A Script

For my third Acting project I have to create a performance based on the inspiration of a rather lackluster painting. (I am struggling with the blatant choice of posting a picture of this painting. I think I want to focus on words for the moment and allow visuals to remain undefined by me. That and I'm way too lazy to post pictures, for now at least. I do have spits and spats of activity though they be far and few between.) Though I was, as I always am, incredibly reticent to partner up with anyone, forced as I was into the decision of partners I could not have landed in a better group. The two women and I decided to come up with a 7 minute play about domestic abuse. Cheery stuff, eh?

Though we shared the burdens of various duties equally (at least more than I've ever experienced in a group), I asked to write the script. After dealing with shocked stares and questions of the incredulous kind, I had a pen in my hand and was writing our script! Such an exciting opportunity - I wrote fiction for a class! Equally delightful and scary stuff. I say scary because it is a bit scary when creating in this way for anyone other than yourself (or myself since, hell, I am speaking about myself). To step back, I admit that I have a very odd approach to writing academically (which includes essays, exams, and the like). Academic writing, for me, is almost like writing fiction - or how I imagine most people approach writing fiction. I have a beginning, middle, and finale throughout which I create a plot and use the characters provided for me. It can be an incredible experience, especially when writing for a likeminded professor. When not, I can almost imagine how most everyone else views writing...an exercise in boredom. Almost, that is. And so, writing creatively differs, for me, from academically in that the characters used are of your own invention. While I can justify almost any declaration made about a character as long as evidence and logical (HAH!) assumptions are held, it is on me to create such evidence when originality is demanded. Not only that but I must create a world in which the evidence breathes without crutch devices. Scary, thought in the best possible way, I assure you. Only if one didn't write would it be a bad thing - the scariest thing, to me...not writing.

At a completion of about a week and a half of rewrites and discussions about the script and the characters, my group has finally decided on a last cut of my script. In fact, I am just back from the hour long meeting in which we made our decisions. I cannot say more about the experience. I truly loved exploring ideas, making and listening to suggestions about movement, and hearing what the others brought to the table. I have a lot of faith in my ability to create. However, I have even greater faith in the ability of the collaborative process to tease and promote the best of the ideas from everyone involved. (With the desperate hope that everyone is as willing and open and eager for the search, journey and the goal.)

All that is left are rehearsals and our performance next Friday. While I thoroughly enjoyed trying to find Marlowe's Old Man, I am eager even now for my performance to be over. I knew full well when I was writing an abuse story that it would fall to me to play the abuser which would be a hard sell (actually, I would have trouble playing either the abuser or the abused). However, the idea seemed, and certainly is, interesting enough that I could suck it up and bite off a piece of violent misery. But....wow, much harder than I thought. There is a depth or superficiality to this character that I can't even imagine possessing. I can believe and embrace passion; even that which overwhelms. However. Violent passion is hard for me to even fathom. Yet I can create it. Now, whether or not I can create such realistically is an entirely different matter. I have received 'passing' to 'good' remarks on how I handled everything...but who knows, for in the age of relativity, reality is as variable as anything else.

The striking thing for me is that I can write about a thing so anathemaic to me. Of course I can find little truths in the words this character says. Now, surely I can qualify that rather bold statement. I see truth because of his character...who he is as a man, an abuser, a husband...defines the words that he speaks. I find myself comfortable (or perhaps able is a more approriate word) in the search for his words and his actions, because I know his character. In my mind, I can play the clip or scene from my imagination without any hesitation. Yet I struggle to make my body and my tongue act in the ways this character would. Why?

I have always thought I could act. Never a doubt in my mind, I could take the stage and dominate. In my mind, the words flowed without falter and movement twined like the body of a ballerina. And yet such a break or disconnect exists between what I can imagine and what I can physically do. I cannot deny myself as I should be able to if I were to fully become this other character. I can create characters who exist, in part, despite of me. But I cannot be those characters who are despite me.

Oh no, I'm a Method Actor!

I kid, I kid. (Method Acting has always partially weirded me out. Another story for anther time.) Forgive me if this was rather boring but the above thoughts simply rushed me. And they are important thoughts, to me at least. Such things I have considered since I was small. To reach a sense of understanding and balance about them is a true wonder. Perhaps an allowance as well, for I can see better what I do and understand more fuly what I can do, am capable of. Well, what I am capable of is too ambiguous to be seen. Whether I remain a son quickly to be forgotten or a son with a thing waiting to be embraced, I cannot even begin to fathom. But it's a cool thing, regardless, to know more about myself. Because when you know yourself, ladies and gentlemen, the following quotation holds a hell of a lot more meaning.

"When I think about you, I touch myself." *snarky*