Kung Fu Evangelist

40 Years of New Year's Eves

2012-01-17T07:22:00.004-06:00

“Every man regards his own life as the New Year’s Eve of time.”

- Jean Paul Richter

Characters:

1 male. Un-named. Any age, so long as he portrays the transition from age 1 to age 40.

Note on the dialog:

The dialog includes the preceding numerals, for example “Nine. Dad, how come there’s another New Years Eve every year?”
_______________________________________________________

(announce) Forty years of New Year’s Eves!

1. (Infant in mother’s arms, noisily nursing. Drops bottle.) Waaa Waaa Waaa (Finds bottle and resumes nursing.)

2. Mama, Happa Noo Yoo! (baby kisses, nose rubbing, and giggles.) Happa Noo Yoo, Dada!

3. (trying to say it correctly, from memory) Mommy and Daddy, Happy New Year Eve. (blow kisses) I love you very very much. (curtsies)

4. Mom, watch! Mom! Dad! Watch me! (sings) Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never more to roam. Should old acquaintance, we forgot, (struggles to remember) and old lang zine! (end singing) Did you watch? Mom, did you see me? I’ll do it over again. Mom, watch!

5. Dad, what’s mistletoe for? (starts to cry) I don’t want to kiss a girl!

6. (playing with dolls) Happy New Year Eve to you, Barbie. You look so beautiful tonight in your long dress and high-heel-ded shoes. I want to kiss you on your boobies. Mwah! Why thank you, Ken. You look so handsome. You are the handsomest man in all the land. I want to kiss you on your pee pee. Mmm Ken…kiss kiss kiss.

7. New Year resolution? (looks to either parent) What’s a resolution mean? (Listens until it becomes clear. Starts to cry) But I don’t want to stop playing Barbies!

8. (playing with different dolls) Help! G.I. Joe, save me from evil Spiderman before it’s too late! Help! Don’t worry, Stretch-Arm-Strong, I’ll save you! Oh thank you, G.I. Joe. You saved my life. Now I have to show you my thanks. Mmm G.I. Joe…kiss kiss kiss. Yeah, Stretch-Arm-Strong, I like when you do that. Hi, I’m Spiderman. I’m not really evil. Can I thank you too, G.I. Joe?

9. Dad, how come there’s always another New Year's Eve every year? Isn’t every day the same? It’s lLike a birthday? Who’s birthday is it? The year’s birthday?? Oh. Is that why you always drink so much beer on New Year's Eve, like you do on my birthdays? I thought we were you was supposed to drink champagne on birthdays and New Year's? Then when will I be old enough?

10. Finally, I am old enough to stay up late and watch New Years Eve on television. In New York City. But their clock in New York is ahead 2 hours from New Orleans, so it’s really only 10 o’clock here. But that’s ok. It’s still later than I ever stay up, and I get to watch the ball drop. Dad let me sip my first taste of beer. He said pretend it was the champagne of beers. Ugh. If champagne tastes like Budweiser, I hate it. I never want to get drunk.

11. New Year’s resolution, I will never get stupid, falling down drunk like my dumb jerk dad, and then fight with my mom, and embarrass my son in front of all the neighbors. New Years Eve is supposed to be about starting over fresh. Not drowning disappointments in alcohol and acting all selfish, like an jackass. (looks out window) Terrific, now here comes the cops! Um..that cop looks kinda like G.I. Joe.

12. After that whole mess last year with my dad and the cops, it’s nice of your parents to let me sleep over for New Years Eve. I don’t know why my dad has to get so drunk every year. Like it’s our job to make him happy. He’s not happy, so everybody around him has to be un-happy too. New Years is dumb. I hate New Years Eve. Oh wait, turn up the TV, here it comes! Four…three…two…one! Happy New Year! (surprised by a kiss) Max! Boys don’t kiss boys! (but likes it)

13. (on the phone) Hey Max, what are you up to this fine New Years Eve? Nothing, me too. Yeah, my dad’s up to his usual. Mom’s all mad. Man, I really need a smoke. Well, just called to wish you Happy New Year Max. Wish I could come over there.

14. New Years resolution. I resolve to never smoke another cigarette. I mean it, Max! You are a bad influence on me. REAL bad. I mean, you’re my best friend and all. But, you know... Smoking’s bad and gives you lung cancer. And you smell. All in my clothes and my hair. Teeth look brown. (testing Max’s reaction) And no girls ever want to kiss you on New Years Eve.

15. (sigh) Wish Max still lived in New Orleans. Sucks his family had to move to Memphis. Now I’m stuck alone with my dumb family for another dumb New Years Eve. I should be out with my friends. Or a girlfriend, if I had one. (watches TV) Finally, here goes the ball. Four…three…two…one. (to no one) Happy New Year. Yeah. Whatever. Man, wish I had a smoke.

16. (writing in journal) Dear Future Reader, I write this New Year’s Eve journal entry to keep a record of myself for future eyes. I am only 16 years old, but know I will not live beyond the age of 30. Or rather I should say, I don’t want to.

After the epic life I will lead, why would I wish to watch my body become decrepit and my brain go senile at the age of 30. I mean, after I win both the National Book Award and Nobel Laureate for Literature—at age 25—what more is left to look forward to than decrepitude, senility, slow monotonous decomposition, and then finally, the grave. No no no! I resolve to spare myself that intolerable fate! On the Eve of the New Year when I am 30, at the stroke of midnight, I will commit ritualistic hippaku. Just like my heroine, Cho-Cho-San, I will plunge the hari-kari dagger deep into my gut. Only first, Future Reader, first I must find my own Lieutenant Pinkerton. My true love. Un bel di vedremo!

17. Hey. So your dad works with my dad? Michelle, right? Yeah, this party sucks, totally. New Year’s is for posers. I totally hate New Year’s Eve. Every year, the same crap. My dad gets super drunk, mom gets all mad, and then they fight. One year the cops came and…what? Mistletoe? (looks up) Oh right, mistletoe. (nervous) Who put that up there? Ha. Um, yeah totally, I kiss girls all the time! Who says I’m Gay? Your dad too? Well, that’s not true. Here, let us just step under this mistletoe right now, and I will show you who’s Gay. (kisses girl. Doesn’t like it.)

18. (on the phone) Hi Michelle, I know it’s almost Midnight. Sorry to call you just before the ball drops. You can get back to the TV in a sec. Oh, my New Years is going ok. Sorry I couldn’t come over to your house.

Look, here’s the thing. You’ve been a great girlfriend this whole last year of high school. But…I wanna break up. Sorry, Michelle, sorry. Please don’t cry. I know it’s New Years Eve. I feel like a total jerk. But we’re both 18 now, both moving on. Graduated from high school, going away to different colleges. I’m going to Tulane. You’re going to Loyola.

Virginity? Michelle, you know I am saving myself for my wedding night. I told you I am not Gay! I wish people would stop saying that! Look, I know you’re sad because I’m dumping you and all on New Year’s Eve. It’s a crap-tacular thing to do. Truly, I do have feelings for you, Michelle. We will always be good friends. But New Years is all about new beginnings, fresh starts. And this year, I’m ready to start fresh.

19. Ah 19! My first New Year’s Eve as an adult, living in a dorm room, away from my crap-tacular family. Woo frickin’ hoo! So whad’ya say, Michael, how ‘bout you and I share this bottle of cheap-ola champagne, maybe light some candles? So what about the rules? What’s a few candles? It’s not like you and I are a fire hazard. Come on, Michael. It’s New Years Eve, we’re in college, we have champagne and candles. Why don’t we experiment a little…?

20. (talking to self in hand mirror) Two entire decades of my life are over, and Middle Age soon approaches. This is a good time to take stock. On this 20^th New Year, this new beginning, I resolve to myself to be honest with myself about what I truly am. Who I truly am.

21. (back against the wall of a crowded bar) My first New Year’s Eve inside a real Gay bar! Finally, I’m legal. Gay bars must card everybody. (take in the place) This is cool. Lights. Music. Kinda crowded. Lot of hot guys. Hi. Hot guys are staring at me. Hi. God, I feel like fresh meat tossed into the lion’s den.

Oh hi, yeah, Happy New Year’s to you too! No, I’m here alone. Sure, I love champagne. But I’d prefer a screw…driver! (giggles like a fool until surprised by a kiss!) Oh my god. I am totally getting kissed by a HOT guy on New Year’s Eve! His face is so CUTE! And his cock! I can totally feel his bulge through his jeans. Yup, I am going for it. Totally. Anything he wants, he can have it. I will give it all up. This guy is the perfect guy for me. We totally have got to become boyfriends!

22. (sitting at the bar) No, I hate New Years. Last year on New Year’s Eve, at this very same bar in fact, I met this total dickhead. Totally. Yeah, we dated a few times. Mostly we just fucked. He fucked me. Gave me my first STD. Scabies. Said he got ‘em from his cat! Scabies! What a dumb-ass dickhead. I rode the streetcar all the way downtown to the Parish STD clinic, got this prescription for Quell, and had to use this little nit-comb.

Whoops, too much information, right? Ha. I’m a little drunk. Hell, it’s New Years Eve! They also made me take this blood test. Well they didn’t make me. I just thought it was a good idea, under the circumstances, you know? Everything checks out OK, totally! But God, I felt like I dodged a bullet. You can see why I am not too eager to repeat last New Year’s Eve.

So, you wanna leave here, maybe just hang out together at my place? I live nearby. Uh, sure, I have Beta-Max. Straight porn?! Uh, ok, if you bring one over. I only have Gay stuff. But really I was hoping we could just watch a romantic comedy, put up our feet, eat some popcorn, snuggle on the couch… Sure, we can stop by the video store on the way. (sigh) Ok, you pick out the video.

23. (writing in journal) Dear Future Reader, finally, at the ripe age of 23, I have found True Love, my own Lieutenant Pinkerton, the man I have sought my whole long life. One year ago tonight, on New Year’s Eve, I met Mark, the man of my dreams. And I will never feel lonely again. Mark and I are soul-mates, even though we see each other only once every couple weeks or sometimes only once a month. Mark is a very busy man, a travelling salesman.

Midnight marks our one year anniversary. And although I drink alone tonight, I toast the anniversary for us both. After this blissful year, I have finally come to understand the meaning of “long-term relationship”, how love deepens over time. When we’re together, Mark and I can be truly honest with each other, really communicate. And he matches me passion for passion in the bedroom, on the couch, in the tub, or my favorite, the step-stool in the kitchen. With a love this strong, I know that Mark and I will always be together.

24. (on the phone) Thanks for the invite, Michelle, but this year I think I’ll just stay home. Yeah, a mellow New Year for me. That’s ok every now and then. No, I’m fine. Really. Ok, I do get a little bluesy around New Years Eve. It was our anniversary, after all. Yes, it has been six months, but I am not ready to move on yet. Yes! I know Mark is married…to a woman. But if I have gained any wisdom in my 24 years on this Earth, it is that booty got its own logic.

And besides, you and I both know the grieving process lasts as long as the relationship did. You’re sweet. I never got over you too, Sugar. But really, Mark and I were together a year-and-a-half. Shut up, we were TOGETHER for a year and a half! You think I can just get over a long-term relationship like that overnight? We’ve only been broken up six months. I still have a whole year more of grieving ahead of me before I move on.

I am not being operatic! Well you can stop worrying about me, I am fine. I am not Cho-Cho San. I am not going to commit hari-kari. Alright, I promise! I resolve that I will not prank call Mark’s wife…again. Don’t judge me. Look, I will stay home and be a good boy and drink this bottle of champagne all by myself. Then this bottle of Jack Daniels. And maybe I’ll try to write something.

25. (slurry drunk at the bar) This year I am treating myself like I deserve. That’s right, this year I am totally (trying to quit saying that word) only drinking the best! Champagne and Jack Daniels cocktails. (kick it back, then order another in a Frenchie accent) Mon ami, un autre Jacques Dani-el! My New Year’s resolution? (raises glass) I am totally going to stop saying totally!

26. (talking to self in the mirror) Well, I did not win the National Book Award nor the Nobel Laureate for Literature last year. Nor did I meet the man of my dreams. Thought I did for like a minute, but no, that turned out to be a crock. And now I am 26! All I have left to look forward to is decrepitude, senility, and even more loneliness. Who’s gonna love me when I’m old? Shit. Fuck New Years.

27. My New Years resolution. I am totally (sick of always saying that word) going to cut back my smoking to a pack a day.

28. (on the phone, drunk, smoking) Yes, I am drunk-n-dialing you at (check wall clock) 3am. But I just wanted to call you up, Michelle, and apologize for breaking up with you that crap-tacular way on New Years Eve. Shut up. You were a really really great girlfriend in high school and you have been my best friend every since and you didn’t (hic) deserve... No, no I am fine. Just a bit tipsy, iz’all. It’s New frickin fuckin Years Eve! You’s s’posed to get bit tipsy! But look Michelle, I just wanna say I am sorry. And I love you. And uh…Happy New Year. (singing) Should old acquaintance be forgot…

29. (pacing, reasoning with self in the living room) Think this year it’s a good idea for me to try a sober New Years Eve, for a change. No drunky mess. No picking up strange guys in backroom bars. No late night drunk-n-dialing. No anxious expectations getting me all worked up, then letting me down. Geez, I do not have to kiss someone at midnight! That’s my whole problem. I get so worked up over a stupid kiss. Like I’ll be lonely my whole life if I don’t get that damn kiss. I’m lonely anyway. What’s a kiss got to do with it?

30. (writing in journal) So according to another journal entry I wrote when I was 16, on the New Year’s Eve that I am 30, I am supposed to commit suicide, ritualistic hippaku, like Cho-Cha San from Madame Butterfly. I’m supposed to plunge a hari-kari dagger deep into my gut, because my true love has abandoned me. And the language I used when I was 16! Talk about operatic!

But no, don’t think I’ll be doing that after all. I want to live, damn it. Life can be operatic, for sure, but there’s still plenty of life left for me before I slide into decrepitude and senility. At age 40. Yeah, kinda liking this 30 thing. I mean, what’s 30 years old? Just one more decade. 30. That’s alright. 30 is not Middle Aged, except in Gay years. But I look great. My face is holding out. My ass is…(check ass) well, my face is holding out! Hmm, a New Year’s resolution…? I really should quit smoking two packs a day. Cigarettes gives you wrinkles.

31. Oh God, I want a cigarette so bad! I spent the entire last year trying to quit smoking, but after all the headaches and the constipation!, I still crave cigarettes! Plus I got fat! Why didn’t somebody tell me the food cravings would be so bad? Basically, I just built myself an igloo out of chocolate bars, and then for 6 months ate my way out. Fatty fatty Bumba-latty, who would kiss you on New Year’s Eve? Ugh. Think I’ll sit this one out, on my fat ass.

32. (slurry drunk at the bar) My New Year’s resolution? No more boys under 30! They rush off when they’re finished with you, and they don’t like to kiss. How old are you? Do you like to kiss?

33. Nobody to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. AGAIN. (sigh) Oh Hello! Hot Daddy at 5 o’clock. Fuh-ine! Hey, Happy Near Year, Handsome! Mitchell? Kiss me under the mistletoe, Mitchell. Just kidding. Not really. Ha. Oh yeah, I totally love New Year’s Eve too. Totally! The whole tradition. Champagne. Mistletoe. Kissing. But you know what I heard? Mistletoe is really a weed, an invasive weed that grabs ahold then strangles the life out of its host. Ha. (slow kiss) Ah, the New Year’s Eve kiss is just so magical. Like, we are destined to become husbands!

34. (on cell phone) Michelle, oh my god! Have I got a HOT boyfriend on New Year’s Eve! Finally! Woo fuckin’ Hoo! No need to worry anymore about who I’m gonna kiss at midnight. Nope, those pathetic, desperate, loser New Years are far behind me. Auld Lang Sine. (singing) And never more to roam! (speaking again) Michelle, we are true soul mates, Mitchell and I, husbands, and happier than I ever thought…hey, who’s that pretty boy Mitchell’s talking to over there? Seems I’ve seen them talking before. Hmmm..best go bust that up. It’s almost midnight. The ball is about to drop. Gotta-go-Honey-Happy-New-Year-love-ya-bye!

35. Who breaks up with their boyfriend on New fucking Year fucking Eve, Mitchell?! I do not strangle you! Mistletoe? Ha Ha very funny, asshole. You’re leaving me for that rent-boy you met LAST New Year’s Eve, aren’t you? Did you bring some disease into this family? All you ever do is let me down! (Mitchell leaves) Mitchell, I’m sorry. Come back!

36. Fuck resolutions.

37. (Sitting in lotus pose. Sigh.) I feel calmer already. This was an excellent idea. The best New Year’s Eve idea I have had yet. Zen meditation on New Year’s Eve, followed by Pranayama breath work and then chanting. And at the stroke of midnight? Nothing more than a little brass gong to mark the transition. No drunken craziness, no drama, no mess, no kiss. And no cigarettes! Just deep-breathing, letting go of all the crap-tacular, fucked-up stuff that happened to me this last year. So screw you, Mitchell. Ha.

What’s that, Sensei? Oh right, ok yes, clear my mind. No thoughts. (deep inhale and release) I am not thinking of you. Not thinking of you.

38. Hmmm…what about the Rawhide? God, am I really so desperate that I need to resort to that? The backroom at the Rawhide on New Year’s Eve? And then afterwards the self-loathing. And the panic! Ugh. Stay home! Don’t get drunk. I will not get drunk. (sigh) It’s been 2 years since I quit smoking, but I still want a god-damn cigarette. Shit, guess I’ll always have cravings. Maybe I should try to write something tonight.

39. I should write something tonight. Why would I even want to go out? Out again into that drunken melee, searching for easy love or just more risky, meaningless sex. I feel safer at home, away from the callous world. Alone, private, safe. Quiet. Tonight, I am resolved to write.

40. ENOUGH already! God, I HATE New Year’s Eve! Every fucking year, the same self-centered, self-created, self-inflicted distress. I’m 40! Time to stop doing this to myself. Stop the cycle! Go out or don’t go out. Kiss somebody or don’t kiss somebody. Kiss yourself, give yourself a big fat hug, then JUST LET IT GO!

(Break the 4^th wall) If New Year’s Eve has got to symbolize anything, instead of loneliness or selfishness or pettiness or addiction or craving, let New Years symbolize change. Transitioning from one place in life to a better place. From the cold of winter to the blossoming of Spring. Everybody deserves a fresh start.

This past year, I’ve been writing a lot, every day almost. Writing helps me figure stuff out. Like, a new year is really just a blank page. We get to write whatever we want on it. And this New Year’s Eve, my 40th, I’m starting a brand new story.

Quick fade out.

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2011-05-06T11:02:00.003-05:00

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Hamlet, for a Queer Aye

2011-01-24T22:44:00.005-06:00

CHARACTERS

Hamlet, prince of Denmark, 20 to 35

Horatio, Hamlet’s best friend, 20 to 35

Fortinbras, prince of Norway, 20 to 35, a very large man

TIME

Medieval. 1200^th year of our Lord.

SETTING

Elsinore castle in Denmark, Throne room, scene of a bloody massacre. Dead bodies are imagined in specific locations. A chalice containing a single large pearl or gaudy ring is positioned prominently Downstage.

MATERIALS

Chalice

Large single white pearl or gaudy ring

Bloody sword

Bugle or horn

Hamlet V, ii

(HAMLET staggers on, bloody sword in hand)

HAMLET

O proud death,

That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast strook!

HORATIO

(enters smiling)

Aye, tis such a pity. Left standing here is only me

And you, Prince Hamlet, of late, king of Denmark. (kneels)

HAMLET

No, bosom friend, arise! Something is rotten in the state

of Denmark. Horatio, how comes it now to pass

That so many noble princes are dead?

(points to the imaginary dead, as Horatio indicates dislike for each of them)

Too-too-proud Laertes, who like you

was a brother unto me.

Claudius, uncle and would-be king.

And my own mother, gentle Gertrude…

HORATIO

(coughs into hand) Slattern!

HAMLET

What?

HORATIO

O nothing.

HAMLET

May God show mercy upon her soul.

And that old fool Polonius too?

HORATIO

Aye. Even Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.

HAMLET

Who?

HORATIO

(gently takes sword from Hamlet) Shhhh…thinketh not upon it.

HAMLET

What, the fair Ophelia! Drown’d!

I lov’d Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make up my sum.

HORATIO

Whatever.

HAMLET

Horatio, how comes it now that all this death

is visited upon Elsinore?

HORATIO

(beat) O, I killed them. Uh huh. I killed all of them. For you, bosom friend. (takes Hamlet’s hands) For us.

HAMLET

O horror! O treason! O Horatio!

I would not hear your enemy say so,

Nor shall you do my ear that violence

To make truster of your own report

Against yourself. Why sayest thou these infernal lies??

HORATIO

Lies? Hamlet, everybody knoweth that which we are

that which we have always been

inside the other’s heart. Bosom friend?

How now Hamlet, have you forgot me?

Forgot how gaily did we play as youth.

Forgot the romantic plays you once wrote for me,

Romeo and Horatio? Hamlet and Juliet?

Ah you always did love theater!

Forgot how we shared but a single bed

in our dorm room back at Wittenberg? College, Hamlet!

HAMLET

(chokes) Friend, I thought that we were…I mean…

Aye! like unto brothers! Unburdening the other’s load,

simply lending a hand.

HORATIO

(points sword at Hamlet)

O I see! So thou didst believe that merely because

my name rhymeth with felatio that I…

HAMLET

Horatio! Brother!

The dead people…?

HORATIO

O! Aye, I killed them all Hamlet.

Your slattern mother and treacherous uncle-father,
I mean, how weird is that?

And that entire Polonius clan, scheming to wed the

hussy daughter onto the throne of Denmark!

Ophelia, O I am so fwagile. I am cwazy!

“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”

That wing-nut needed but the barest push to tumble

headlong into the brook .

And her brother, the noble Laertes?
That Mary wanted you for herself!

But I don’t know why I killed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

HAMLET

Who?

HORATIO

Nevermindeth. I killed them Hamlet. Sweet prince,

now made Denmark’s rightful king.

HAMLET

But why, Horatio?

HORATIO

Because the king is law. Because as king,

you have the power to legalize same-sex union,

that forthwith two men in love may wed in nuptial bliss.

And about time too! We are nigh upon the year 1200!

And then, you and I will live as husband and… er…

as King and…Royal Consort!

Everyone who stood in our way…in your way…is dead.

HAMLET

But how comes it that noble Laertes is killed?

We did but duel in sport, and I but scratched his arm.

HORATIO

Unbated and envenomed was your blade.

Thou knowest that I prefer thy blade unbated.

HAMLET

(fades into a trance or the onset of seizure) O what a rogue and peasant slave am I…

HORATIO

O boy! Please, retreat not into soliloquy.

Enough of your endless self-analysis and internal dialog!

To whom do you speak Hamlet? There is but you!

And I. Come back to me sweet prince, back to Elsinore,

And for once in your life maketh a God damn-ned decision!

HAMLET

But Horatio…what is the question?

HORATIO

To be…King and Royal Consort! That is the question!

(Hamlet is indecisive, but then roars and tries to attack Horatio, who defends himself with Hamlet’s own sword)

HAMLET

(Disgusted, Hamlet rejects Horatio and exits nauseated)
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt!

HORATIO

Try burning a faggot underneath you!

(military horn)

What warlike noise is this? (looks out window)

Ah ha! Prince Fortinbras of Norway,

with conquest come from Poland,

To th’ ambassadors of England gives this warlike volley.

FORTINBRAS

(runs onstage)

Where is this sight?

HORATIO

What is it you would see, Lord Fortinbras?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

(smitten with Fortinbras, who is a very large man) Whoa!

FORTINBRAS

O proud death,

That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast strook!

HORATIO

Yes, yes, yes. Hamlet said that already.

(admires Fortinbras)

Fortinbras, lend me an ear? A question.

If, say, the entire royal family of Denmark has died

Of carnal, bloody, unnatural acts,

Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,

Of deaths put on by cunning and force’d cause,

Would not you be next in succession to the crown?

FORTINBRAS

I do have some rights of memory in this kingdom.

Have they died?

HORATIO

Aye, all save Hamlet. (flirts with Fortinbras)

Whereupon Fortinbras arrived, your soldiers flush with conquest,

standing without the gates of unprotected Elsinore.

If the entire royal family dies, heir to Norway

could also king of Denmark be.

FORTINBRAS

(shrugs off Horatio’s flirtation)

How can this to be accomplished when Hamlet still lives?

History would call Fortinbras an assassin.

HORATIO

History is written by those who live.

Give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the view,

And let Me speak to th’ yet unknowing world

How these things came about. So shall you hear

How the “mad prince” of Denmark, known to be prone to bouts

Of Melancholia, did put on an antic disposition, (pantomimes “mad prince”)

causing death unto all these royal princes.

And how sadly, his own tragic death followed hard upon,

(offers Hamlet’s sword to Fortinbras)

by an unbated and envenomed blade.

And just in case, (wrestles chalice from dead Queen’s hand)

…Slattern…also by poisonous cup!

FORTINBRAS

(considers Hamlet’s sword like a cross)

Let us haste to hear more,

And call the noblest to the audience.

HORATIO

And how the handsome Prince Fortinbras, entered upon this tragic scene

But O! too late to prevent massacre. And therefore,

by hereditary right claimed you the throne of Denmark.

(kneels)

And how nobly did you reign. (arises)

Uh, with your loyal, Royal Consort beside you?

FORTINBRAS

(beat) For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. (strokes Horatio’s face, causing Horatio's knees to buckle)

Which now to claim (takes up Hamlet’s sword)

my vantage doth invite me.
(Exits in same direction as Hamlet, but turning back, pantomimes that he intends to kill Horatio too when he is done, which Horatio does not see)

HORATIO

(Delighted, almost drinks from poison chalice, but stops himself. From chalice, fingers out the ring, examines it)

Ah, sweet prince, good night. (puts rings on finger)

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

(Exits with poison chalice, following after Fortinbras and Hamlet)

The End

Ought To Bees

2010-11-26T12:23:00.048-06:00

I hate the Ought-to-bees! Church folk at Belle Chasse Baptist always talk about how I ought to be. Like, “You ought to be a better role model.” Half of them think I really am a role model! Like, they pray their kids turn out just like me and hold me up for an example. You know their kids hate me for that. Shuh! And other half? They call me a problem child in need of better home training. Whatever!

It is so hard being the Pastor’s daughter. Like, it’s hard just to make friends my own age. Take Shane Guidry. I mean, we are friends. I just wish we could be better friends. Shane Guidry is smart, like me. At Christian school, we’re both way ahead of everybody else in our workbooks. And Shane's always neat. He keeps his shoes as clean as his Bible. But even though we’re friends, still, he’s kinda stand-offish.

Or take that Vardimin Huckabee. Puh-lease! I trust Vardimin Huckabee about as far as I can throw him. And that ain’t far. Ok, there was this one time I thought we might date, but that was a whole year ago! I was twelve! No uh-uh, not anymore. Vardimin’s mean. He always did play too rough. Like this one time, when we was all seven-years-old—that was our first year at Christian school—Vardimin Huckabee put sand inside my panties. Boy, was my mama mad! Everybody was in trouble with Mama that day. Even my daddy was in trouble. And he’s the Pastor! Oh, Mama was all shouting about “boys need better male role models!” So whatever was going on between Vardimin and Shane, I know it’s rough. And I just think, well, Shane has had enough rough in his lifetime already.

I mean, I already know the truth about Shane, despite all my protestations to Daddy, Mama, or anybody else at Belle Chasse Baptist. Oh I can still hear Sister Charlotte Purtell—she’s my mama’s best friend—teasing me, "A pastor’s daughter ought to be selective about whom she chooses for her first beau," she says. "How ‘bout that cute little Brother Shane?” She looked at the other church women and laughed. “I hear tell he’s a faerie nice guy!" Sister Charlotte’s sense of humor really sets my teeth on edge. She always teases me like that, boyfriend jokes, in front of other church women whenever Mama's not in earshot. 'Sides, there's nobody at Belle Chasse Baptist I want for a first beau.

So I nurtured my suspicion about Shane and Vardimin all last semester at Christian school. And then, when it was time for Spring term crawfish boil, I confronted him. I don’t know where I got the gall, maybe it was adrenaline, but I dragged Shane into the church side-yard where I could ask him privately about what was up with Vardimin. “Are y'all sexual?”

Shane denied it, vehemently, but eventually he broke down, all harried by my persistance. I get that complaint a lot. But finally, Shane confided the truth to me. “Don’t tell your daddy!” he begs, all panic-stricken. Like, why would I tell my daddy?

So I don’t know, maybe it was adrenaline, but I just asked him outright, “Shane, does your father ever beat you up?” I mean, Shane always seems so scared, like he winces whenever church men shout "Amen!" too loud. But my friend would not even answer that question at all. Clamped shut his jaw. I stood by and watched the vision in Shane Guidry's hazel-green eyes turn inside. I tapped his shoulder. “Bubba, what is it?”

Well once I got at home, I decided to talk to my daddy, the Pastor, anyhow. I changed out from my good Sunday jumper my mama made me, and put on a boy’s tank top and culottes. Daddy doesn’t like me to wear tank tops; but Mama says it’s ok because I haven’t developed my boobies yet.

Then I tip-toed into Daddy’s private retreat, his sanctuary, his home office in the tool shed. I felt just like Queen Esther, fearfully entering the court of King Ahasereus in order to save my people. I guess it was adrenaline. Cuz with the same gall I had confronted Shane about his father, I now beseeched my own father to intercede on Shane’s behalf.

Daddy was leaning sideways in his office chair, the one with the missing wheel. His big head cocked to the side listening to me in disbelief like I was Balaam’s talking donkey. And when I finished talking, Daddy just shook his big head slowly side-to-side. “That Shane Guidry,” he says, “sure is one confused young fella.”

But I blurted out in Shane’s defense, "You would be confused too if your father hid behind the door when you got home from Christian school and surprised you with a weight lifting belt!"

Daddy sat bolt upright, despite his leaning chair. “Now Sharon Rose Buchanan,” he tells me, “Brother Guidry is just more strict as a parent than me or Mama. Some parents use corporal punishment to teach their kids right behavior. That is their prerogative. But you and your brother Bobby, y'all never get spanked. Mama and me don’t believe in corporal punishment. So of course you think spanking is abuse.”

Prerogative? Shuh! I knew better than that. “A weight lifting belt?! I know what that’s called!” I was just besides myself, trying not to cry. “Daddy, I’m scared for my friend. Can’t you do nothing?”

“Like what could I do?,” he says. Daddy seemed harried by my persistence too.

I faked a smile, holding back my tears. “You’re the Pastor," I said. "You influence people. You could talk to Brother Guidry?” Underneath my fake smile though, I prayed Daddy would see the real distress I felt for my friend. I wanted him to pull me by the waist into a hug like when I was a little girl.

But he didn’t do that. Daddy didn’t hug me. He just thought for a while. “I tell you what," he finally says, "here’s what I will do. I will write a Bible study for this Wednesday night, explore the topic of corporal punishment, using scripture.”

I wailed. "Spare the rod?!"

“Yes!” Daddy says, definitely harried. “But other scripture too, like provoke not thy child to wrath. I will debate the topic of corporal punishment from the pulpit, both sides, with scripture. Try to set some reasonable boundaries.”

I winced at my own gall. “Will you mention the weight lifting belt?” Even Mama knows to back down when Daddy has that look in his eyes, like King Ahasereus, or Moses.

Through tight jaws and clenched teeth, my father just says to me, “I will be very, very clear, my dear." And then, he turned me around by my shoulders, pointed me out the exit of the tool shed, and swatted my butt.

Shuh!

Well I’m thirteen now. And maybe I don’t always know how things ought to be. And maybe I never will become the best role model in the land. But I do know one thing for sure, that's how to be a good friend. And right about now, I think Shane Guidry sure could use a friend.

The Final .2 Miles

2010-09-30T10:37:00.020-05:00

This is a newer draft of a poem I began during National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) in April. You can see an earlier draft in the blog entries below. This poem still needs work, but it's approaching what I intend:

The Final .2 Miles

The modern marathon is more than 26 miles long.

It is 26.2, to be precise. The .2 added

because a young queen wanted to greet the runners

of the first modern marathon at the ornate gates of Buckingham palace.

Flash-forward 50 years. Hawaii,
inside the chain-link fence enclosing Moana Loa shopping center.

where 26 thousand anxious runners are lining up in the pre-morning dark of pre-morning,
hopping in place or rolling shoulders

under the tendrils of falling sky flowers, the opening ceremonial fireworks.

Speeches I do not hear, crunching my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,

happy in my selection of moisture-wicking socks.

My feet fall into that familiar rhythm that I recognize from training.

When all of a suddenly, that shoeless Ethiopian who soon will win the race,

is already returnsing in the opposite direction, already at the mile 20 marker (for him)

grinning as he passes, his bare feet flapping on the sticky blacktop.

But Yet for me, yet, are two times over Diamond Head, our only hill,
a volcano really, and then an the eternal stretch of featureless sky and Pali Highway and sky.

Porta-potty stops, more water and , more Cheerios.

Beide the Pali Highway, Llocal Hawaiians cheer us on., handing us banana halves and cups.

Someone hands me half of a banana.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner

up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind,

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.

Hours later, my turn finally arrives to pass that mile 20 marker for myself,

Momentary elation and relief are swallowed by the realization
of not jut 6 more miles to run, but 6.2.

of 6.2 miles yet to go. And then at mile 26, still another .2 miles!

But everything I had apportioned out to sustain me over 26 miles,

is used up already, good intentions long-since gone,
both water bottles empty. All my Cheerios are consumed.

Physical stamina? Depleted; and I run solely on emotional energy now,
and that too wanes. My stomach, painfully bloated, sloshes with its own acids.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner
up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind,

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.

But the rubber band, or my imagination, stretched beyond the limit,
snaps. And I am hurtled backward by impact with The Wall.
My left IT band is tearing away from the knee.

What fuel is left that I can use?

A whisper, the slightest suggestion inside me: Rage?
Oh right. Raging against the dying of the light!

So many times in my life before, rage has served me well.

Can rage carry me now, over what feels like
the final .2 miles of life?

Because I am finishing this race! I have traveled too far--
600 miles in training and then 2 separate jets!
I endured the headaches and Plantar Fasciitis,

low blood sugar depressions, and the body certainty
that long distance goals are really short distance goals
when taken daily, one step, and then the next.

Yes, rage! Even if I drag my bloody stump

across that line, I will finish strong. I am a Finisher.

Although, I have not finished yet. I still earn
every painful step of those final .2 miles

before I will be greeted at the scrolling gate of an eternally ancient queen.

The marathon extends beyond my reach. But I know that sometimes

just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.

Genius in My Livingroom

2010-08-01T15:23:00.014-05:00

Publication, it would seem, is a secondary concern

that a writer should consider only after
actually writing.

But validation, admiration, respect?

I mean, how long must I remain content

just a genius in my living room?

And love? Who does not want love?

But if love can be won, I haven't won it yet.

Validation, yes, some respect, and even admiration.

Plus head-wagging a-plenty. But love?
Really, I should look elsewhere.

Validation, admiration, and respect then.

To feel a part Of It All.

Not just feel, but to believe it.

To sit, crowded at the table with the other
VIPs, the other hungry young celebrities,
all of us scanning the ballroom, looking outward

instead of in, anxious to see and be seen, anxious
to feel Chosen, for someone to call

our names.

On Bayou Lafitte

2010-07-02T12:12:00.010-05:00

The floating lands, folded by a storm surge,

rebounded with tides too saline

for Giant Blue Irises to thrive.

Yet these blue tenacious flowers do survive,

roots clutching at the certainty that change

is the nature of Nature, and that
even Giant Blue Irises can rebound.

Musical Debut

2010-06-07T12:30:00.002-05:00

Tonight is Dress Rehearsal for "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the Musical". This show marks my musical theater debut in New Orleans, this coming Friday night. I'm excited and proud to have come this far. Dress Rehearsal. I expect things to be harried and confused tonight, but overall very well-done. We've rehearsed our songs, practiced our set changes, lighting cues, and choreography. We're in good shape.

Me, I'm in good shape too. Dancing does wonders for my body and stamina. I feel pretty good. And proud to say I'm hanging in there with REAL dancers, some in their late teens. Fortunately, there are 2 levels of choreography in the show: REAL dancer choreography and simplified, mostly upstage in the back choreography for me and the other singer/actors. I rely on my female dance partners to guide me around, signal the next change, and maintain tempo. But otherwise, I'm DANCIN'!! In a show! Not bad for 42 years old.

There's a poem about the experience of dancing starting to form...

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 4

2010-04-22T09:43:00.017-05:00

A poem a day is a chore, but overall, I'm happy with my progress. Even on days when I do not publish a poem, my mind is writing.

If you are reading this on Facebook, my revisions make a lot more sense on the actual blog (http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com) where you can see the colors at work. Bold white text is the original impulse on a particular day. Green text is revised after the first day. Gray text is deleted.

DAY 7

DAY 6

DAY 5

cloud of Sweet Olive

DAY 4

change is the nature
of Nature

DAY 3 ~ Bayou Lafitte

The floating lands,

folded by a storm surge,

return rebounded with tides too saline

for gGiant bBlue iIrises
to thrive

And yet they Yet these tenacious flowers
do survive, roots
clutching to the certainty knowledge that
change is the nature
of Nature

And that Giant Blue Irises
can also rebound.

DAY 2

DAY 1

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 3

2010-04-15T16:47:00.039-05:00

Week 2 started strong, but then seriously dropped off. The poems were longer, more noticeably structured, and located firmly in New Orleans, sights and recent experiences. But then, nothing. Or perhaps I should say, too much. Too many thoughts swirling inside my head like a carousel, but no gold ring to grab hold of. It's times like these when my pocket-size notebooks are really handy to jot down snippets.

DAY 7 ~ Genius in My Living Room

How long can I be content
being just a genius
in my living room?

I know, pPublication
is a secondary concern for writers
after writing.
But validation, admiration, respect?
Love? Who doesn't want love?

But if love can be won,

I haven't won it yet.
Plenty of admiration though,
some respect, more copious eEncouragement, yes,

some respect, and even admiration. And yes
a bit of plenty of head-wagging.
But love? Really
I should look elsewhere.

Validation, admiration, respect...

To feel a part Of It All.
Not just feel it, but believe it.
To look outward
instead of
in.
CTo sit, crowded at the table with the other VIPs

with the the other, hungry young celebrities, all of us
scanning the ballroom, looking outward

instead of in, anxious to see

and be seen, anxious for someone to call

our names.

DAY 6

DAY 5

DAY 4 ~ The Final .2 Miles

A marathon is more than 26 miles long.
To be precise, it's 26.2. The .2 added
because a young queen wanted to greet
runners of the first modern marathon runners
at the gates of her palace.

At the line-up there are 26 thousand
of us, hopping in place with excitement,
under the falling sky flowers
of the opening ceremonial fireworks.
Speeches I don't hear. I eat
my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,
happy with my selection of moisture-wicking socks,
my feet falling into that pleasing rhythm
I recognize from training, when that barefoot Ethiopian
who soon will win won the race was is already returning,
grinning as he passesd me in the opposite direction,
flat feet flapping on the blacktop.

And when I finally see saw that 26 mile
marker for myself, my momentary upsurge of pride,
elation, and relief was are swallowed
by the realization of .2 miles
yet to go!. Oh no!

But everything I brought
to sustain me for 26 miles
I had have used up already,
all my good intentions gone,
both water bottles empty, and I had
consumed every bite-sized bit of energy bar
consumed, plus and all the Cheerios.

My physical stamina was is long-since depleted,
and I ran run solely on emotional energy now,
and that too wanes. was waning. fast

My right IT band was is tearing away
from the knee, and my stomach was is
painfully bloated painfully. What fuel was is left
that I could can use?

A tiny voice inside me whispers, Rage?.
Yes, of course, why not rage against the dying light?.
Like so many other times before, Wwhen all else fails me,
rage can carryiesd me over what felt feels like
the final .2 miles of my life.
Whatever works.

No one can ever take that away what I have accomplished
so far, from me, nor the understanding body certainty
that long distance goals
are really short distance goals
when taken daily, further divisible into
one step at a time, and then
the next.

I have am not finished yet. I earned am still earning
every painful step of these final .2 miles
before I can be greeted at the queen's gate of an ancient queen.
I still run the marathon, and know that sometimes
just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.

DAY 3

DAY 2

DAY 1

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 2

2010-04-08T10:52:00.025-05:00

I've never written so much poetry at once, not even in creative retreat. I'm more-or-less thrilled with the 7 poems I've written so far. All 7 are in various degrees of first-draftness, but some have potential for further development--after this break-neck pace is over.

Ok, week 2. Inhale. Here goes...

DAY 7
turning tide

DAY 6

DAY 5

DAY 4

DAY 3 ~ French Quarter Fest
Sexy, sexy people
and not so sexy people
dancing, nodding,
rocking side-to-side,
snapping, clapping, or doing
the Funky Butt

to a kind of musical hybrid
that can flourish only
in New Orleans:
calliope and the Blues,
Zydeco Bounce,
or the world's premier trio
of steel guitar, sousaphone,
and washboard.

Salt peanuts for sale
or a painted face.
Let's catch that crawfish
eating competition
and then grab a beer~always
a Big Ass beer.

Grateful for sunglasses
dimming the glare
off of the river
but regretting the lack
of sunscreen. Oh well,
you'll look luminous
dancing tonight.

DAY 2
What use are empty hands?

Better for clawing digging up through soil.
No premature graves for me!

Better for cupping water
to my thirsty lips.

Better for reaching out holding hands
with to someone else.

Better for touching,
catching,
pushing, throwing
pulling,
and holding myself together.

Better Good for waving goodbye.
Best for caressing!

DAY 1 ~ Where the Industrial Canal Meets the River
At the point
where waters merge,
green grapples brown,
and breezes buffet my
face and body on all
sides at once.

On the water side, the levee
slopes down to rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.
Foolish kings. Water will
have its way.

But on the levee's
grassy side, the pom-pom heads
of clover, grown high, nod
vigorously with the winds
like a million angels dancing.

And in between both sides,
lies a middle path
paved in broken oyster shells,
bumpy on my bike, and narrow,
though seldom straight.

NaPoWriMo ~ Week 1

2010-04-01T09:45:00.043-05:00

April is National Poetry Writing Month, and I'm participating in a nationwide group write: a poem a day for the next 30 days. Hmm... Sounds intimidating. But here I am, tossing my hat into the ring. Check this blog now and then, http://kungfuevangelist.blogspot.com

Text color indicates work in progress. White text is the original impulse for a particular day. Gray/black text is a deletion. And green text is new since the original impulse.

DAY 7
Where waters merge
green meets brown,
and the breeze buffets
my face and body
from all sides at once.

Clumps of clover grown high
on the incline of the levee
shudder, but on the water side
are rocks
clashing like Caligula
with the tide.

Foolish king.
Water will have its way.

DAY 6
Whispering begins in the raffia friction
of last year's fronds, stubbornly refusing
to fall from the tallest palms.

Then bamboo rustles her taffeta leaves
as the pipes that dangle from the eaves
begin to chime.

Wind animates them all,
with desire
at the roots of everything.

Why then should I let go of desire, let go
of it all~to crossover into Nirvana
or some other sweet oblivion?

Who would ever want to leave
these trees, this wind, those chimes?

DAY 5 ~ (Unasked-for) Advice for Writers
You are a writer
only when you write.
You are a Writer
only when you revise.

Learn to write
by writing,
then re-writing,
and by reading the Greats.
Listen when writers talk,
especially about writing.

Don't wait for inspiration.
Find inspiration in your writing.

Don't write to earn gain love.
Love what you write.

Don't write to be get published.
Just do your best work.
Have something to say.
Say it well.
But never worry about
Voice. That is a Marketing term.

Write to weave
patterns, to create order,
to construct meaning~
because meaning, like story,
is a constructed thing.

Write because
your days are haunted
by words, images, and emotions~
inside the private theater
of memory.

Write because, like me,
you have no choice
but to unburden yourself heart
of our aching this barely endurable
love for this our phenomenal world.life.

Easter Sunday DAY 4 ~
A Poem by Frederick Mead
cConfessional tone.
sSexual longing.
sSpiritual groping.

DAY 3
I awake every morning
longing
for an angel's burning kiss
or a poem on my lips~
aching to feel Chosen.

And so I start my day
constructing my voice
from all the available accents~
stout-hearted, yet guarded lest
my fragility show, armored
by personality.

DAY 2
I speak
iron, plainly,
volcanic sounds
erupting
from deep within my
lungs of fire,
words hammer-forged
inside the cavern
of my mouth.

I make seek
pattern,
expressing meaning
through rhythm
or repetition,
near rhyme, or
the telling silence,
in structures meant to
guide,
clarify,
and delight

You my
reader,
first Muse top banana
of in my Pantheon cosmology, world order,
even though you might
never grasp my meaning
across the our gap
of language.

DAY 1
Fluttering hummingbird
heartbeats pulse felt
where skin presses
skin, bodies together
in pleasure, beating out the
syncopated measures of
desire: Want, want, I want!

Word Temples

2010-02-20T13:55:00.053-06:00

Recently I learned that the Chinese symbol for "poem" is comprised of 2 characters that mean "word" and "temple". A poem is a word temple.

WORD TEMPLE

In the beginning is
the deed. For compassion is
is more than a noun, more than
emotion, a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet

slyly eludes escapes the ache of insistent ache of
Bodhichitta ~ the that spirit of compassion,
that which yearns only to cherish Other ~
but rather, escapes eludes through the loophole
of misdirected
non-attachment.

Instead, lLet compassion become
a verb, a clarifying bell
calling the mind to action, or a gaze
penetrating through to a more pure land,
a New Jerusalem
where compassion and sympathetic actions are the
are the true measures
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshiped inside
a temple
made of words.

Let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us,
co-arising!

_______________________________________

Word Temple

In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling,
more than emotion,
a brief distress
for the Other's distress
that yet eludes the aching call
of aching bodhichitta
through the choice of misguided misdirected
non-attachment.

Instead, let compassion be
a verb, the clarifying bell that calls
the mind to action,
or the penetrating gaze into
a more pure land, a New Jerusalem
where sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture of faith
but worshipped inside a temples
made of words.

Oh let compassion fly!
Let compassion be the winged horse
that carries us forward, all of us,
toward our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.

___________________________________________________

In the beginning, is
the deed.
For compassion is
more than a feeling we feel,
more than an emotional state,
a brief distress over for another's distress,
but inhabiting word temples,
confusing evading but eluding the ache of achy
that yet eludes the aching call of bodhichitta
for non-involvement misplaced misguided non-attachment.

Instead, cCLInstead, let compassion be should be
a verb, a the clarifying bell
that calls our minds the mind to action,
a the burning glimpse
into a more pure land,
a the New Jerusalem
where sympathy sympathetic action
is the true measure
of righteousness.

For faith without works
is dead faith, a life-less statue
erected in the posture
of spirituality,
inside a temple
made of words.

Oh let compassion free!
Let compassion it be
a the winged horse
that carries us all forward, all of us,
towards our mutual salvation.
All of us
co-arising.

Hard October Blackberries

2009-12-09T00:28:00.025-06:00

Post-season, I picked hard October blackberries
that a scoffing older man predicted would be sour.
Pushing I pushed, urgent and deep inside the bush, I held
holding aside a branch prickly vine like a lover's leg
to pick reach the sweet, long-neglected interior clusters.

Until impatient with the pace,
and hectored by the thorns, I grabbed
indiscriminate handfuls, sacrificing sweetness
for a fuller basket, tart green bites for my breakfast flakes,
green bitter berries that also bite back. oblivious(?)

oOnly too late, typing at a desk in the South, I grieve
for to the choicest, tender few dropping that fell through my grasp,
to bounce bouncing onto the mossy soil ground.

More Before and After Poems

2009-08-08T10:49:00.013-05:00

Worst Love Poem Ever

We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...

But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.

Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.

Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.

And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.

But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.

Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.

But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?

_______________________________
Confession of Faith

Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.

But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.

Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?

Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.

Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,

glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.

Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.

Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.

Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.

And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?

Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?

Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.

Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.

Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.

And a Short One

2009-08-08T10:35:00.010-05:00

I honed this haiku-like short poem while walking the woods of Washington state, daily for 2 weeks. A year later, the words are very much like the original, but with key changes in where lines return, a changed or repositioned word here or there.

Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.

Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.

Poem's Progress

2009-07-20T23:20:00.013-05:00

I began this poem around my 40th birthday, 2 years ago, while visiting Seattle. The imagery and theme of this poem, Crossover, come from that area, that mind-set.

Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?

My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.

This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.

I've included the first version below it for comparison.

Crossover
by Frederick Mead

It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.

Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.

Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.

We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?

Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.

We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path

we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.

The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.

________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead

It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.

Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?

Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.

Why Do Beaches Inspire Poets?

2009-06-04T12:54:00.002-05:00

This is a second attempt at the previous poem that I began in Port Townsend, WA during my creative residency there. Lately I've been studying structure in poetry, that is, prosody. Alfred Korn, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver. And I've been reading poetry with an eye to stanza and listening to poetry with an ear for rhythm.

I discovered that this Port Townsend poem breaks nicely into tercets, with an occasional enjambment that works for me. More work to do, but this is where I am now:

Why Do Beaches Inspire Poets?

Purple-black crows peck at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of teh shore.

But this is merely metaphor.
At best, imaginative reasoning.
At worst, a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile

of rose quartz. An accident of nature?
Or just another ghost of abstract human thought
left behind to mark the landscape?

Clouds dart, and a suddent sunbridge throws
an invitation. Crossover the ocean to a farther
unseen shore. But this also metaphor.

And too great a leap of faith, onto
a tenuous layer of sunlakes? Glimmers on a
watery surface, golden ephemera?

They offer no sure foundation.
No human has ever walked on water.

Where a drain pipe juts from a
descending hill I hear singing,
an unexpected polyphonic chorus
of monks intoning OM.

Shifting, layered timbres of wind
echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades

whispering, and then silence
as if to tell me
Time does not start here.

Why do beaches inspire poets?
Kneeling down, I reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.

Port Townsend Poem

2009-04-14T18:54:00.025-05:00

This is a new poem I began during my creative residency last Fall in Port Townsend, WA. Think I'm ready to craft it into something, or at least try. Check back often for progress!
original impulse
deletion
new text

Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?

Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.

Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?

Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.

Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.

Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.

How Battlestar Galactica Should Have Ended, by Frederick Mead

2009-04-03T10:48:00.025-05:00

With humanity reduced to only 39,000 refugees--a barely sufficient gene pool to ensure survival of our species--a new solution is required. Constant war upon ourselves and with our Cylon creations prove that neither species, human nor Cylon, can overcome our inherent limitations. We are doomed to mutual annihilation. Humanity barely exists. Cylon regeneration is destroyed. At this critical juncture, intervention is required. This intervention comes from the future.
Seraph "Ship of Light" from the original 1978 series.

SERAPHS
The pursuit of Cylon technology is a pursuit for perfection, in a word, God. Cylons understand this better than humans. However, neither species alone can achieve perfection. Only by combining human and machine can physical endurance, unlimited memory-capacity, and instantaneous recall coexist with compassion, curiosity, and creativity.

In the future, a new, blended species, Seraphs, will be capable of both procreation of the species and reincarnation of consciousness. Eventually, Seraphs will even learn to network their minds into a single, unified consciousness akin to God.

PROPHECY
Future Seraphs will develop Cylon projection technology to its peak--using nutrino particles to transmit images and to stimulate experiences in other minds. Because nutrinos are unaffected by electromagnetism, these particles can be projected backwards in time.

Using Cylon projection, Seraphs sent nutrino messages back in time to the original Lords of Cobol, who interpreted these messages as prophecies from their tribal gods, and thus humans developed a polytheistic religion. Similar messages were sent to Cylons, but their positronic nets were able to perceive the unity of Seraph consciousness, and therefore Cylons developed a monotheistic religion. President Roslyn and other characters also received these "prophecies" from future Seraphs.

WHAT IS THAT FRAKKIN SONG?
The intent of the Seraphs is to bring humanity and Cylons together, at the fulcrum point in history when survival of both species is at greatest risk. The song that numerous characters hear is a complex message from the Seraphs that serves multiple purposes, but most importantly to provide the key to combining the species. What looks like ordinary musical notes on sheet music, when lifted off the page and shown in 3 dimensions, is actually Seraph DNA, highlighting genetic markers necessary for a combined species.

This is why Gaius Baltar, humanity's greatest geneticist, "will write the last chapter of humanity." He will understand the message. As an act of contrition, Gaius begins the work of unifiying the species. He uses himself and Caprica 6 in his early experiments, and thus, those 2 become archetypes for future Seraph models. This is the reason another Caprica appears in his mind. She is a highly-focused Seraph projection sent back in time to guide him.

THE FINAL 5
Just as President Roslyn was chosen to lead humanity, the Final 5 were chosen to lead the Cylons. They are like Moses leading the children of Israel through the desert to the Promised Land. Seraphs selected the Final 5 from the 13th colony, the only colony to develop a pure Cylon civilization. Ordinary Centurion models would be insufficient for genetic combination with humans. Only the Final 5 and the 7 models they created are evolved enough for this combination.

On Earth a thousand years prior, guided by Seraph messages, Ellen Tigh experienced the "intuitive leap" necessary to rediscovery Cylon regeneration, which proves to be a bargaining chip for peace, but is also a fundamental technology for genetic combination to work.

WHAT IS KARA THRACE?
Kara Thrace is an ordinary human who received prophetic messages from the Seraphs as a child. Her father also received messages in the form of a song that he taught her. Kara is called the "harbinger of death" because she leads Galactica to a dead world, and to the death of their faith in Earth. This is a necessary death. Earth is not the final destination for humanity, but instead serves as an object lesson of our destruction.

Kara arrived on Earth by traveling through what appears to be a collapsing supernova, but is actually highly-sophisticated Seraph technology--a complex, self-executing program that stimulates subatomic particles, initiating a chain of reactions that results in a stable singularity. The singularity functions as both a gateway to Earth and an enormous turbine, with the energetic potential to perform the most advanced Seraph miracle of all--the imitation of life. Kara Thrace dies on Earth as a result of her hazardous journey. The Kara Thrace who returns to Galactica is a living copy. When she passed thru the singularity, the Seraph program duplicated Kara in such detail that her copy is essentially the same woman, who can complete her mission.

Kara arrived on Earth by traveling through a quantum singularity. She dies on Earth. The Kara Thrace who returns to Galactica is the same woman, but from a different timeline. When she passed thru the singularity, the timelines shattered, and a Kara from an alternate timeline entered ours.

WHAT IS HERA?
The daughter of a Cylon and a human, Hera is evidence that genetic combination is possible. She is a template. Because Hera wrote down the song, Gaius Baltar will use her DNA samples to confirm his hunch about Seraph DNA.

Hera will still be alive far into the future, by downloading her consciousness into Seraph bodies. She will provide future Seraph generations with detailed information about Galactica, its time, and its heroes.

Return of BUTCH

2009-03-30T13:35:00.003-05:00

At the Big Easy Theatre Awards tonight, I am nominated in the category "Best Actor in a Comedy" for the one-man show Out Comes Butch. If you missed the original 7-week run last year, you have another chance to witness the madness.

"Insanely involving. When you're not laughing, you're watching with your mouth agape." David Cuthbert, Times-Picayune

"A whale of a performance!" Al Shea, WYES TV

I'm putting up 2 nights only at the Marigny Theatre, in a couple weeks:

7pm Fri/Sat April 10/11
$10
504 452 5515 for info

Marigny Theatre
corner of St Claude and Marigny
http://marignytheatre.org/

"If you haven't seen it, do so...a knock-out audience winner with an astonishing performance by Frederick Mead." Patrick Shannon, Ambush Magazine

JERKER Delayed

2009-03-21T14:33:00.007-05:00

I'll take the time it takes to properly present a work of art. Some projects require more effort to come together. Some cakes need to bake longer in the oven. Some directors need more time to cast.

Schedule has dogged me constantly with Jerker. One minute, I'd have an actor interested, then the discussion would break down over schedule. Time and again. I talked to every male actor I could, but the closer we got to Opening Night, actors became committed to other projects, and the door snapped shut. Also, I felt I was going farther and farther afield from the types that I really wanted, considering men with some-but-not-all of the attributes I need, solely for the sake of putting up the show. Of course, everyone I talked to was a quality actor, but not always exactly the types I wanted. In a nutshell: a Bear and a Twink who can act.

I'll get Jerker up soon, likely early June, but this first attempt is not a waste. Along the way, I talked with New Orleans theater heavies, "names" who took me very seriously. Deeply-experienced, award-winning directors who were willing to be directed by ME, for the pittance I could afford to pay, if not for those pesky schedule conflicts. I reached out to knowledgeable resources in the theater community and found encouragement, great advice, and referrals. And a lot of good will. After only 2 1/2 years of doing theater in New Orleans, it's nice to feel accepted as part of a vigorous, creative community. Especially to have been nominated for a theater award along the way.

So I feel optimistic about Jerker. In the meantime, I'd like to put up a reprise of Out Comes Butch. This is the one-man show for which I was recently nominated for a Big Easy Theatre Award, in the category "Best Actor in a Comedy". At the awards gala next week, I hope there will be sufficient curiosity about Butch that I'll be able to promote it easily. "We're doing a reprise in a couple weeks. 3 shows only. Don't miss it." Lots of details to work out (like the rights). But we have this great opportunity right now to fill a gap and keep things on good terms with the venue. And to sell a show that I personally enjoy doing.

JERKER

2009-01-13T15:56:00.006-06:00

I'm directing a New Orleans production of the play Jerker, by San Francisco playwright Robert Chesley. Jerker is the third San Francisco work I've helped to premier in New Orleans. Set in the Castro in 1985, Jerker concerns 2 lonely men terrified by "the gay cancer" who develop a significant connection via phone sex. It's a naughty, nasty play with redeeming social value. Baptists will picket.

I saw a 20th anniversary production of Jerker on videotape when I lived in San Francisco. For me personally, the play helped to lift a dark cloud from my head, the same dark cloud that hovers over the heads of the 2 characters in Jerker. I also responded to the emotional charge of the play, ignited by the sexual language.

Casting is my challenge now. I had 2 remarkable, weighty actors in the hopper, but for various reasons, mostly scheduling, they are not available, although both love the script. Not only am I looking for certain types, both with acting chops, but also for chemistry between the pair. Fortunately, it's only 2 roles. Or maybe unfortunately. Ah well, it's my current challenge and my joy.

Found the right venue for this show and signed the contract this week. As soon as I secure the cast we start promoting. Got a couple months lead-up time until Opening Night, so we can build momentum. April 8-25.

Black Nativity

2008-12-15T18:15:00.003-06:00

Busy. I told myself I would not get busy so soon after my return to New Orleans, but there ya have it! Last week I did 6 shows, wrote a freelance project, taught a software class, and hosted an out-of-town guest. I also hosted the Radical Faerie potluck and put lights on a tree. Luckily I managed to visit a sauna in there too. Never too busy to sauna.

Five of the 6 performances were as John James Audubon. This is a yearly gig with the Louisiana Living History Project, in which each actor researches and portrays a historical person of Louisiana. This year we have 15 characters. I'm Audubon, and also the Stage Manager.

The 6th performance was a staged reading of Black Nativity by poet Langston Hughes. We presented dance, drumming, Gospel singing, and readings. I gave an impassioned sermon-ette. The next day, 2 other actors said to me, "Frederick, you can really preach it!"

"Oh," I replied, "I've been around some Baptist folk." Why do you think the blog is called Kung Fu Evangelist?

The New Digs

2008-11-28T11:15:00.017-06:00

My first day-after-Thanksgiving carb-hangover in the new apartment. Feels like home. This is my first apartment in umm...6 years? I've been "the roommate" or "the housesitter" for the past 6 years, most of that time really living on the road. For the past 2 years, I've been settled in New Orleans, renting the big room from Miss Gloria in the Bywater. Now I'm ready to move on to my own apartment.

Day-after-Thanksgiving in my new digs. I'm avoiding the refrigerator. Instead, I walked to Cafe Flora, which is close to my apartment and open, to buy incense and a coffee. Sidewalks are wet from an early morning storm. The few folks outside have the same bleary looks as me. Carb-hangover. Must find coffee.

I moved in 2 weekends ago, but "officially" occupied the place 2 nights ago, when I cooked. I made the oyster dressing for the T Day table, a Southern tradition made with paper-light baguettes. My kitchen is bright with a LOT of counter space and a window that overlooks rooftops.

The whole apartment is called the Camel Back of a Shotgun. A Shotgun house is long and narrow, with no hallways, just one room behind the next. If you open all the doors, you can shoot a shotgun straight through. The Camel Back is a second story that extends only half the length of the Shotgun. A half-story, I guess. The Camel Back was popular in New Orleans because home owners could avoid tax on second stories by only building half a second story. Imagine me in my upper half-story, relaxing on my elevated wooden deck, drinking beer at sunset.

The Mississippi River is only a block away, but except for the sky my view is obstructed by wharf warehouses. I see smoke stacks on passing ships, and the peaks of the Crescent City Bridge lit up at night. My view is rather industrial on the river side. I'm glad the river is there, but prefer the kitchen view and the deck.

I live on Marigny Street, which also lends its name to the entire neighborhood. The Marigny (pronounced merry-knee) is the 3rd oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, directly adjacent to the French Quarter. I walk 3 blocks from my apartment to the Quarter. Named after the Baron de Marigny, who parceled out his estate to pay gambling debts and to house his numerous mistresses, the Faubourg (faux town) Marigny is historic, quaint, quite Gay, relatively middle class, and liberal. Bed-and-breakfast abounds, and KEE-YOOT cottages side-by-side, up and down the blocks, painted bright colors with filigree millwork. Balcony gardens, sweet olive trees, the occasional cobblestone sidewalk, decay.

You could say I moved on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky.

Chicago Deep Dish

2008-11-16T14:34:00.006-06:00

Boy, was I bitchy about being chilly in Chicago. Low 30s at night. I slept in my clothes and wore everything in my suitcase during the day. Road crews put up "snow fences". Although I love a lot of things about Chicago, like my dear friend Daniel, ethnic foods, and architecture, I don't love the weather. I'm a hot-house flower, Ya'll. I bloom in humidity.

Had a great visit with Daniel in the windy city. We always have stimulating conversations about spirituality and art. He's a very calm, sober-minded man with a deep appetite for contemplation. Our friendship goes pretty far back. To Seattle, where we both volunteered for a queer youth drop-in center, called Lambert House.

I made a point of filling up on foods I can't get in New Orleans. Although we have more restaurants than churches (and there's a LOT of churches), most restaurants specialize in "New Orleans food". If you want variety, take a road trip like me. My first night in Chicago, we ate Pakistani. Then great Mediterranean and real Mexican (not a burrito in sight, which is actually an American food, like fortune cookies). And of course, we ate Chicago Deep Dish pizza.

One night I made dinner, Pasta Putanesca, for Daniel and 2 of his friends, one of whom is quite cute (and may visit me in New Orleans this year. Hee hee. Boyfriends everywhere!) After dinner, they read a script out loud for me in the livingroom while I took notes. After the new year, I hope to direct a play in New Orleans. The title is secret until I'm sure I've secured the rights, which is difficult because the author is dead and the play unlisted with Dramatist Play Service.

The peak of my trip was the Russian Banya, an authentic bath house. Not a gay sex club type of bath house, but the real deal Russian spa for men. For an extra price, they offered to beat me with birch sticks, but I declined. I do want to return some day and be scrubbed down in the sauna by an attendant with a broom of oak leaves. I definitely sweated out my chill. The cold plunge made me "buzzy".

I culminated my wonderful 2-month journey by riding a train they call the City of New Orleans. I even recorded myself singing the Arlo Guthrie chorus, with train sounds rumbling in the background, and sent that recording to a few friends via my cell phone. "Good morning, America. How are ya?"

Writing Retreat

2008-11-03T10:15:00.017-06:00

This short poem is my first attempt at "meter" in poetry.

MADRONA
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw desire need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.

Seems a trifle to belabor for 2 weeks, but the poem's been a learning tool. And once again, I'm attempting to express something about my relationship to desire.

During my 2-week creative residency at Port Townsend, WA, I wrote 3 poems and started a couple others, but primarily worked on my novel, Goodfriend, now 3 years in the making (and officially my longest relationship.) I'm very happy with my progress. In addition to increased wordcount (2 chapters, neither done but both very well-developed), I found my way out of the wilderness. For several months now I've complained of being lost in "Deep Middle Territory," groping my way blindly forward with my story. Or so it felt. But I did some problem solving in Port Townsend. I now believe I'm only 6 chapters away from FINISHED! With Draft 1, that is. I've written 15 chapters so far; only 6 more to go. Not so lost. I have crested the summit and can see the River Jordan.

That's wonderful news to me. I'm happy to leave Port Townsend with a plan of action, re-energized, and re-focused. Time away is a good thing.

I had a 3-bedroom apartment all to myself, with panoramic water view. On clear days, Mount Rainier is visible, plus the Cascade range and the Olympic range on opposite sides of me. If you've never experienced the Pacific Northwest, the landscape is dramatic. We had a peak Autumn this year too. Nothing to rival Vermont, but impressive for this area. The foliage has been a frequent topic of local news. I had sunny days with crisp air and then a few misty, moody days toward the end. Each morning I walked in the woods or on the beach, muttering lines to myself. I sketched. Daydreamed considerbly, and deeply imagined the lives of my characters. Did a lot of soul searching.

The facility is top-rate. There's yoga onsite, an Internet cafe, ok cell coverage, laundry and ATM. On Saturdays I rode a door-to-door bus to the Farmer's Market in town. And on Halloween, I costumed as a dead poet and walked to the waterfront. At some straight bar in town, I danced to a surprisingly great funk band and got as drunk as a living poet on payday. Women hit on me HARD. I'm not used to that.

I reserved the apartment again for this summer, an entire MONTH. Mid-August to mid-September, the peak of New Orleans hurricane season. Yay! I have a hurrication plan! A month is a long time to maintain momentum or to be alone, so I put out the word to 20 writers I know around the country to join me for some portion to write. A 3-day weekend, a week, two weeks. Several writers have replied already. Perhaps by this summer I'll be writing my LAST chapter, or better yet, Draft 2.

Old Friends in Seattle

2008-10-31T12:35:00.009-05:00

I lived in Seattle for 13 dark rainy winters, from 1984 to 1997. I make fun of the weather a lot, and the "cold" culture of the residents, but I go back to Seattle every year or 2. Most of my oldest friends live in Seattle, and even friends from other cities have moved there. So, there's a draw. I don't want to move back there, but I like to visit (except during dark rainy winters).

After Vermont, I flew directly to Seattle. My dear, dear friend Rafael (Ralphie) Ruiz picked me up at the airport (which I always like) and put me up in the guest room. I like staying at Ralph's house because he has a hot tub and takes good care of me. And his 2 new housemates are uber-gay cooks, housecleaners, landscapers, and aesthetes. I bond a lot with Stan and Dan's sensibilities, especially with Stan's, the older one. I love my sister Ralph, so it's always a joy to spend time at his home.

Greenlake is an upper-middle class neighborhood situated around a lovely lake, very traditional Seattle: Craftsman Era homes with A-frames and wide eaves, porches, gardens with ornamental Japanese maples. But Ralph's house is more mid-Century modern, and the new landscaping done by Stan and Dan really brings that out.

We had a dinner party for 10 of my oldest friends, and I mean OLD friends, like 22 years ago. It's always good to have them together. After dinner and many cocktails, I performed Mona Rogers in Person for them, the same performance I did at Gay Camp. Check out the safety-orange shoes in the photo. Melissa, my oldest oldest friend, said "Wow, it's amazing how far you've developed." It's great to have those benchmarks in life, to have people who've seen you change and evolve.

Gay Camp in Vermont

2008-10-30T15:02:00.004-05:00

I'm currently at my creative residency site in Washington state, which I'll write about soon. But before I forget, I want to describe my earlier trip to Vermont.

After Connecticut, I caught another Amtrak train, the Vermonter, for Bellows Falls, a village near my destination, a remote campground in the woods. My entire journey up the East coast I've seen the landscape turn chillier and yellower. In early October, the entire state of Vermont was yellow. The village of Bellows Falls was adorable. The train let me off right in the midst of a weekly farmer's market, where I bought pumpkin bread for the first evening's potluck at the campground.

Camp Destiny, a Radical Faerie campground in the rolling hills of Vermont, hosted the annual Fall Foliage Gathering. About 45 people, mostly gay men but a couple women and 6 trans-men (that I was sure of). A couple of the trans-men were quite fetching, in that twink boy way that I like so much. For 4 days, our group sat around campfires, cooked and ate communally, hiked, flirted, and participated in daily Heart Circles, a form of personal transformation through group talk, somewhere between group therapy and a Quaker meeting.

On the final night, I performed in the No Talent Show, a regular feature at Faerie gatherings. I knocked out the Vermont Faeries with selections from Mona Rogers in Person, a show we did in New Orleans earlier this year that was directed by a rather well-known Faerie named Agnes. You should have seen me balancing on 7-inch (no kidding) safety-orange heels...in the woods! The next morning the ground was covered in divits where my heels had poked in. I offered to plant seedlings.

Gay Camp was a reflective, rejuvenating--even sexy--four days. 45 people was a good number for me, as I tend to feel anxious in large groups of gay men. I connected with several sweet, intelligent people from the Northeast, and left camp with invitations to visit Maine, Vermont, New York. I was also happy to see Faerie friends who I know from other locations, like Short Mountain in Tennessee and New Orleans.

Best of all, within minutes after my arrival, I fell into a passionate, 36-hour romance. Keep in mind, I've been on the road for a month by this time, with no real opportunities for sex. No, my hymen did not grow back! But if you know me, you can imagine the state I was in when I arrived in the woods. As I was setting up my tent, a handsome, older man kissed me in greeting. And that was that. When I finally came up for air, yellow leaves were falling all around my face.

Connecticut in Autumn

2008-10-09T13:14:00.006-05:00

Fire on all sides of this Internet cafe. Deciduous trees turning russets, reds, and oranges. How long have I been in Connecticut? A week and a half, sleeping in the attic bedroom of Matt Levine's mother's house. He sleeps on the second floor, where he can help her in the night if she needs him. Laura has cancer, emphysema, and a broken hip. Matt has his hands full. Overall he's cheerful, but the strain does show.

Matt and I spent a lot of time together, talking, driving in the countryside, watching the debates, eating well. We're both good cooks who like to eat. I made a delicious cauliflower soup. He made Littleneck clams and pasta.

For me, the peak of this visit was yesterday, an afternoon at Storm King Art Center in the Hudson River Valley. I've visited before. Storm King is one of my favorite landscapes. Yesterday we packed a lunch, drove down, and I spent an hour sketching Autumn exploding behind a 2-story iron sculpture.

We also drove to Milford, Pennsylvania, a tiny hamlet where Matt used to own a gallery. We attended an Oktoberfest party at the house of the richest people Matt knows. And he KNOWS some rich people. I liked the pool house and the lake, but never saw either of the 2 greenhouses. The beer was strong, and combined with the rosy-cheeked Oompah band, I was worried for their rather abundant pre-Columbian art collection. I'm just the kind to knock over or drop sauerkraut onto a terracotta God older than the Gutenberg Bible.

While in Pennsylvania, we visited Luna Park, a fantastical, whimsical house in the woods. The artist/owner Ricky Boscarino was not home, but Matt is a friend, found the key, and gave us the tour. Madness inside and out. We climbed ladders, ducked under rafters, crawled thru narrow spaces. Molded concrete and mosaic tile everywhere, especially in the bedroom-sized bathroom.

We walked around Yale University and their student art gallery. I saw Westport, the last home of Paul Newman. We grooved to a great Jazz combo on Christopher street in NYC, then went next door to riot at the original Stonewall Inn. I've eaten good pizza, ok bagels, and pretty good Thai.

I read two new books while here, Cormac McCarthy's The Road (loved it) and David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames (liked it). I'm also still digesting Mark Doty's book of poems, Source. I wrote this poem below, Bird House, sitting in the garden of Matt's mother, Laura.

Tomorrow I catch a train for Vermont.

Bird House

2008-10-05T12:09:00.004-05:00

original impulse
deletion
new text

Walking with my mother I saw
a burned out house, soot-marked,
blackened, evacuated.
But what struck my eye
was a bird house, also burned out but attached
still to the center of the porch. The bird house,
in miniature, depicting the drama of fire
more than the charred remains of the home.
Black soot streaks, the shadow of flame,
marking the memories of a family in crisis.

Perhaps a mother-bird chirped
for help here, singing out alarm
through the heart-shaped hole.
Who would come to aid her aid? Is there
heroism in the avian world
apart from the a mother's instinct to save her young?.
Did she push her chicks
through the heart-shaped hole
before the chicks could fly?
Did they tumble and crush, hobbled
for the rest of their avian lives?

With her tailfeathers brushing against a burning wall
and a heart-shaped site of sky in front,
making the best choices that she can,
which crisis does a mother bird choose?
Black soot streaks, the shadow of flame,
marking the memories of a family in crisis,
memories now abandoned and quiet.

Visiting Mom

2008-09-27T22:02:00.012-05:00

My mother's dog bit me, twice. She has this completely undisciplined dog, Jingles, that growls at her own husband and bites every person who comes into the house. That dog runs the place. They completely modify their lives around the dog, and blame the victim when Jingles bites. Cruisin' for a lawsuit.

But overall I'm happy with my visit to Virginia. Rolling hillsides, crickets. I'm over-fed on Mom's filipino food. I've fallen into the pattern of my mother's life: picking-up and delivering, picking-up and delivering food from donation sites to homeless shelters and day centers. My mother, Thelma, is a one-woman ministry to the homeless. Bingo twice a week, listening to the old filipino ladies tapping their cards and whispering the numbers they need like invocations. At 63, she has the energy and drive of a Tasmanian devil. Wonder where I get it from?

My youngest sister, half-sister by another marriage, Elizabeth, drove 3 hours to visit. And my youngest brother, George Jr, a state wrestling champion who I hardly know, comes and goes with his buddies. The house is quiet, except for Jingles patrolling his property.

Walking somewhere with my mother I saw a burnt out house. The thing that stuck with me though was a bird house, also burned, nailed to the center of the porch. Somehow the bird house, in miniature, illustrated the dynamism of the fire more than the blackened house itself. One of those images you see that sticks with you. The bird house will likely work its way into a poem because it evokes more than it is. It reminds me of something else. I just don't know what yet. Something to do with families in crisis? Black soot-marks like the memory of crisis. Memories now abandoned and quiet.

I'm in Virginia until Wednesday. Then I catch a train for Connecticut.

On the Road Again...

2008-09-23T20:10:00.008-05:00

On Saturday morning I began another cross-country journey, from Washington DC to Washington state. I'm connecting 2 out-of-town projects with a leisurely visit to family and friends, with special emphasis on the Northeast. Fortunately, everywhere I plan to go has wireless Internet, so I can work from the road.

I'm in DC now, staying with new friends, part of the extended Radical Faerie network. One of my hosts is an editor of the literary journal White Crane, and I am eating his poetry collection. I'm also delighted to spend time again with my dearheart friend Johnathan Morpurgo. I'm in DC because I have a 3-day job, teaching RoboHelp software, an authoring tool for tech writers who create HTML Help systems. Big dick stuff. Day 1 went well, 2 more to go. Hope I don't run out of material.

After this job I go to nearby Fairfax, Virginia to visit my mom for a few days.

Then I may catch the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC. My friend Matt Levine will meet me, and we seriously want to visit Vermont. Hello? Vermont in October! I hope our friend Brian Stowell in Boston can meet us en route. We'll likely go to Camp Destiny, another Radical Faerie property in the woods.

From there, I don't know. Chicago? Keen to visit my old friend Daniel Hall and do a short performance of selections from Mona Rogers in Person. A free performance of about 20 minutes for the Chicago Radical Faeries, at Daniel's house.

Then another train to Seattle, to rest (shuh, as IF) a few days before I begin the wonderfully reflective 2-week creative residency in Port Townsend. Whew! All that, and work. At least in Port Townsend I'll be offline for 2 entire weeks, enforced downtime to reflect and write.

See ya'll back in New Orleans first week of November, I think.

Any Ideas for a Title?

2008-09-13T16:23:00.019-05:00

"Who am I talking to in this poem" continues to trouble me. Originally, I had one person in mind, and then another. And then began to wonder if this was the big "fuck you" to every guy who's ever hurt my heart. The poem's darker and angrier than I expected, which makes me suspect there's accumulated hurt going on here.

I think I'm expressing my inability to express.

We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.

But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.

Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.

But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWAnd why would I try?

Any ideas for a title?

Hurricane Update

2008-09-04T17:52:00.001-05:00

Communication and electricity are still challenges in New Orleans, but overall we weathered just fine, cozy in fact. No electricity at our house, but no damage either. Because we have a gas stove and water heater, we have hot food and hot showers! Kerosene lanterns and plenty of books to read. We turn on the generator a few hours a day, mostly to run fans and the refrigerator, although we keep most perishables on ice. A few grocery stores are opening here and there, but close early. I was able to use an ATM, my cell phone gets good coverage again, and today I found an Internet cafe.

My plans to evacuate changed at the last minute. It was a high-stress moment, exacerbated by our braying mayor alarming the nation, and us. We took the well-informed advice of an extremely capable and well prepared couple who invited us to ride out the storm in their historic Uptown mansion, which is built on natural high ground and has withstood a century and a half of hurricanes. It was the right choice. We were very safe the entire time. We grilled salmon on the BBQ, swam in the pool during high wind, and talked. An occasional Valium relieved the boredom.

A few things we learned: Turn off television news and scoff at anything said by our mayor. We went to the National Hurricane Center website instead, and got a very different story about Gustav. We decided to trust the scientists and not the politicians. We also learned to have ample chocolate on hand, red wine, and to never share towels.

Yesterday I moved back into our house. All's fine. Bunch of broken branches and leaves to clean, but that's it. I'm happy to be home, despite the lack of power. I have a lot of reflect about, and the enforced downtime is good. Also I'm enjoying the novel, The Master and Margarita.

New Orleans was spared much worse damage, although that Industrial Canal over-topping gave us a scare. I love the spirit of community here, and of course, the bars are packed. Ostensibly there's a curfew at sundown, but last night you wouldn't know it. Locals who rode out the storm were in the French Quarter last night in full force, celebrating our survival and unique way of life.

Thanks to everyone for the well wishes, concerned text messages, and the occasional phone calls that got thru. The offers of money were very generous, and contact from the outside world was comforting.

NOT Evacuating

2008-08-31T15:38:00.002-05:00

Ok, last-minute change of plans. We ARE staying in New Orleans, riding out the hurricane in a big 3-story mansion on Coliseum square. Gloria's daughter and husband invited us to stay, plus another couple. 6 in all. We're on natural high ground, have a generator, lots of food, water, and fuel. Plus, the weather reports are looking a "bit" less threatening for New Orleans proper. But it's still anybody's guess.

Me, I'd feel better if we all left. But these are the best circumstances if we're going to stay. And we'll all be together. So I had a valium and took a swim. Feel a lot more optimistic now.

Thanks for all the great messages. Frederick

Evacuating New Orleans

2008-08-30T21:35:00.003-05:00

Despite attempts by the alarmist local media and our cover-your-ass mayor to frighten us, my housemate Gloria and I have decided to evacuate New Orleans anyway, in the morning. Hurricane Gustav does look serious and quite a risk. I was actually looking forward to riding it out, but when Gloria, the Katrina veteran of the household says it's time to go, it's fucking time to go.

She and I and her two large dogs are packing into the van and heading north to Memphis. Gloria's grandmother's house has 3 bedrooms and is vacant. We'll do a bit of site-seeing in the surrounding country, like Oxford Mississippi, etc. More like a mini-vacation with a lot of traffic going our way.

Fortunately, I can work from the road, assuming Internet access, at least at a Starbucks or Barnes and Noble in Memphis. From there, who knows. Maybe I'll keep on moving. I have a job in DC at the end of the month, and was planning to travel slowly across country to the creative residency near Seattle. Guess I'm starting that trip early.

Packing list:
laptop
my novel-in-progress
my Bible
a new book to read
hand lotion
Ibuprofen
summer clothes
light business clothes
toiletries
extra socks
the plays of Robert Chesley
ID
checkbook
ATM card
tax records

I put my family photos on a high shelf, and raised other things I'd be sad to lose in case of flood water. Who knows? This may all be for naught, but right now, leaving is the prudent choice.

The Return of Butch

2008-08-28T06:49:00.005-05:00

STAGE RECOMMENDED by Gambit Weekly.

"If you haven't seen it, do so...a knock-out audience winner with an astonishing performance by Frederick Mead." Patrick Shannon, Ambush Magazine

Frederick Mead returns to the Voodoo Mystere Lounge in David Schein's critically-acclaimed one-man comedy, Out Comes Butch. Presented by DecaFest and the Bienville Foundation, a portion of all ticket sales are granted to local LGBT and HIV/AIDS organizations.

$15 Advance purchase encouraged. Bring an attractive friend.

3 SHOWS ONLY
FRI Aug 29 10 pm (late nite show for adult audiences.)
SAT Aug 30 7 pm
SUN Aug 31 5 pm (after the Decadence parade!)

Join Butch on his hilarious search for identity, watching and listening for clues to his many transformations. "Butch is a kaleidoscopic individual. He's change incarnate," says Dalt Wonk in the Gambit Weekly. If you missed the 7-week run earlier this summer, come see what all the fuss was about! David Cuthbert in the Times-Picayune says that Out Comes Butch is "insanely engaging. When you're not laughing, you're watching with your mouth agape!"

"A whale of a performance!" Al Shea, WYES TV

Voodoo Mystere Lounge
On the Edge of the Quarter
718 N Rampart (at Orleans)

Creative Residency

2008-08-23T20:20:00.011-05:00

I was awarded a 2-week creative residency at the Centrum Arts Center in Port Townsend, Wa. About 45 minutes from Seattle, on the coast. I'll be an artist-in-residence, with a bunch of other artists, including writers, musicians, and painters. Two weeks of uninterrupted focus on the novel, in a beautiful locale, with other artists nearby.

Centrum was formerly a military base, now public land, and commands a stunning view of the Puget Sound, Whidbey Island, and Mount Rainier on clear days. In late October when I go, there should be mostly clear days, but we are talking about the Pacific Northwest.

Awarded is a dubious word because I still have to pay for it. Not much though. Only $300 a week for an entire house on the coast, officer's housing, fully stocked with linens, pots and pans, etc. I just need to bring food and booze (also known as creative juice). Accepted is probably a more appropriate term, or perhaps selected. There is a selection committee. I submitted a writing sample, a novel summary, CV and letter of intent in which I dropped Dorothy Allison's name heavily, and made reference to reading at the literary journal, Zoetrope All-Story, and for the William Saroyan Prize awarded by Stanford Univ Libraries.

Well, I'm pretty proud of this. And I'm grateful for the time away from New Orleans, quiet time alone with my novel. I'm also proud to report that I am almost finished with another chapter. I need to print it and read it aloud. Make a few more touches, then print the final-final date-stamped copy for the binder. Mail a copy to Dorothy, then move on to the next chapter.

Poem So Far...

2008-08-18T14:56:00.014-05:00

This is what I have so far. Actually, 2 poems are coming, or maybe one. They share common phrases and ideas, but the sentiments are different. More to do..
original impulse
deletion
new text

We've been sloppy with our bodies,
two boys playing scandalous games inspired by the Bible games,
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and his beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.

Remind me
to But me, I should stick with things I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst love poem
ever, to say “fuck you” with a smile on my face.
Damn! The craziness of the flesh!
It stops you. So beautiful. I mark it.

Come on, Alright, I am listening.
tTell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
W Or write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines. I can read.
Besides, it's August in New Orleans, a hard time
to write a love poem anyway
with when all my ink pens keep explodingeing from the heat.

Speak Its Name

2008-08-06T14:08:00.006-05:00

I'm coordinating a queer open mic for Labor Day eve. Speak Its Name: a Southern Decadance event. I hope to encourage local gay authors to read, and also encourage new writers to read their own poetry or the work of a gay poet they admire. Sure are plenty to admire: Frank O'Hara, Hart Crane, Mark Doty, and the spiritual Big Daddy of us all, Walt Whitman.

SEPT 1 LABOR DAY
7pm Free to the public
Celebrate DecaFest with queer literature.
Drink, listen or sign up to read your own work
or the work of a queer writer you admire.
7 minute limit. Any form. One drink minimum.
Hosted by Frederick Mead and featuring local
queer New Orleans writers.

Voodoo Mystere Lounge
On the Edge of the Quarter
718 North Rampart at Orleans

Another Poem Coming On...

2008-08-02T11:45:00.017-05:00

For some reason, lately I'm remembering old poems I wrote years ago. There's not a lot of them. I complete about one poem a year, usually when I'm in love or heartbroken (the 2 are hard to distinguish.) Several years ago I wrote a love poem for another young man. I can't quite recall it now word-for-word, but I'd like to recover it, update it.

I would lie in your yard until the leaves
pile around my face.

I feel a new poem coming on, not a love poem per se. Something to do with longing, which all my poems seem to be about, or despair. Longing and despair, what a cheerful guy I am. Ah but there's more. It think anger is peeking thru, in the smart-alecky, falsely frivolous posture of Frank O'Hara.

We've been sloppy with our bodies,

The craziness of the flesh!
It stops you. So beautiful. I mark it.

I should stick with things I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst poem
ever, to say “fuck you” with a smile on my face.

Tell me something sideways again, hint at it(?)
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate. Write my fate
in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
between the lines.

Mister Resume

2008-07-30T21:50:00.015-05:00

Five years ago I left a lucrative high tech career and became a writer. As in, fiction writer, theater writer, blog writer, but definitely NOT tech writer. I had a heavy-hitting tech career for 15 years, even taught tech writing and digital publishing, and was lead judge in a Silicon Valley technical writing competition. I was Mister Resume. I burned out hard.

Five years ago I started traveling the country, writing, visiting peeps, and eventually settled here in New Orleans. I've avoided tech writing and anything techie like the plague, and few friends in New Orleans even know about that time of my life. Ya'll call me an actor! But tech work has followed me here. Recruiters still email me and well-meaning friends offer work. I say no. I've been saying no for five years and getting by on part-time jobs that a recent high school graduate could do. All to leave myself free for fiction, my true passion.

A few hours ago, I turned in my first draft of a software manual, my first technical writing contract in five years. Money's tight (tres tight) and this project just fell into my lap. A referral from a gaw-jious San Francisco friend and colleague, Jen Dalton. Comparatively speaking, it's a light-weight project in terms of scope and time commitment. But more importantly, the project came at a time when I'm *willing* to take-on a tech writing project again. That's a key difference. Not so stubborn right now. Money's part of that difference, but also I may have recovered from burn out, in part.

As I said, this project is a small, tentative step. I don't yet feel the time conflict I used to feel between tech writing and my art, in which art always lost. In fact, I'm writing more in general, both kinds. This week I whipped out a detailed 10-page first draft of the manual and pushed the novel forward another 1000 words.

On the confidence of this project and others to follow, I may be moving. Yesterday I looked at a shotgun house that's for rent, and talked to a good friend about sharing.

Thirty-Eleven

2008-07-24T21:00:00.014-05:00

You get it:
38
39
30-10
30-11.

This year, instead of 41, I turned thirty-eleven on Monday. Not looking so bad for thirty-eleven, huh?

I had a fun, relaxy day. Slept late, did yoga, blended a fruit smoothie, read more of Don Quixote, swam, napped.

At night, I met friends for cocktails and cake at a bar on the edge of the French Quarter. They pinned dollar bills to my vest. One of my co-actors from Uncle Vanya, Helaine Michaels, played her electronic piano. My costumer for Out Comes Butch and John James Audubon, Veronica Russell (pictured above with me and our friend Ed Bishop), brought half a peaches-and-cream pie. My housemate, Gloria Powers, brought a whole chocolate birthday cake. There was baked ziti. EVERYBODY bought me drinks. At the end of the night, I made out with someone. Eventually I'll remember his name.

Smells Like Team Spirit

2008-07-12T10:55:00.011-05:00

It takes a village to mount a Chekhov play, a sweaty, irritable village. With a cast of 9 all sweating like livestock every night, it's been quite a challenge to do Chekhov in New Orleans in July. High strung personalities, high stakes, heat. Plus, stagelights are HOT, especially when your costume is made of wool. Kvetch, bitch, moan.

But let me also say that our production of Uncle Vanya looks pretty darn good. Thanks to the work of many people, especially Michael Martin, we've pulled together a quality production that we can all be proud of. There was quite a lot of team effort, which really appeals to me. Much of the tension we've felt is evidence of deep-felt commitment to the success of the project.

Only one weekend more of Chekhov at the Beach, then I celebrate my birthday (July 21), and then take a break from theater. A couple months devoted to writing. I actually wanted to leave New Orleans for the months of August and September, go into retreat, writing seclusion; but I can't afford that. So instead I will create seclusion for myself, in town. Take time off from theatrical pursuits, other than writing some new stage material. But the main focus is the novel, Goodfriend.

Ah my good friend the novel, my long-time companion. At 3 years, this is officially my longest relationship.

Show-mance

2008-06-24T15:31:00.005-05:00

Learned a new term on the movie set, "show-mance". It's a romance that happens during a show. I shared a sweet, flirtatious show-mance with my co-actor, Matt, who plays my boyfriend Jonathan in the movie. Here we are, two handsome young men, dressed in purple velvet like a pair of princes, standing in the warm summer air on a Mardi Gras float, pretending to kenoodle. Well, I didn't have to dig very deep to find attraction and emotion for Matt. He's quite pretty, whip smart and funny. He thinks I'm a laugh riot. In our scenes, we were very romantic. Not acting, much.

Off-set, we reverted back to our usual selves. He'd put on his iPOD ear buds, and I'd take out my Uncle Vanya script. Any romance we experienced only happened in the context of acting, during the show. Hence, a show-mance.

After 4 nights of long hours, I was wiped out. Took me 36 hours to recover my sleep. I worked 12-hour nights, from 6pm to 6am, bicycling home with the bartenders. Despite the fatigue, I did enjoy the newness of the whole experience. What a great first film experience! Dressing room, hair and make-up people on me, a production assistant shlepping me water and coffee. Thank you Sony Pictures! Everybody was super nice, and only a couple fakey-fake "L.A. types".

Today I rode my bicycle in the French Quarter, and a young woman shouted "hey, you're Prince Charming from the Mardi Gras float!" Recognized! She was probably another extra or lives on the location of our shoot.

"Why yes, ma'am, that's me. That's exactly who I am."

Mardi Gras - The Movie

2008-06-17T13:56:00.007-05:00

Last night I did my first-ever acting job on a movie. "Mardi Gras" stars Carmen Electra, some hot young guy from "Heroes", and yours truly. Actually, I'm an extra, but an Extra-special extra, a VIP extra. I have a dressing room! And a name. I play a character called "Jonathan's boyfriend" who has no lines but is important to the plot. Which all means that I get a dressing room, eat steak with the principal actors, and hang out in the air-conditioning between takes.

I get paid like an extra though.

Last night I worked 12 hours, from 5pm to 5am, all thru the night, staging a fake, but very convincing Mardi Gras parade (except the part about it being June.) I rode aboard the Queen's float, standing beside Empress Electra, handing her beads and holding her sceptor. My boyfriend Jonathan and I wore matching purple: velvet Duke's robes, capes, and plumed hats (did I mention the part about it being June?) Empress Electra was dressed like a cross between Queen Elizabeth I and Ann Margaret. Big collar, shapely gams.

Film is an odd acting experience, stop-start. The camera rolls for 10 seconds, they yell "cut", re-set the shot for 20 minutes, then roll the same scene for another 10 seconds. Cut. Totallly different than stage, where you inhabit the life of a character for a continuous hour-and-a-half, and interact with a live audience. Totally different buzz. I was buzzed last night after the movie too, but mostly from the new experience. I was so fatigued I felt nauseous.

Reviews Are In

2008-05-20T16:37:00.004-05:00

"Insanely involving. When you're not laughing, you're watching with your mouth agape." David Cuthbert, Times-Picayune

The reviews of Butch are coming in. Very positive. We've decided to extend 2 weeks. We'll also be adding a Sunday matinee, but have not yet announced it officially. Things are going great!

"This surprisingly entertaining oddity is delivered with complete commitment by Frederick Mead, whose subtle, gender-specific, ever-changing vocal inflections, physical stance and crazy-eyed performance is a knockout."

Out Comes Butch

2008-05-08T11:35:00.011-05:00

Tonight I debut a one-man show to New Orleans, Out Comes Butch, a 50-minute monologue written in San Francisco in the 1970s about gender identity and self-creation. Over the course of the monologue, I transform into 6 different characters, with costume changes happening in real time. I'm working with 6 very distinct voices for the men, women, straights, gays, lesbians, transgendered.

I adore the costumes. Veronica Russell, who costumes the Louisiana Living History Theatre and of course made my John James Audubon clothes, really worked with me and the script to develop visual transformations. Some pieces tear off, some tie on. For each of the "Butches", Veronica developed a strong look. My favorite piece is the leisure suit jacket with the pink flamingo on the back.

The space is quirky, but works well for the material. It's a notorious former drug den, the Voodoo Lounge, on the very edge of the French Quarter. The name sounds like underbelly glam, but Voodoo was pretty icky. They shut down and nobody noticed. Michael Martin, my director and friend, is taking the risk of re-opening the Voodoo as a theatre folks hang out, with performance and rehearsal space for rent. Out Comes Butch is the debut show. Overlapping my rehearsals, Michael's housemates have been mopping, dumping, and wiping yuck out. Smells like Pine Sol now.

More to come...

Pulling Up Trees by the Roots

2008-04-27T14:06:00.010-05:00

I wrote Crossover in a heat, 5 days of sustained concentration, waking up in the morning to peck at keys, arranging and expanding the tropes on my lunch breaks at work, at night delaying sleep to smooth out the diction and reveal more meaning.

It’s odd to have a relationship with a poem. I recite it aloud to myself several times every day, exploring its resonance with me. At times it feels like an emotional touchstone when I feel churned up. Other times it feels like the memory of intense emotions. Reading it feels like a statement. I’ve said something meaningful. That’s what I ask most for from myself in my writing, that it be meaningful.

Now that I’m done with the first draft, I’m ready to read it aloud in public. Had 2 opportunities so far, but neither came to fruition. So far, only Michael Martin has heard the poem aloud. I’ve emailed it to several other friends, mostly in Seattle where the poem is set, but also to Victory, the older man who was very influential on the poem (and on me), and to Boychick, its catalyst.

The poem seems to communicate with gay men in particular, men my age. I’ve received a few email comments, especially calling out the phrase “desire pulling up coastal trees by the roots.” Must be a common enough experience.

I’m learning from this poem. About my ability to discern between desire and circumstances, about drifting versus conscious navigation through life, about my emotional maturity, and about my relationship to desire in the larger, existential sense, or Buddhist sense.

Crossover

2008-04-19T09:05:00.039-05:00

This summer I turned 40. I returned to Seattle to celebrate. The imagery of this poem comes from that time and location.

Crossover
by Frederick Mead

It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.

Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?

Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.

A Poem Coming On...

2008-04-13T13:07:00.113-05:00

These are phrases and bits that may become a poem. Don't know how they fit together yet. Check back for progress...

original impulse
new text
deleted
________________________________

It We It takes a decisive,
heretical step
to become a man
to cross water yes, with without caveats
insecuritiesy, failed courage fails
seeing only my our need on the iron horizon,
mad infatuations, desires forever
pulling up small coastal trees
by the roots, yet then dissatisfied but unsatisfied,
discards them the trunks like so much flotsam building along constructing on to the shore,
constructing a driftwood barricade of driftwood
that only fog washes over

In a Through the this dense fog,
a the our ferryboat navigating bravely navigates
the chain of San Juan islands in the fog, emeralds
emerging then receding, emerging then receding in the fog.
in the fog. We can see, no stars or sun to guide us.
anxiety Is it heresy to trust an unseen Captain?
in the fog. Who's permission do we need
to take command?

breathless on the farther shore, surprised,
when safely we safely arrive safely Upon safely arrival at the terminal,.
breathless, we see trace a our a finger over the relief map
and realize apprehend in retrospect realizing in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have followed all along.

heresy
What guidance can do the stars and sun even give provide?
and that stars are merely wishes
and dreams achieved manifested
through possibility,
the sun, melting like merely an egg yolk
melting through my our fingers,
food comfort for the next voyage

Stars are wishes...

2008-04-12T17:21:00.005-05:00

Glad I talked to the older guy. We met for coffee this morning. I was nervous that I'd have to talk a lot about myself, about my feelings (bleh) but he did most of the talking. All I had to do was state the problem, and he went into a trance. Whether he's psychic or not, I felt a deep communication happening. It's amazing the way some people can really read another person.

He said exactly what I expected the hear, but hearing it makes the difference. Nothing was a surprise, except how clear he was, and how specific to my situation. Knowing me very little, except socially and on stage, he was astonishing at his knowledge of my inner workings. "You're not into seduction. You expect people to see you, understand how wonderful you are, and go for it. Well, that's just a fantasy." Ouch, but spot on. I've been sitting alone on bar stools for 20 years waiting to be approached, cursing my un-attractiveness.

He told me what to expect now that I'm entering my 40s. I have a future of mad infatuations with younger, brilliant guys ahead of me. And I'm entering a period of rich imagination, which I should enjoy. Be in the moment, accept what is, and create what you want. "Stars are wishes and dreams achieved through possibility." He told me to take command.

Then he got down to brass tacks and told me my approach was wrong. He outlined a new approach and gave specific examples. Hot! examples.

Mona Rogers in Person

2008-04-10T17:09:00.003-05:00

Last night was Opening Night for a performance-art play, Mona Rogers in Person, that we're mounting at a gallery in the Bywater. All the typical Opening Night things to report: small house, but on our side. They laughed, hung out after to greet us. Few minor line flubs, bunch of lighting gaffs. High energy from the cast. The usual.

Here's our first "review". It's located in the comment section below my announcement of the show.

I had a blast. So fun to be on stage again, to work with friends, and to learn from Agnes. And it was fun to become this character, Mona Rogers. My transformation is slowest of the 5 actors. I start as a businessman with briefcase, and gradually transform into blond bombshell. By the time I burst onstage in heels, wig and aqua eye shadow, I'm her.

2008-04-09T18:25:00.001-05:00

Think I need the advice of a much older guy.

2008-04-08T09:01:00.003-05:00

Maybe this is not love?

End of the Tunnel

2008-03-30T14:28:00.004-05:00

Writing is going very well. I'm making good progress on my so-called "difficult chapter". It's difficult because I'm in middle territory, flying blind, pecking forward one keystroke at a time. But I've arrived at that place where I see a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe only 4 or 5 more writing sessions before I hear the "click" that tells me to stop.

I recognize the pattern. Two dramatic scenes followed by a reflection on the meaning of the chapter. The reflection happens as a conversation between the protagonist and his mentor. Mentorship is a repeating motif.

Trying to Learn

2008-03-30T13:42:00.009-05:00

Here's what I understand so far: All he wanted was affection from an older man. Unfortunately for me, he used sexiness to get my attention, and once secured, he then had to manage me, fend off my advances while maintaining my interest. How stressful for him. But he's been here before. He was able to predict that he would break my heart, and was right. I don't think he's at all malicious, but he does not seem to see how he creates this scenario. He's doing it now in fact, with a mutual friend.

He did. He did. He did. I’m tired of hearing myself blame him. I did. I did. I did. I ignored the red flags. I swung hot and cold, in and out of my shell. I scolded him when I should have told him what I wanted. I ignored my own better judgment, saw only my need.

Here's what I understand about me: I don't know how to separate affection from love. I'm not talking about sex and love. They're too easy to separate. But affection... I can relate to his need for affection from an older man. I think most American men walk around starved for affection from their fathers, spilling over into our adult relationships. If I'm already sexually interested in a man, and I believe I have a chance at romance, add affection to the mix, and I'm lost.

I do believe I had a narrow window of opportunity. We might have connected. He was considering it, but then I dropped the ball or he changed his mind. Regardless, the rules changed, and that messed me up. Now I'm trying to reprogram my beliefs to "I’ll never have a satisfying relationship with this guy." That's difficult for me to accept. Honestly, I really don’t accept it, not emotionally. The soul knows only that it is hungry. The danger is, lest by a lie, we convince ourselves we are not. But intellectually I see the pattern and can prognosticate the future. We won’t be together.

In the short term I have a lot more heartache ahead of me because I don’t want to lose his friendship. In part, because I love him and want him in my life. But also out of pride. I’m embarrassed at the way I mishandled a very similar situation a few years ago. I am glad that particular young man is gone from my life, but that whole melodrama is an object lesson for me this time around. I’d rather not be so reactive and irrational. I’d rather not lose this friendship.

What to do? Can I be near him, love him, suffer the rejection, know the irrationality of the whole situation, and be ok? I guess I have to, since this is the path I’ve chosen. What are my other choices? Get drunk, seek dangerous sex that fails to comfort me, cling to the next guy in the line-up? Swallow my hurt, and then lash out?

Or just let it wash over me...

The Zen of Easter

2008-03-23T11:12:00.007-05:00

Today is the first Easter since I was a kid that I even give a damn. Easter is usually just another Sunday, with lamb. We have a fat leg roasting in the oven right now. Plus a cabbage from our garden. Today I look forward to Easter because I'll be riding on a float in the Gay Easter Parade, which winds thru the French Quarter. There are neighborhood parades all over New Orleans today. I may stop off at another parade on my way to the one I'm in! New Orleanians sure like to parade.

It's gorgeous here today. In the 70s, sunny with a mild breeze from the Mississippi River. I hope a couple cute guys I like show. Or I meet someone new. That would be good for me, because I'm hung up on someone I can't have. I hate that tension, that disconnection between the mind and the emotions. Everything I know tells me to get the frack away from this younger man. He's not available to me. Which, of course, makes him ideal. What? You're married with kids in another state? You're perfect for me! Emotionally crippled and a liar? That rings my bell! Sure wish I could figure out this dysfunction and fix it at the core.

I've been here before. In fact, exactly here before, hung up on a younger guy who gives me mixed messages, plays cat-and-mouse, treats me like his boyfriend except in bed. When it suits him, he reminds me we're not boyfriends by hurting my feelings, then turns around and coaxes me back out of the shell I retreat into. Aye. The last time I was here culminated in drunken tears (God that was embarassing!) and the loss of a friendship.

Yes, we did talk. A couple weeks ago we had the all-important "what are we doing?" conversation. We (he) decided that we're not dating, which makes complete sense intellectually. Just wish my heart would catch up. Eventually, soon probably, he'll introduce me to a new boyfriend, or some guy will hit on him in front of me and they'll go home together. When that time comes, I sure pray I've got someone else in my life, or I'm just in a better place emotionally.

This time I'm trying to learn. Just trying to pay attention to what I'm doing, to notice how I react. Pretty much I've been walking around since New Years with a heavy heart, wincing at rejections, biting my tongue. I don't want to be hurt, angry, reactive guy. I hate being that guy. But the best I can manage is to realize that I *am* that guy sometimes. I watch it happen, and try to observe the mental construction. Zazen training comes in handy.

There's a Buddhist story about a monk who was attacked by a tiger. As the tiger ate the monk, he realized he could not escape, that he was about to die, and that he felt great suffering. He saw this experience as a gateway to Enlightenment. As his body died in the jaws of the tiger, he observed himself, observed his experience and reactions. His deeper mind saw the mental construction as independent from his true self. He saw the truth of No Self, and gave himself to the universe. He died, but did not die at all. Isn't that the point of Easter?

Back on the Ball

2008-03-10T20:23:00.006-05:00

Writing is picking up. I’m writing the novel 2 or 3 times a week, plus this personal blog and the theatre blog for Gambit Weekly. Blog writing is usually a good indicator of my relationship to writing in general. If I’m avoiding the novel, I’m not writing anything. So it’s good to be back on the ball. Just wish I had, made, gave, more time to writing.

The writer I call my mentor, Dorothy Allison, will arrive in New Orleans in a couple months for the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival. I’d like to have something new to show her. One or 2 more chapters.

Last weekend, I read at a literary salon. Marda Burton, a travel writer and French Quarter socialite, has hosted this almost-monthly salon for years. Everyone in her graciously appointed apartment knew everybody else, all wealthy, Proustian FQ denizens, except me. I live on the other side of the railroad tracks, downriver. I was by far the youngest person. The only brunette. Despite all the champagne I kicked back, I felt uncomfortable until I read.

I prepared a 7-minute excerpt from a chapter in which the Pastor’s daughter, Sharon, is a hero. I felt very confident in reading. It was extremely well received by the group. One writer even said “I can’t follow that young man. We’re in the presence of a master.” Oh my. Unfortunately, some people I wanted to impress--a National Book award finalist and a local publisher--were on the balcony also kicking back the champagne and yucking it up.

Anyway, I read. I survived. I did well. And I gained motivation from it, re-discovering my love for the novel and my characters. Sharon felt really alive for me as I read.

Irresistible Gravity

2008-03-08T10:27:00.006-06:00

Theater has an irresistible gravity these days. My world revolves around theater more than ever before in my life. I see 2 or 3 plays a week. I recently auditioned for 3, was cast in 2. And I'm organizing, with Gloria Powers, the Big Easy Theater Awards. And I write a weekly theater blog for Gambit Weekly.

Big Easy Theatre Awards
I work for the foundation that produces the Big Easy Entertainment Awards, one for theater and one for popular music. Last month we also produced an award program for Classical music, ballet, and opera. This year, I have more of a hand in the theater awards gala. I'm on the nominating committee, I tallied all the nominations, ordered the awards, suggested performers from nominated shows to the producer, Margo DuBos, and arranged their order in the line-up. Next week I do seating.

ORIGIN
Still waiting to hear, but moving forward as though we're accepted to DramaRama with our 15-minute excerpt from the radio play. My cast returns, except for 1. The part of the young woman, the "Nancy Drew" of the mystery, is now played by the voice of Mandy Turner. Yay! Love Mandy, and she's in demand. Mary Pauley returns to do her amazing voice work, playing 2 different characters in conversation with each other. I'll do the sound effects myself this time, as Cammie West is committed to 2 other DramaRama productions already. Plus it gives me something to do besides wring my hands. My original keyboardist is not available, so I'm courting my ex-boyfriend, Striking Southern Gentleman, to play.

Audubon in New Orleans
I'm currently re-reading select passages from the Audubon diaries. Amongst my collection of Audubon references, I have an anthology of his writings, including diary entries, letters to his much-loved wife, and selections from the Ornithological Encyclopdia, the companion to the book of paintings. At DramaRama, I also hope to perform Audubon in New Orleans as a storyteller, without a word-for-word script. Instead, I draw from a body of knowledge and extemporarize in the moment. I know the arc of the larger story I'm telling, and the 3 main incidents that construct the arc. Audubon will speak, in his own words, about his experiences in New Orleans in 1820, a major turning point in his artistic development.

Mona Rogers in Person
Director Agnes de Garron is a force of nature. I expect non-stop inspired wackiness the entire trip with Agnes on this project. Mona Rogers in Person is a one-woman show performed by 6 actors. 21 short monologues are distributed amongst an extremely diverse cast. Agnes cast some actors I really like to work with, Michael Martin (see Out Comes Butch and Uncle Vanya below), Mary Pauley (see ORIGIN above), and Brad Brooks.

I know Agnes from the New Orleans Radical Faeries and also from the San Francisco order of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Agnes is a founder of the order.

Out Comes Butch
Director Michael Martin has dangled this carrot as long as we've known one another. The time has come, and we're meeting today to talk schedule and logistics. Out Comes Butch is a one-man show in which I transform over 40 minutes into 5 different characters, all telling a continuous story. We'll have cut-away costumes and wigs on stage. I'd also love a change-able set piece, like panels that unfold to reveal another locale. The play was written in San Francisco in the 70s, and makes period references to "human potential" proponents like EST and Erich Fromm.

Uncle Vanya
This is another ambitious project by Michael Martin and his production company, Four Humours. The entire company is involved in this project, to ensure it sees an Opening Night, I suspect. A lot of people, including me, were disappointed that Michael cancelled his Night of the Iguana production. I'm on board for Uncle Vanya because it's Chekhov, I've got a good role (Doctor Astrov), and I hope to have future opportunities to direct for this company.

Taking the Backseat to Carnival

2008-02-09T13:57:00.009-06:00

Fat Tuesday was 4 days ago, and I'm still feeling it in my shoulders, my back, probably my liver, but I can't tell. A general queasiness and exhaustion? Drinking lots of water and home-made spinach soup. Getting good sleep and trying not to be too cranky, but it's a challenge. Ask my housemates.

San Francisco Visits
My SF friend Matt Levine came to visit for a week over Mardi Gras, and stayed at my place. It was special to have him here with me, experiencing New Orleans the way I do. We caroused, roaming under the influences of alcohol, joy, and prescription medications. I fondled a male stripper from Montreal. Matt got to march in a Mardi Gras parade, a good one too, Muses. His first-ever Mardi Gras parade, and he got to march IN IT as a tech assistant to the butterflies. More pics coming soon.

How do I explain what's happening in this costume? "Grey Gardens" was the theme of the Radical Faerie costume ball. Rather than portray a specific person from the documentary, I decided to embody the name: Grey Gardens. My headpiece has sticks, birds, and a nest with robins eggs. Let's just say, I was not going for pretty with this costume. More like a mind fuck.

I slapped Matt into costumes nearly every time we left the house. Costume parties galore, including the Ste Anne ball, the Ste Anne march, and the Purple Party. We costumed for parades. After dark, we rushed home and changed into boy drag, then hit the bars.

Oy, I'm feeling it today.

Novel Progress
Matt read a recent chapter from the first-draft binder, and told me to celebrate my progress. I admitted I've been having a crisis of faith, of confidence, a reluctance to write at all, even on the blog. Of course I'm always writing, but not always with serious intent. I know I should cut myself some slack and factor Mardi Gras into whatever life goals I plan around this time of year. Writing definitely took the backseat to Carnival, but as a result, I'm back with new inspiration.

Today I feel optimistic about re-approaching the difficult chapter. Think I see an entrance point, ironically, in the ending. And I see a significant scene of the next chapter too. And getting back to the blog is a good indicator of my attitude toward writing in general. My blog is often warm-up for the novel.

No Woman No Cry
I recently had a few rapid-burst crushes that I'm now over. My favorite crush is not into me. I see him on occasion, and it eats at me. But oh well. Move on, right? In the meantime, I dated a youngun' who caused me much anxiety and ultimately cured me of my crush on him. Over Mardi Gras, I also met a younger, sweeter version of the one who made me anxious, but it was short-lived, and he returned to New York on Ash Wednesday. Alas, alas.
Next!

It Boils Down to Sentences

2008-01-10T19:27:00.000-06:00

It's been hard to get back to writing. A New Year's romance, Living History, organ donation training (more on that later). Now Mardi Gras is upon us.

When I need to find my way back to the path, I go back to the basics. Reading good fiction, reading about writing, and yoga. Currently I'm reading A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain by Robert Olen Butler, which I began, what, a couple months ago? Back to it. Also re-reading my second favorite nuts-and-bolts fiction textbook, The Art of Fiction by John Gardner, who is very much a role model. On Moral Fiction resonates very strongly with me. Gardner is querulous, opinionated, and practical. However my first favorite nuts-and-bolts fiction textbook is Steering the Craft by Ursula Leguin. It all boils down to sentences.

I've been practicing yoga again, regularly for a couple weeks now. My low back hurt during the Living History project, and I did stress my back with yoga, so took a break. Now my back is healthier and more pliable, and I'm into a pleasurable routine again. Signing up for a gym membership, hopefully tomorrow.

The organ donation thing.
I had an acting job last week that was intense, and paid well. A Seattle company hires Improv actors to conduct employee trainings. We enact scenarios that simulate real-world, high stress situations. The world in this case is organ donation. We worked with grief counselors and nurses to help them approach grieving families to broach the topic of organ donation. Time is critical. 92000 people wait for organs right now. The actors create a safe environment for the counselors to work, within the context of highly-charged emotion.

I took the news 21 times, and sobbed each time. It was exhausting. The body doesn't know the difference between real grief and stage grief, if you're really feeling it. I was. Each time.

I feel like I did something positive, meaningful in a measurable way--lives saved. Since this training program began in October, consent rates in Louisiana have increased from 43 to 73 percent. One consent can save 7 to 50 lives, including bone and tissue donations. I'll gladly do the work again.

Le Mot Juste

2007-12-30T13:01:00.001-06:00

Christmas day was our last as the historic New Orleans characters. I came to really like John James Audubon by the end. He was passionately devoted to his artistic goal, at the expense of his safety, his personal fortune, and even his family's comfort. You could say Audubon was a neglectful husband and father, but his diaries and letters to his wife reveal how deeply he loved them. Regardless, he finished his epic project, "The Birds of America" and the companion book, "The Ornithological Biographies".

In front of Preservation Hall, I met an entire family descended from Audubon's business partner. Rozier is a significant character in the Audubon story, and of course his family knows the story well. It was magical to TELL the story to them, to see their nods of recognition, the occasional sparkle in the eye when I happened to say the mot juste: "So which of you will pay the money Rozier still owes me?"

Currently I'm at the Sound Cafe in the Bywater neighborhood, where I live, to work on my own writing. The novel calls. I'm in another rough spot, the beginning of a new chapter. I jab, perry, thrust with my pen, but have not yet gained any mastery. It's always this way. I have the goals in sight. I know what I need to portray. It's the "doing" that's challenging, at least until things pick up. In this chapter, my protagonist must ACT. He cannot be a victim of circumstance, but must choose and act, with the consequences evident to the reader.

I'm distracted by a new crush.

Listen Live!

2007-12-12T15:42:00.001-06:00

I'm very proud of my radio play, ORIGIN. My cast was strong (and funny), the sound effects fun, and the music sufficiently eerie. You can listen to ORIGIN over the Web, from the link below. Sadly, only the first 20 minutes of the 40-minute performance was recorded. Sound quality improves after the intro song.

NOTE: References to partner radio stations and generous development grants from New Orleans arts organizations are purely wishful thinking on the part of the author.

Turn down your lights, snuggle up to your sweetheart, and prepare yourself for the journey...to ORIGIN.

You can also listen to our opening act, two 15-minute cliff-hangers from 1939, back-to-back episodes of Captain Midnight, episodes 167 and 168, originally aired October 17 & 18, 1939.

Rara Avis

2007-11-29T12:51:00.000-06:00

I've spent the entire month of November researching and rehearsing the role of John James Audubon, painter, naturalist, and business man. The more I research, the more I like this guy. He was truly an American original, a rare bird.

Audubon was consumed by a passion to create a monumental work of both science and art, The Birds of America, which made him famous. 435 paintings depicting 1000 birds native to North America. His genius was to paint his bird specimens "in the size of life." The pages of his double-elephant folio are 3 feet by 2 feet and require a special desk to display them properly; and yet the long-necked flamingo must still bend down to gobble-up some small animal, which is Audubon's other inspiration: to depict the real drama of life. In his paintings, birds protect their young, defend their food, and awaken in the morning to the fangs of a snake. He depicts birds astonished by his own rifle shot.

In Europe he promoted himself as the "American Woodsman" at the height of the Romantic Era's infatuation with the American frontier and "noble savages". Audubon was in fact an excellent marksman, and killed thousands of birds in pursuit of his ornithological studies. He ate, yes, many of the specimins, and documented their flavors as well as their physical and behavioral characteristics in his companion work, Ornithological Biographia, which made his fortune. He catalogued over 500 native American bird species, all from first-hand observation in the new frontier.

For the month of December, you may see me walking the French Quarter with a group of 14 other historical New Orleans personalities. Marie Laveau is quite convincing. So is Andrew Jackson and the Baroness Pontalba. We're a fun group of actors, all of whom really get nerdy on research. I've read 2 biographies, a National Geographic article, and much online material. I viewed an American Masters documentary about Birds of America, and also read his diary from 1820-21, a significant year in Audubon's aesthetic development, right here in New Orleans. There's a park and zoo here named in his honor.

Words and Music

2007-11-24T21:37:00.000-06:00

I attended a literary conference last weekend, Words and Music, which has wrongly been called The Faulkner Festival because it's sponsored by the folks at the Faulkner House bookstore, an elegant but expensive and often pretentious bookstore in the French Quarter. I should not speak disparagingly about Faulkner House because they let me attend the conference for free, and were instrumental in setting up a meeting for me with a literary agent. Ostensibly I was a volunteer, but all I did was press Play on a tape recorder, and then half an hour later turned over the tape and pressed Play again. Then I was relieved by another volunteer, and spent the next 2 days drinking coffee and scoffing at the grandiose pronouncements of self-appointed literary pontiffs.

My least favorite pronouncement: "Poets make the best fiction writers because they are sensitive to language and understand the primacy of the image." But in my experience, poets make some of the WORST fiction writers because they are self-conscious about language and overdose on image, while neglecting to tell a STORY. The pontiff who made that pronouncement then read his own work, which made my case. All image, no story. All style, no substance. I would re-phrase that pronouncement as "Fiction writers should read poetry."

I did hear good content too, good as in useful. Pulitzer winner Robert Olen Butler spoke eloquently about the relationship of the artist to the unconscious, in particular, to dreaming. I met him about 3 years ago and had a similar conversation one on one. He can get pretty out there, but having recently read Carl Jung's essay, Approaching the Unconscious, I was in a better frame of mind to appreciate Butler's ideas.

Right now I'm reading his Pulitzer collection of short stories, A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain, most of which are set here in New Orleans in the Vietnamese refugee communities. The stories are moving and surprising in their emotional range. Three years ago he said to me "Don't worry about the particulars of culture. Just make sure the emotion is real. You can add the particulars later." Or something to that effect. I take his advice to heart, because I do believe and practice the primacy of CHARACTER in fiction. Story arises from character, as does resolution. At least in the kinds of stories I like and try to write.

The meeting with the agent went well, although honestly, I'm not looking for an agent right now. I'm not there yet. I need to finish my first draft, let it cool, then write the second draft. Jeff Kleinman and I agreed that I've still got a ways to go (about 2 years, I estimate), but when I'm ready he wants me to send him the first 3 chapters. He liked what I showed him. He even said "wow, you can really write!" But when he wanted to discuss copy edits, like commas and parallel sentence structure, I cut him short and asked him not to waste both of our times. So we dug into the technical aspects of my work, in particular, Point of View.

POV is the THE technical challenge of my novel. Check this out: I have a first person "I" narrator, who is effectively omniscient, yet restricts each chapter to a different character's experience, which is called "limited third person." Have I covered all the possible POV choices?

First person
Omniscience
Limited third person

Yup, that pretty much covers it.

Why did I set the bar so high for myself? I really didn't choose to, per se. It is the strategy that makes most sense for an angel to narrate a story about a family. Kleinman did not criticize my choice, but said merely to tread carefully, which I am. It's taken me 13 chapters to finally feel I have POV under control. In the end, you learn to write a novel by writing it. Today I'm confident in Goodfriend's storytelling ability, that he won't confuse readers or disrupt the flow of a story by interjecting some personal observation.

Kleinman also gave me some wrong-headed advice. Although he certainly understands craft, he is not a writer in his orientation. He's an agent, a sales guy. He cautioned me to be aware of market forces as I write, and to avoid comparison to such and such a popular novel. I told him I plan to ignore that advice. I actually do believe and practice the Romantic Era notion of the bohemian artist and Art for Art's sake. That doesn't make for marketable fiction, but I'm just conceited enough to believe that when I'm finished with my novel, someone will think it's publishable on its own aesthetic merits, and not because of some market trend 2 years out from now that I can't anticipate.

If I really wanted to get published rather than create meaningful art, I'd write a memoir, like all the 20-something MFA graduates who write the story of their childhood abuse or teenage angst. Aside from Arthur Rimbaud, what does a 20-year-old have to say about the world that I care to read? Augustin Burroughs (of Running with Scissors infamy) is coming out with his 8th memoir this year. Dude, get an imagination.

I heard a new term at the conference that tickled me, the "mom-oir".

That 3rd Voice from My Past

2007-11-23T15:50:00.000-06:00

I've had 2 big loves in my life so far. David Roy Nash in Canada, who died. And Craig, an ostensibly "straight" boy in Minneapolis. Craig's the 3rd voice from my past who's come out of the woodwork recently. It's been 12 years. Our breakup was painful for a long time.

Now and then I’ve checked Google for mentions of him, maybe an email address. I found music reviews he’s written and other online references to him, but no way to contact until I signed up for MySpace.com. Craig has a profile online and I wrote that. Didn’t hear from him for several days and figured it was another blind alley or that he’d deleted me. But then I did hear back.

He sent me a short story, a coming-out story actually. And the name of the gay love interest rhymes with mine. I tartly mentioned this in my reply, but also gave him thoughtful feedback on his work, structure and character-development stuff. Didn't hear back for 2 weeks, and thought I may have embarrassed or intimidated him, or just plain put him off with the reminder that "Frederick gets his feelings easily hurt."

On further reflection, I don’t think Craig's trying to bait me with a coming-out story, for as much as I've wanted him to be gay over the years. I think instead he was trying to connect with me across the gap of 12 years by sending me a story that demonstrates he can write sensitively about a topic close to my heart, coming-out, the foundational gay experience. It needs work, his story. But I don’t see any deeper agenda other than a desire to impress and reconnect with me. Writing was our original connection. But Craig took a big risk in sending that story to me, the injured party, the one who got rejected over just that very issue, NOT coming out. Craig's not telling me he’s gay by sending that particular story. He never will.

I feel longing for him keenly and for the potent connection we used to share, but tempered now (fortunately) by experience of disappointment. At 40, I do know how to keep my expectations in check, just not my longing. He appears in my dreams, although in reality he couldn’t be farther away. Married with kids in Minneapolis. I’ve had very hard crushes before, but I felt truly connected to these 2 men, David and Craig. I speculate that Craig felt something similar, something strong that brings him back now. Or it's Autumn. He wrote me today to ask how the radio play went.

It would be a very good idea for me to be dating someone else right now. No strong prospects though. There's 1 fellow I'm attracted to, but he's mercurial and didn’t even respond to my last invitation, to be my date at my radio play. Not sure I should even bother contacting him again, but I’d like a date for my friend Michael Martin’s current one-man show, Bachelor in New Orleans.

Michael got a great write-up and his photo in the paper today. He’s a critic’s darling, and David Cuthbert can’t rave about him enough. Some of that favoritism rubbed off on me a little. I think Cuthbert’s been recently generous to me in his column because of my involvement with Michael. We make a compelling theatrical pairing I think. And we do share a preference for risky, far off-beat theatre.

Back to the Main Storyline

2007-11-14T16:34:00.000-06:00

Ahh...finished the ancient China chapter. Printed 2 copies: 1 for the binder and 1 for my writing mentor.

Now back to the main storyline, set in the West Bank of New Orleans, on Pelican Avenue in Algiers. The villain publicly challenges my hero. Hero gains something, but loses something in the bargain.

Poked at Goodfriend for about an hour today, plus some time this morning re-reading the chapters I’ve already finished. Trying to get myself kick-started on the new chapter, and of course it feels slow. I’m in that wool-gathering phase that I’ve learned to respect as necessary to the process. Just have to be patient, and suddenly, movement happens.

To my surprise, I have 1400 words already, and the emergence of 3 major scenes. That’s a story. I know the arc. I see the beginning, middle, and end. I’m well upon the way. But as I said, it feels slow at this stage, and I’ve lost the patience to sit with it for now.

Voices from My Past

2007-11-08T16:49:00.000-06:00

Voices from my past have materialized this week. 3, in fact.

Amar
Felix Freeman, who I knew as Amar, was 1 of my very few friends in Seattle when I was 19. I was deeply wounded then, fiercely independent, a loner. I needed a sweet friend like Amar. He was a gentle, British young man, 24, totally straight (alas) with madcap curly brown hair and a very kind heart, although he had good reason to be bitter, yet wasn't. Recently he'd left a cult:

Salmonella

During our friendship, Amar and I learned that their leader, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, had fled the country, leaving behind multiple Rolls Royces. Amar gave me his woolen Rajneeshee robe, a turtle-neck sweater that extends from neck to floor. I wear it on Halloween with an A on my chest. AL-VIN!

He goes by Tony now and sends me email from London. Amar was a lovely man and taught me watercolors.

Captain Midnight
Captain Midnight was better known as Daniel when we were nerd-league friends at Edna Karr Junior High. I'm embarrassed to say I was cruel to him back then. Yes, short, Bible-thumpin', nerdy, faggy 13-year-old me was cruel to Daniel. He was fat. Don't think he is so much now, and it doesn't even matter of course. But at the time, I know I lashed my barbed tongue his way now and then. I even wrote a mean comic book.

We were in the Gifted program, and took a LOT of field trips, including a week in Mexico. Daniel and I shared a hotel room in Merida, Mexico with a sort of boyfriend of mine at the time. Michael Loveless wasn't love-less in 8th grade. Us 3 being friends, and probably the 3 nerdiest of the nerd league, we were put together. We accidentally flooded our hotel room, letting the shower run over the bathroom step. The hotel's Artesian pool, directly below our room, was a little fuller in the morning. Oddly, all these years since Merida I've thought we went to Belize. Captain Midnight set me straight. He still lives in the New Orleans area. Hope he comes to see the radio play, ORIGIN. We're also performing a couple 15-minute Captain Midnight episodes.

How to Dress for Radio

2007-11-04T15:49:00.000-06:00

4 hours at Fair Grinds Coffee House today with Harriet Sheehey, a regular Write Club-ber. Made good progress on the ancient China chapter. To prepare for the re-entry into that difficult closing scene--where the mentor and the monk discuss the sacrifice of a friend--I read Thich Nhat Hanh, a contemporary Zen teacher from Vietnam. In his chapter entitled, "The 7 Factors of Awakening," I saw a way to depict a character transformation. I saw a pivot point and wrote around it. I'm almost done now. I'm ready to print a draft, read it aloud. Maybe 1 or 2 more passes, then the click. I print 2 copies, one for the binder, one to mail.

Had a nice promotional write-up of ORIGIN in the Living section of Saturday's Times-Picayune:

I Want to Look My Best for the Radio Audience!

ORIGIN

War of the Worlds

Captain Midnight

Think I'll rent a tux.

War of the Worlds

2007-10-31T10:38:00.001-05:00

Last night, Oct 30, was the 69th anniversary of the original air-date for War of the Worlds by Mercury Theater on the Air, directed by my hero, Orson Welles. 69 years ago the world went mad over a radio show. What an auspicious night for our first read-thru of ORIGIN with the cast. Very much fun. I heard voice characterizations coming out, some good readings. We laughed a whole lot. I read for an Igor-like voice in a Captain Midnight melodrama.

In addition to ORIGIN, which is 30 minutes long, I'm adding two 15-minute serials of Captain Midnight, originally aired in 1938, the same year as War of the Worlds. Captain Midnight was a children's radio show that played for 15 minutes at 5 in the afternoon. It featured the hero, Captain Midnight, a good-guy pilot and smuggler, with his boy side-kick Chuck Ramsay. I love how perfectly dated these 2 episodes are, how they set the stage for what I'm attempting with ORIGIN, and provide a point of comparison. They're wacky! Way wacky melodrama.

Took my first reservations last night too.

An Unselfconscious Breath

2007-10-27T14:40:00.000-05:00

Taking a short break from the novel writing to organize my thoughts. I'm back in the ancient China chapter, and realize the ending needs work. In the hero's journey, as described by Joseph Campbell, after several trials or tests, the hero eventually gains the boon, the important self-realization that changes him. And incidentally gives him exceptional powers. The boon in this chapter is called an "unselfconscious breath", which Gu YuHuan experiences at the ending. This unselfconscious breath changes his awareness, and he sees the Pure Land (i.e. Heaven) all around him.

I'm trying to set up this transformation. In his case, Gu YuHuan's unselfconscious breath is more like a sigh. He realizes the profundity of his friend's sacrifice. He embraces his grief, and sees sorrow as the foreground of a wonder. These things are all stated or implied so far; now I'm trying to trigger that breath. He has a conversation with the head of the Gaomin order about his friend's sacrifice. And then using his meditative training described earlier in the chapter, Gu YuHuan breathes. It's that conversation that needs work.

Whenever I get stuck I switch gears and work on the next chapter in the sequence. I'm up to chapters 14 and 15 now. Chapter 15 returns to the main storyline, set just prior to Hurricane Katrina in Algiers, Louisiana, the West Bank of the Mississippi River, directly across from the French Quarter. Gu YuHuan, now called Goodfriend, picks up the main thread about the power struggle between 2 Baptist preachers. I'm glad to be back to the main storyline, taking definitive steps toward the final confrontation.

Radio Legend John Barber Joins ORIGIN

2007-10-25T14:28:00.000-05:00

A legend of New Orleans radio theater, John Barber, lends his baritone to the role of Radio Announcer, the voice of the Golden Age. John Barber's theater resume is deep and long, including film, television, stage, and radio drama. I'm excited to have John bring his radio expertise and enthusiasm to ORIGIN. "It's a super script," John says. "We'll have a hell of a good time!" He's 74 and bright-eyed and chock full of suggestions.

The theater reviewer from the Times-Picayune called me late last night with questions about ORIGIN. I expect there will be some kind of short write-up in David Cuthbert's weekly column. He said he really enjoyed my performance in Love at the Lounge. I didn't mention the bitchy review he gave me for Tennessee Williams' And Tell Sad Stories of the Deaths of Queens, which I still consider the best stage work I've done in New Orleans so far, or been involved with. But I'm glad for the positive attention.

On the phone, he asked, "Is this Frederick Mead, the actor and dramatist?" Dramatist? Moi? No one's ever called me a dramatist before, although I do write for the stage and direct. But I've just never thought of myself that way. In my mind, I'm a novelist who acts.

Does it matter? Aren't these all just labels? Yeah, but no. I think my reflection comes from a time in San Francisco, when I abandoned my very lucretive software career for art. I traveled the country for 5 years, couch surfing and housesitting, touching base every 6 months or so in SF, visiting New Orleans often. I wrote, went to writing conferences and workshops, and visited my people.

At the time, I clung to the title "writer" because it justified the privations I endured (still endure, but less so now). I sat up crying one night in a brown flop house, an SRO in SF. I've stayed in a few, but this one brought me to tears. People died in this place. That's not what I had signed on for when I decided to put writing first. So I fired up the laptop and wrote that night, almost an entire short story, about a Pastor's daughter and his wife. I love that story. I learned about conflict development in fiction. Can you imagine why that story's emotional journey wanders occasionally into the histrionic? Writer. It was something to cling to. And it led me here, to New Orleans, and to Goodfriend.

Hercules Audio Theater presents...

2007-10-22T17:09:00.000-05:00

...theater of the imagination! A new audio drama, Origin, directed and written by Frederick Mead.

Origin is a comic science fiction tale of alien abduction and government cover-up, performed on stage with live sound effects by Foley artist Cammie West and original music by Uncle Wayne Daigrepont. Voice actors John Joly, Mary Pauley, Molly Maginnis, and Kevin Songy bring life to this classic form of entertainment. One night only that is sure to charm and delight.

1 Night Only!
Thursday, Nov 15
8pm
$10 Advance purchase advised.

Marigny Theatre.
1030 Marigny and St Claude.
Ample parking on Marigny and Rampart.

Counting in Gay Years

2007-10-20T13:00:00.000-05:00

Ah, happy with some work I just did on the novel. It's another chapter in the 5 or 6 set in China, during the reign of Kubilai Kahn. A couple years ago, I read Marco Polo's travelogue, and was inspired. Today I made a second reference to Po Lo, who at this time would be a Magistrate and an apologist for the Kahn. It's a time of military occupation by a foreign power, and a time of rebellion. Today I wrote a kung fu fight, an escape, and a sacrifice. I depicted the main themes of my novel in a couple key transitional scenes, and connected the beginning and end. I feel this chapter coming into tight focus. There's more work to do, but I'm happy with the progress.

Only 2 shows left of Love at the Lounge. The show last night was a good one, very responsive audience who hung out afterwards to talk to us. The actors all agreed that it was a great show. We felt relaxed. A nice place to finally reach during a run. Everyone is more alive, more in their moments, communicating. We're having fun. And all of us have been offered other scripts to read. Yay!

Also happy with my poster for Origin, my radio play. Perfected a draft late last night after the show. I'm trying to get the green a nuclear green. Anyone know the CMYK or RGB values for nuclear green?

Today and probably tomorrow I'm auditioning voice actors over the phone for the main character of the radio play, Munchie, high-school stoner trapped inside a middle-aged body. Autobiography? Roman a clef? Probably. Except the part about middle-aged, unless you count in gay years.

Casting Origin

2007-10-17T17:08:00.000-05:00

Only 1 role remains uncast for my radio play, Origin. The main character, Munchie, high school stoner trapped inside a middle-aged body. I invite both men and women to read for the role of Munchie.

The auditions themselves were a fun experience, all set up as conference calls. The actors read together in groups of 4 over my speaker phone, while I recorded over the Internet. I emailed recordings of the auditions to each of the actors. Damned if the recordings don't sound just like 6 mini radio shows!

Aside from Munchie, here are the folks I've cast, plus our live Foley artist and keyboardist. Very fun group:

Radio Announcer/Senator Guidry/Mike Nichols
John Joly, film, stage, and voiceover actor with an Earth-rumbling baritone.

Nell Arsdale/Mother/demented crone/Elaine May
Mary Pauley, deeply experienced stage actress, most recently seen at Rivertown Rep. Right out of the gate, Mary impressed me with her natural delivery, voice characterizations, and that ineffable "50s radio voice."

Katie Brown (the Nancy Drew)/Girl
Molly Maginnis, a young actress I am happily working with on another production at the Hi Ho Lounge.

Live Foley artist
Cammie West, Big Easy award winner, Storer Boone award winner, and theatre sweetheart. She's done exactly this kind of sound work for Southern Rep's "Cabinet of Dr Caligari" and while in college.

Keyboardist
Uncle Wayne Daigrepont, legendary character actor, director and puppeteer, composing original "Hercules Audio Theatre" theme music, segue music, and "suspense" music for the performance. He played with silent films in NY and various musical gigs in New Orleans.

Can you imagine how much fun I'm having?

Extending My Reach

2007-10-16T11:42:00.000-05:00

So I guess my little blog has gotten me some attention. I'm now an "official" blogger for the Gambit Weekly newspaper's blogsite:
www.blogofneworleans.com.

I write the local theatre beat. No pay, but I'm extending my reach...

Auditions Scheduled

2007-10-13T11:46:00.000-05:00

Phew. Trying to coordinate the schedules of 15 voice actors into groups of 4. Looks good so far. On Sunday afternoon, in half hour blocks, 2, 3, or 4 actors will call a conference line to audition for me over the telephone.

I'm using FreeConferenceCall.com, an online conferencing service that also lets me record the calls. How great. Afterwards, I can download an MP3 of the auditions and play them back. We could also record our rehearsals, and play them back as a cast. !

Next I need the sound effects person. I have contact info for a couple legends of local radio, Fred Kasten and Paul Yacich. Surely they can point me toward a Foley artist.

A few musicians have written me about playing keyboard, but I have not yet replied. Ok, that's my task for today. Then design a flyer, track down 40 chairs (help) and microphones and amps. Then I need to set up my online box office with TicketWeb.com. I have a lifetime account, which was set up for me back in San Francisco.

I'm on the fence about charging admission for the event. It's a staged reading, not a full-on play. BUT, it's more than actors sitting on stools. There's music, sound effects, and rehearsed actors on stools. More of a visual and auditory theatre experience, in a nice setting, the Terrance Sanders gallery. I'm thinking of charging, really to control the flow. Open admission could bring in any old random folks off the street, which is fine; but 40 seats fill up fast. In particular I want to get the radio folks in, the theatre critics, arts administrators, folks who can help me get the project on the air.

Full House on a Thursday

2007-10-11T21:22:00.000-05:00

Well the Cuthbert review brought in a big house, full, for a THURSDAY! That bodes well for Friday and Saturday. Lots of Big Easy Theatre Award committee folks, plus actor friends (one who's oh so handsome but oh so closeted.)

We had a great show. A full audience will do that for you, give you feedback and energy to work with. I think my other male co-actor rushed a bit, ran over my lines and Lisa Davis' a few times. Adrenalin. Plus a couple more lighting flubs, but oh well.

The radio play is taking off. I've gotten an avalanche of good response. Not so many for the main character though, the teenage stoner, Munchie. All the men want to read for the resonant baritone, the Radio Announcer, even the college boys. I'm trying to direct the younger guys to nail the younger role. I even wrote cute young Andrew Larimer from the NOLA Project and asked him to audition for Munchie. He has a schedule conflict.

Today I posted the search for a keyboardist.

"Keyboardist needed to add a musical layer to a staged reading of a new radio play script. Have a flair for theatrical music plus commercial jingles of the 50s. Need you to compose a short (3 or 4 seconds) "Hercules Audio Theatre" theme, segue music between scenes, "suspense" music, and a jingle for a fake product called "Hormel brand Sloppy Seconds."

THEREMIN is a big PLUS. If you can approximate a spooky theremin sound on the keyboard, great. Also looking for a live Foley artist to create the sound effects layer."

I emailed a cousin in LA who's an Emmy nominated Foley artist. Long shot, I figured. She was excited by the project, but couldn't swing it. I told her she ought to consider moving to New Orleans. Film is boom right now in New Orleans. And most of the skilled labor comes from outside, shipped in for projects. She'd have her pick of work as a local.

So I'm feeling energized and confident. And now I'm getting stoned.

First Review is In

2007-10-10T09:36:00.000-05:00

I'm "endearing". David Cuthbert's review in the Times-Picayune. My face made the cover of the Living section!

"Eat Pudding" concerns the mating and dietary habits of ancient Egyptian vultures, scavengers that feasted not just on carrion, but the dung of dead animals, said to improve one's plumage and sexual attraction. "Eat pudding" is the euphemism a vulturess attaches to the practice of dining on this alleged savory.

Sands depicts his birds as swinging singles and shy, inhibited creatures meeting at a watering hole by the pyramids. Andrew de la Pena is the slick ladies' man Ramses giving macho advice to his awkward pal Thutmose, endearingly played by Frederick Mead. Lisa Davis is the exotic, experienced Hathar and Molly E. Maginnis is her demure gal pal Nefertari. Playing birds seems to free the actors, especially when they take wing in aerial choreography. All four players fulfill their roles amusingly, pointing up Sands' sly, entertaining and vulgar wordplay.

In "All Night Service," Mead is the jaded, sleep-deprived cashier at an all-night French Quarter deli, who simply wants to be left alone to read "Catch 22." Enter de la Pena as scruffy, roguishly handsome Johnny and Davis as his weary young girlfriend Taffy. It's cold and Johnny is full of, well, "pudding," bragging about luxury stays in warmer climes. Alas, they have no money (Mead moves his tip jar out of reach) and need a place to crash. Thus begins a series of phone calls to various "friends" who want no part of them due to past experiences.

And...They're Off!

2007-10-09T16:44:00.001-05:00

Phew! An avalanche of actors resumes are flooding my inbox, and it's not even been 24 hours. Yay! Some recognized names, some experienced radio actors, and an interesting offer for a theremin. There's definitely a place in this show for a theremin!

Today I secured the venue, the Terrance Sanders Gallery on the 900 block of Royal in the Quarter. He hosts a lot of spoken word events there and has an audience. Gave me a great deal, but I have to scare up 40 chairs. Ok, next task.

A couple radio stations are running PSAs of the audition call. Hopefully that will extend into promotion for the reading itself, and some interest on the parts of their radio personnel. Two stations are on my target list: WRBH Reader Radio for the Blind and WWNO, both of which have done audio drama, and both have the ability to stream over the Internet.

Need to find a keyboardist with a feel for theatrical music and fake commercial jingles of the 50s. And then of course, a sound effects person. A live foley artist would be a nice-to-have, but we'll proceed with the reading without sound effects if necessary.

Friday BEFORE Thanksgiving, NOV 16. 8pm.