Prompts.
There is on my desk a small framed drawing by local set designer and visual artist John Randle, a souvenir from the Neo-Futurists' production of Alice in September of 2004. The drawing is of the Eagle, a character from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland who I have no memory of, surrounded by a quotation from its scene in the story:
"Speak English," said the Eagle. "I don't know the meaning of half of those long words, and what's more, I don't believe you do either!"
Tonight I am willing myself past my own exhaustion, on a week when we have rolled an eleven total and are going to have to create at least that much new work between us by tomorrow evening at 7:00. Tonight is a night when my inability to come up with a second play to propose gives spawn to a particularly nasty boggart of doom and self-worthlessness, tonight is one of those nights when I speculate on melodramatic gestures, desperate attempts to escape my own life as if it were a straitjacket and clear glass water tank. An audience is watching tonight and some of them have come to see if this is when I drown.
And I keep scanning the items in the field of my vision as my head turns from side to side, demanding that they inspire me in some way. The discarded photographs from the 2005 tour to Atlanta, the eight plastic cups and pair of clown noses that together form what is probably my favorite personal work for this show. The plastic skull the size of my thumbnail, the ring box containing a small collection of United States commemorative quarters and a handful of outdated dollar coins. A sew-on patch that declares "HAVE A NICE DAY BUT A TORTURED AFTERLIFE". A small white piggy bank. A hotel desk bell. A blue pint glass, a book light, two goldfish and an algae-eater. Leftover motion sculptures from Contraption. Novels by Doctorow, Doyle, Dubus, Dumas, Eggers, Ellison.
But there's nothing coming out of these fingertips except observation.
I stay awake as if concerned that inspiration will show up and then leave in disgust if I'm not up waiting for it.
This is idiotic. I'm going to bed.
"Speak English," said the Eagle. "I don't know the meaning of half of those long words, and what's more, I don't believe you do either!"
Tonight I am willing myself past my own exhaustion, on a week when we have rolled an eleven total and are going to have to create at least that much new work between us by tomorrow evening at 7:00. Tonight is a night when my inability to come up with a second play to propose gives spawn to a particularly nasty boggart of doom and self-worthlessness, tonight is one of those nights when I speculate on melodramatic gestures, desperate attempts to escape my own life as if it were a straitjacket and clear glass water tank. An audience is watching tonight and some of them have come to see if this is when I drown.
And I keep scanning the items in the field of my vision as my head turns from side to side, demanding that they inspire me in some way. The discarded photographs from the 2005 tour to Atlanta, the eight plastic cups and pair of clown noses that together form what is probably my favorite personal work for this show. The plastic skull the size of my thumbnail, the ring box containing a small collection of United States commemorative quarters and a handful of outdated dollar coins. A sew-on patch that declares "HAVE A NICE DAY BUT A TORTURED AFTERLIFE". A small white piggy bank. A hotel desk bell. A blue pint glass, a book light, two goldfish and an algae-eater. Leftover motion sculptures from Contraption. Novels by Doctorow, Doyle, Dubus, Dumas, Eggers, Ellison.
But there's nothing coming out of these fingertips except observation.
I stay awake as if concerned that inspiration will show up and then leave in disgust if I'm not up waiting for it.
This is idiotic. I'm going to bed.