What a brain break to spend some time hand writing with a good old-fashioned ink pen ! 🧠
Common Play Factory is looking for one or two short short scripts (read time 30 min. or less) to complete a program tentatively to be held virtually in late spring. (Please don’t make us read another one of Alicia’s plays! LOL)
Scripts should be unproduced; previous readings are okay. We are interested in experimental work. Send a .pdf of the script with character requirements and playwright contact information before April 5 to: email@example.com.
Scripts that are not a good fit for this Spring 2021 program may be considered for future production. Preference will be given to playwrights from Northeast Pennsylvania, but we are open to scripts, primarily in English, from anywhere in the world. Actors have not yet been cast for this production so if you are interested in reading, please contact us as the same email address.
Fun fact: In recent Shakespearean research, we learned that Elbow’s reference to brothels as “common houses” may be inspired by a Church of England sermon from 1563 that warned parishioners to avoid the “degradation” of such establishments. (Go, Kenji. “On the Origin of the ‘Common Houses’ as Brothels in Measure for Measure.” Notes and Queries 55.2 (2008): 191-4.ProQuest. Web. 10 Aug. 2015.)
While we don’t think our programs are degrading, we’re not sure the Elizabethean church would approve either.
It wasn’t until after chatting with Miranda on the phone from L.A. for a good while Tuesday night that I realized the a connection between her studies and mine.
Her paper about three female artists grouped with the surrealists that didn’t necessarily want to be labeled… To have been a teenager when women got the vote in America and England, in a decade when women attempted to live independently when they hadn’t insisted before … on pursuing their own dreams, on not getting married, etc. How slow change is to come even as we are watching it unfold. How our art is the only place where we have real freedom. And how even then our vision is limited by our ability, our skills to express it.
I had just ordered a 1982 play by Sheila Yeger titled “Self-Portrait” about the artist Gwen John, after reading about it in Stephen Jeffreys’ book Playwrighting: Structure, Character, How and What to Write. I often bookmark intriguing scripts when I hear about them but I rarely order them immediately. This one is relatively rare. It will cost you $40 or so used from an American bookseller. So I ordered it at a fraction of that price directly from the publisher in England.
I’ve only had a chance to glimpse through the pages … a good enough excuse to stop working for the day and take the script upstairs to bed.
The more time I spend alone, the more I long for theatre. The more virtual readings I sign up for online and the more inclined I am to finish my writing projects and think about applying for full-time professor positions or that dream ph. D. Moving will be difficult but it’s not impossible anymore. My studies are saving me right now. They will not leave me; I can only let myself down if I too tired or defeated. I worry about not having the ambition to get my creative work out there in front of people but I feel certain I am supposed to continue in academia. The work is the only thing that makes sense to me right now. It’s what is keeping me going. One way or another I need to figure out how to make it sustainable. -ag
Outside in February’s cold,
getting a breath of fresh air,
I am grateful for the wool socks
that keep my feet warm inside my slippers.
I hope he is still wearing the wool socks I bought him.
His feet were always so cold.
He wouldn’t have spent so much on socks before.
Didn’t know the extra dollars could make him warm.
So much love in a couple of socks.
If she asked where he got them
what would he say?
Another night, I blush with pride remembering-
he once thought enough of me that he bought me this hat –
a green wool cloche, at Everything Natural.
Once, I took a picture of me with the dog, and I’m wearing it.
I texted it to him.
I wonder why the day he bought the hat is so fuzzy.
How do I know where the hat came from
but the rest of that day is a blur?
Living in the moment leads to forgetfulness.
Always letting everything go …
I hope I wrote about it in a journal somewhere.
Give myself a smile if I find it someday.
I was always more inclined to write about bad days,
because I needed the writing on those days,
The good days, we think we’ll never forget.
But we do.
He is in the process of forgetting me.
I am afraid of becoming invisible.
I remove my wool socks as I climb into bed.
Grateful for the day I loved myself enough
to buy a weighted blanket.
The closest simulation to the feeling of being held,
I read in some article about coping with isolation
during pandemic quarantine.
-ag, feb 2021
Copied from Facebook: (Alicia = Kitty Belle)
“Taste “I Make Funny Sounds Just Talking in Real Life…” We have for your listening pleasure Sunday at 11am est Episode 410 of “Troubadours and Raconteurs with E.W. Conundrum Demure” on WFTE Radio (www.wfte.org)
Episode 410 features a wonderful conversation with Playwright, Poet, Professor, Baker and Candlestickmaker – Kitty Belle Burbank.
Kitty Belle and I discuss Being Reliable, Puppets, Trudy & John, Algorithms, Fake Famous, Her Relationship Status, the Unpopular, Adam Curtis’ Documentary, Soul! and Ellis Haizlip, Voices, Feeling Connected, an Alternative to Facebook, Getting to Spring…
Episode 410 also includes an E.W. Essay titled “Oh, Man.” We share five poems by the late, great Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Our Associate Producer Dr. Michael Pavese reads three andI read two. We have an E.W. poem called “Note to An Administrator.”
Our music this go round is provided by these wonderful artists: Django Reinhardt, Stephane Grapelli, Tito Puente, Tom Waits, Fiona Apple, Thelonious Monk, Green Tea Peng, Bransford Marsalis and Terence Blanchard.
Commercial Free, Small Batch Radio Crafted in the West Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania… Heard All Over The World.”
*This program will also air on Radio Free Brooklyn. Archived link will be posted when available.
By some miracle, I opened up a script in progress I haven’t worked on since Dec. 2020 and turned out a couple of pages after my meditation/yoga today. FadeUp says I’m at 26 pages. I was initally inspired by digging into #MeToo gray area. The women who don’t want to talk about it. The ones who stay silent in order to succeed. I began with the urge to write a small cast comedy about an unfunny topic. The working title, “Pussy Grabs Back” was more unique when I first thought about it. Now I feel that joke has been made. By the time I am finished, the play may already be outdated. Or at least it feels that way. I can’t keep up.
But just for today … I was able to slip into the play for long enough to remember why I love writing plays most of all. I lost all sense of the real outside world for those moments when I was in the scene. In my characters’ heads, writing their words, imagining them walking around in space. What are they doing now? What are they really thinking/feeling in this moment? I don’t need to ask these questions. It is automatic. One moment, I was half-listening to the end of a podcast I played on purpose while I was working because I can’t focus when it is too quiet … when I came back out of the play, two guys I couldn’t place were discussing prime minsters of Turkey. What? When did that start? How did I not notice one podcast episode end and the next introduce itself.
There is such satisfaction in that immersion. In the getting lost in the creation … this is the goal. More time for that.
I love writing poetry because it allows for a sense of completion. My poetry doesn’t try that hard. It’s immediate; honestly just trying to remove the weight from my chest. It gives me something to share with people while my real work, plays they will never read, take years of my life to complete. I like that the poetry can mean something to people who aren’t poets, who aren’t academics or literary scholars. This matters more to me than for the work to be popular.
I’ve considered writing an essay titled “In Praise of the Unpopular.” I may still do it but considering that I’m here groaning about lack of time … I should prioritize.
I don’t mind working. I enjoy all three of my jobs but I always feel like I’m not doing well enough at any of them. And the worst feeling, the one that there’s not enough time in the day to work on my play scripts. I’ve been known to spend hours walking around the house avoiding the work I have to do because I can’t stand the thought of looking at the computer screen for another second.
I spend too much time alone thinking about how I’m working too hard to feel like I’m not making progress.
Unlike my students, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to be considered valuable enough to get one job that won’t kill me to replace the three that certainly will if I keep up this pace for too long. It’s just not smart to be too busy working at low-ish paying jobs to have time to write and market the words that will qualify me for a job that will leave me the time and sanity and head space to write. Follow that?
Unlike my students who often write about the fear of not being successful, I am not afraid. I consider myself successful enough. I raised two amazing independent girls mostly by myself. I went back to school for my MFA. I really do like the work I am doing right now. I have years enough left to write. But I do long for balance. I work hard enough that I deserve to save for retirement like other people. At my age, I shouldn’t be panicking because I don’t have a safety net. I am wise enough not to blame myself for this.
This today from a podcast interview between former surgeon general Dr. Vivek Murthy and social research scientist Dr. Brene Brown that came out last April – I finally got around to listening to it today. It’s still relevant. I’m still teaching and still feel compelled to do what I can for the collective youth and young adults whose lives I touch. -ag 2/21/21
“When I think about my children; when I think about collective children; when I think about what I worry about for the next generation, It’s actually this:
I worry that we’re not setting our children up to believe in themselves, to recognize their true source of power and self-worth and we’re instead telling them that your value is conditional. It’s based on your ability to acquire a bunch of extra things, it’s based on circumstances.
And if you can’t reach those, if you can’t “succeed,” that means you are less valued and that starts a downward spiral when it comes to loneliness. Because the less secure we feel in our worth, the less likely we are to believe that other people want to hang out with us, the more we start to retreat into our shell.
The insidious thing about loneliness that lasts for a long time is it also chips away at our self-esteem and you come to believe that maybe the reason you are lonely is you are not likeable or you are not loveable. …unless we make a conscious decision to shift something in our culture that tells us what self-worth is defined by then we will continue to lead people to a place where they don’t feel they are enough and that unfortunately is a recipe for loneliness.”Dr. Vivek Murthy on Unlocking Us with Brene Brown, April 2020.
At least this year he doesn’t have to spend hours looking for a Valentine’s Day card that doesn’t say “I love you.”
Where you saw a red flag, I found a cushion.
The words had been said to me before.
And hadn’t I said my share too?
More confession than promise or pledge.
The syllables we remember barely resemble those said.
Just letters representing sounds,
compounded into patterns struggling to
give solid form to the
phantoms and fumes
that cling evasively to the seafloors of our souls –
unspeakable things better left unspoken.
In the end, it was his action I read all wrong.
Mistaking caution for care,
when over and again he said he didn’t want to hurt me.
I misconstrued carnality for affection; pity for concern.
I confused his trepidation with tenderness and his generosity for devotion.
Believed the sharing mattered more than the secrets,
that our friendship trumped the unreasonable rules of romance.
It didn’t matter what he didn’t say
so long as he wanted me part of his every day…
Miranda’s father waited until the day she was born
to say the words.
Their power was not potent enough to protect me from
the cruel weapons he hurled without hesitation
when I finally swam for shore with our girls on my back,
away from his sinking ship my love could not repair.
Time has a way of tearing our best intentions to bloody shreds.
Today’s right thing is tomorrow’s regret.
Don’t try to make sense
of the dating rites of the mentally ill.
It is a haphazard lattice of quicksand and landmines
laid by the injured in unconscious trauma.
Spare your lecture in the obviousness of clues.
There are warning signs on the way to heaven.
I was more concerned for him than me that
after six years of increasing intimacy –
habituation still lacked inhibition.
Even when the warmth of my love appeared to penetrate his permafrost,
I never saw him slip
from the balance beam he walked between
compartments so precisely erected.
He couldn’t relax even as my nurturing hands
kneaded tension away.
So many evenings I watched him pass directly from tension into sleep,
breathing still unsteady,
words muttered not meant for the living,
not at peace even in rest.