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Lily and I went today, sure that we would be the only people there, and sure we would have a transcendental experience. Sadly, there were OTHER PEOPLE there. But we still managed to transcend just a little bit, here and there. And now, pictures of my favorite things!

Props from a production of Waiting for Godot in post-Katrina New Orleans:

This gem from an exhibit of all lady-made photographer:

And last but not least, THIS THING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A thing I’ve been thinking about a lot during these assorted meetings: like garlic and olive oil! Like strawberries; banana! Like Hot sauce; Hot sauce! Arrogance, confidence. What is the perfect balance? When does one become the other? To get bra-burny for a moment, I think that with most women, it’s in our nature to apologize for our ideas. Be humble. See me, being like, so yeah, I have this idea for a show, I haven’t really thought about it too much, It’s not that fleshed out, it’s kinda like that other show, I don’t know, I don’t know if anybody would watch it but….here it is. Nice set up, Brunstetter. I hear myself being this way, and decide to adjust, and come in more confidently, knowing what I want to do, and how to articulate this. But: then I sense this vibe from the person I’m talking to of: you have no idea what you’re talking about. I know more than you. I think, ideally, one most be confident, but also open to guidance, which I think I am very of both?

To me, flowers are flowers. They look and smell nice. But: like anything else, apparently some flowers can be better than others. IN FACT, some people devote their lives to growing perfect ones, and showcasing them at the fair. See this pretty white rose? White rose? Sure. A flower is a flower is a flower, but, you have to agree, there is something kind of spectacular about this one. I wish I could blog you the way it smelled (like flowers, and First Place.)

Workshopping a play is kind of like – or very like – swimming through the dark, messy swamp of your SOUL. As you get deeper and deeper, as you ‘unpack the scenes’ (like suitcases? I enjoy this image) you come across things you thought were long gone. Not gone, apparently: you just lost the last time you went swamp-diving. You emerge, tired and dirty, smelling of cars and feet and mud, but at least you can say, I touched the bottom, and this makes you sound very cool at parties.

ART!

Steve and I visited the American Folk Art Museum yesterday, as this is what people who do not have to go to work – do. Right? Right. (We also hit up an all you can eat Indian buffet circa 3 PM and went to see a movie at 5. YES.) I love museums because, for a least a few quiet hours, I am forced or allowed to think about something else. Something I’ve never thought of before. I oftentimes feel like I pretty much have the same 7 thoughts, all the time, and I bore myself.

The great thing about the folk art museum is that it is all pieces by artists who never received formal training, or ‘Outside Artists.’ Yes, I am now an expert. The highlight was definitely the work of Henry Darger:

A Chicago-based recluse. After his death, hundreds of drawings were found in his apartment (warped pictures from children’s coloring books, collections of old ads framed by stamps, massacres of little girls in an eerie-ly beautiful way), bringing him much  posthumus fame – which made me think of posthumus fame, and of a dead person’s space and things being violated and treasured, and how said Dead person would feel about that.

Thursday night, super late, on my bleary eyed train ride home, I realized that the guy next to me was looking at the program from my play that I assume he’d just seen. And then I realized that he was a director who’d worked on my play Green  way backs in 07. But I didn’t say anything, as I knew that anything I said would be weird and bumbly, but I sort of just smiled, as it was kind of cool in this Simba on a mountain sort of way.

Do pardon me while I get all ‘art theory’ (?) up in this piece. My friend Cassie (see: awesome in Oohrah!) saw Mine this weekend and had a really interesting comment that I keep thinking about: she said that watching my plays is like being inside of a prism? In a way? In that way that you are inside of the thing, and your Self is reflected back to you, as is me (the writer), as is the character. So something like: my plays are one part myself, one part the person I have invented, and one part the viewer. Which, I think, is one of the best thing anyone’s ever said about my plays, and I might try to adhere to this recipe, going forward.

I forgot for a minute how much I LOVE this song (it reminds me of my Mom, and other assorted pretty things) – so last night I downloaded like 4 different versions of it (The Captain, Maria’s reprise, a few instrumentals, a sassy Harry Connick Jr cover) and listened to them over and over.

And then also over.

My buddy Isaac asked me to write a ‘Bekah poem’ to be read at his wedding Saturday on a ranch in Austin (congrats, babies! I wish I was there! Eating BBQ! Petting peacocks! and Goats?)….and I think I officially no longer ‘got it.’ Not like I ever really ‘had it.’ I really think that I no longer know how to write a poem. Merde! I used to write them constantly.

Middle school, In my velour journal covered with the moon and stars, all sorts of profundity. It like RHYMED, too. All sorts of really significant stuff involving boys I liked, musings on the purpose of the sun, and you know, my soul, and stuff. And, cats? oppression? camping trips? Church pews? I then went and studied it at UNC and poetry was a HUGE part of my first plays. I used to accuse myself of forcing my characters to be robots for my poetry.

But I think this got beat out of me in grad school, in a good way. And now it’s so far gone, by brain no longer works like it used to. I think poetry or the urge to write a poem comes from having all the time in the world. At least for me. It’s lazier,  it’s dreamier, it stems from wallowing and wandering. I really hope that I at some point in my life earn the right to slow down. At which point, I will write sequels to all of the olds. ‘My Soul, pt. 2.’ ‘He Looked at me, Pt 11.’ ‘Why won’t he look at Me?, cont’d.’ And of course – ‘Cats for Sale, a Memory.’ To answer your original question, yes: I am a Genius.

Announce! Announce!

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/24/new-plays-by-mamet-shepard-at-atlantic-theater-company/