go down, and it doesn’t matter: we’re all in it together.

I don’t know if it happens to other playwrights or theatre practitioners (or audience members for that matter), but, once in a while, when all the elements of a piece are really clicking, the actors are locked in the moment, the audience is with you, the tech and sound is just perfect, and the play slips into this perfect groove, something strange happens to my perception. It’s almost like everything in the theatre disappears except the action onstage, and colors seem to take on this weird, heightened glow, a hyperreal halo. The impact of language intensifies. The emotion deepens. It’s almost like you’re experiencing an altered state of consciousness, like a dream or fever or hallucinogenic drug, wherein everything seems so very much more powerful and gorgeous than…anything.

I really can’t explain it. I notice it more watching my own work, not because it’s so damned wonderful or whatever but because I think that moment taps into the unconscious mind, just as the original writing–when it’s working–arises from under the surface. But I’ve experienced it watching other people’s plays as well. It’s the shiver factor, when art cuts through your ordinary perception and reaches down into your soul. And you…shiver.

It doesn’t happen often. It never lasts. But, my God, when it’s there, it justifies all the endless rewrites, the rejections, the clunky rehearsals, the behind-the-scenes bullshit, and the lousy reviews. And it hooks you.

I remember coming home from seeing one of my productions, and it was just one of those charmed nights where everything–everything–worked. You coul see it on the faces of the audience–a dazed, flushed, happieness. A vaguely unreal aura seemed to surround me, follow me home from the theatre, and there I was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes to burn off the excess energy, when I saw my face reflected in the kitchen window, and face looking back said: let’s do that again.

Now that we’re all rejoicing that Sen. Larry (“I’m not gay, I’m really really not gay”) Craig of Idaho is going to, uh, stick it out in the Senate until 2009 (thus providing endless punchlines), we’d like to share the recipe for Larry’s favorite dish. You’ll think this is satire, but it’s for real. From some Senate recipe collection…remember, cook’s choice!

Super Tuber is a great snack that uses one of my favorite vegetables: The Idaho Potato. Of course, I suppose any type of potato could be used, but I cannot guarantee that a Super Tuber made with anything but a true Idaho potato would taste as good. Sincerely, Larry E. Craig, United States Senator

Ingredients
1 hot dog, cook’s choice
1 Idaho baking potato, 7 to 10 ounces
Mustard for dipping, any style
Other condiments as desired such as cheese sauce, sour cream, chili, chives, bacon pieces or black olives.

Wash and dry potato. Rub with shortening or butter. With an apple corer or small knife, core out the potato center (end to end). Push hot dog through the center. Bake until potato is cooked through.

I received an e-mail asking, that “There are so many of you…” line above the counter on your page…where is that from? It sounds so familiar, but….

Not suprising; the reference definitely falls into the obscure category. It’s a line from “Rejoyce,” a Jefferson Airplane song inspired by James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” From the notorious “After Bathing at Baxters” album.

To wit:
Rejoyce

Chemical change like a laser beam
you’ve shattered the warning amber light
Make me warm
Let me see you moving everything over
Smiling in my room
You know you’ll be inside of my mind soon.

There are so many of you.
White shirt and tie, white shirt and tie,
white shirt and tie, wedding ring, wedding ring.

Mulligan stew for Bloom,
The only Jew in the room
Saxon’s sick on the holy dregs
And their constant getting throw up on his leg.

Molly’s gone to blazes,
Boylan’s crotch amazes
Any woman whose husband sleeps with his head
All buried down at the foot of his bed.

I’ve got his arm
I’ve got his arm
I’ve had it for weeks
I’ve got his arm
Steven won’t give his arm
To no gold star mother’s farm;
War’s good business so give your son
And I’d rather have my country die for me.

Sell your mother for a Hershey bar
Grow up looking like a car
There are so many of you;
All you want to do is live,
All you want to do is give but
Some how it all falls apart

For some time, I’ve admired the blogs other folks have set forth using this elegant and versatile format, and I thought, what the hell, give it a shot. So even though I’ve had a long-running blog on Livejournal and, for the past year, on MySpace, here we journey out into the great Internet wilderness, to endeavor, as have so many before us, to blather mindlessly on matters of no particular importance.

I’ll try and write. Promise.

First, an introduction. Writing should come fairly easy to me as, indeed, I’m a writer. I’m a recovering journalist, having put time in the automated deadlinemachine, but these days I try to stick to more respectable forms; hence, I’m a playwright. Clearly, I’m not in it for the money.

I kind of fell backwards into theatre, which is good because I probably would have run the other direction if I knew what I was getting into. At the time, I was writing fiction and came up against terrible writers block. So I was thumbing through this marvelous book of photographs by Richard Misrach called “Desert Cantos” and they seemed to suggest stories to me. Rather than write typical fiction, I decided to write first-person sketches, one for each picture. It was a great exercise, and I liked the result but didn’t know what to do with it. My mistake was taking it to a director friend and asking what he thought. “I think we should stage this,” he said.

And we did. In a Portland guerrilla art gallery on the fourth floor of a nearly condemned building, the tech for my first play consisted of two slide projectors and flashlights with colored gels taped to them. A bulb on one of the projectors burned out ten minutes before opening.

Nonetheless, people came, and I got a decent review which compared me to a young Sam Shepard, which still induces swooning. So I thought, what the hell, write something where people talk to each other. So I did, and “Bombardment” was the result. Stark Raving Theatre in Portland premiered it in 1991. We did pretty damn well with the audience, and the critics crucified–CRUCIFIED–us. A year later, “Bombardment” was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award, which taught me a great deal about the promise of theatre and the limitations of critics.

Now…what…17 years after the projector bulb burned out, I’ve written something like 30 plays, (if you count all the one-acts), had stuff produced internationally, had some great reviews (and some more not-so-great ones), been a finalist for the Oregon Book Award again, and recently broke the LORT glass ceiling. So maybe I won’t have to go back to journalism.

Still a goddamn newsy, though, so, in addition to theatre and art, I’ll probably blather on about politics and current events, especially as the election nears. For me, election time is like the World Series, Superbowl, and Calavaras Jumping Frog competition all rolled into one.

Welcome to the splattland….

Steve “splatt” Patterson