Poetry & Blindfolds

I worry a lot of the time.  If not about me, then people around me.  Sometimes I worry about how people perceive me.  Of course, I know this is silly, but, from my narrow point of view, it almost seems better to be somewhat liked by some people than not liked at all by everyone.  And, as much as it is nice sometimes to be alone, it is pretty frightening to be left there.

Currently, I’m writing a new play, now in its fourth draft, called “The Tearful Assassin.”  It was originally a dark comedy about reality v. fiction, areas that I explored a little in my last two plays “Ensemble” and “Remote.”  Then it changed, almost on its own, and became its own beastie.  Now it is about the various ways we say ‘goodbye’: how sometimes it is out of self-preservation, sometimes because it is a choice and sometimes because there’s really nothing else to say.  And I find it very, very uncomfortable.

If there is one thing we gain through time, along with birthdays (and CDs, from yesterday’s blog, which was a great theory poorly executed), is the sheer volume of ‘goodbyes’ we amass, both said and heard.  With anyone you know, the potential of goodbye is there and, one day, like it or not, it will come.  And, depending on your sense of self, that’s either OK or terrifying.

For me, it’s both.  I have been told ‘goodbye’ so much that I turn often to comedy as a defense and a buffer, but that doesn’t mean I’m anywhere near immune from its impact.  Since I’m an odd duck, most of my family has said ‘goodbye’ to me at one point or another (there’s been some reconciliations, I should point out), so I confess I am conditioned enough to almost expect it from anywhere at anytime.  And I’ve doled out my share of ‘goodbye’s as well.

I’d say, out of the horrible events that happen in “The Tearful Assassin”, which include kidnapping, assault and death, the hardest moments are the ‘goodbyes.’  When writing those scenes, I would routinely leave my office after a page just to not deal with it for a few minutes.  When I’d return, I’d have to take out all of the self-conscious humor and almost start from scratch again.

Currently, I am trying to divorce myself from the play enough to deal with it strictly like a producer.  I am lining up a public workshopping of the thing (if you’re a local actor or writer, talk to me!) and hope to put it up by early summer.  It’s fairly unnerving, even at this level: I’ve worked in comedy for so long, I don’t know that many real actors who could even come in and read the thing.  So I’m feeling a little isolated on that front as well.

One of Suspicious Clowns, Melissa Malan, and I have talked about the project and she is quite enthusiastic about it.  That enthusiasm has given me the confidence to make the play even more raw and honest, which is great, as I sent 15 pages of the script to another potential collaborator who just never found time to read it.  It was no biggie, honestly, but it did make me doubt myself a little.  Felt like a little ‘goodbye’. 

But the self-doubt is gone now, replaced but utter terror and paranoia, which is, if nothing else, a lively place to be.