It’s that time of year again. Seems like every week there’s a televised awards show, and with each one, an additional preshow for red carpet fashion coverage. On some networks (E!), the red carpet coverage is longer than the actual telecast. Then, the following day, as if all the preshow coverage wasn’t enough, many networks, local and national, troll out more panels to discuss who wore who and how it looked. Is all of this necessary? And in the era of #MeToo, why is it still okay to comment on how celebrities, mostly women, look?
Over the past few months, I’ve been sifting through and purging old photos, memorabilia, books, games, and anything I saved in a shoebox, wine box, or folder.
I had a couple of binders of newspaper clippings alone. Stories, opinions pieces, or articles I must have felt I couldn’t live without. I kept letters and cards that mattered to me at the time, which meant almost every one I ever received. A few of these letters came from people I now don’t remember. There are several letters from a guy who lived in Colorado. I have no memory of this person. But we must have exchanged a half-dozen letters. And since the letters were handwritten and mailed, I don’t have any of my replies, which is so different than seeing entire conversations in an email thread. The smell of the old letters, and the tactile experience of sliding them out of their envelopes, then unfolding and holding the pages of ink felt like a relic from a bygone era. And I loved every second of it. This is something my son will most likely never experience. I doubt he or anyone his age is stashing away emails in a wooden Mouton-Cadet wine box.
This morning, I began sifting through my computer files. Tucked away in a folder within a folder of a main folder called “Writing,” I found a bunch of poetry. In my teens and twenties, I used to free write and free associate—with a pen and notebook—ideas for poems, stories, characters, or just random lines I might want to include in a play or story one day. At some point, I must have transcribed these ideas and “poems”—quotes because I’m not sure they can actually quality as such—into Word documents.
For this post, I had intended to briefly mention the 10-year anniversary of the Two Spoons world premiere in St. Petersburg, Florida, include a couple of pictures from the production, then hit publish. But as I continued writing, it became clear I had more to say, some demons to exorcise. And then the stream of consciousness, or subconsciousness, made me think about some of my experiences as a writer and producer. Below is the result.
Ten years ago, the first production of my play, Two Spoons, was produced by Gypsy Productions at the Suncoast Theatre in St. Petersburg, Florida. I had originally submitted a different play, Andrew Reaches the Other Side, to Gypsy a year earlier. Since Gypsy produced gay-themed plays, and the lead character in Andrew was a gay Buccaneers fan, I thought the play would go over well in the Tampa/St. Pete area.
I wrote this monologue in reaction to the economic crash in late 2008/early 2009. It seems appropriate to post again now.
I am at a dead end. Stumbling through chapter 10, heading like a missile into chapter 11. I am creatively bankrupt. I am intellectually bankrupt. I have not had an original thought, idea, or action in years. I’m not sure such a thing exists today. Originality is dead. Imagine a world where all the ground has already been broken and you are here. We, are here together. It’s all been done before. Everything is a cover. And since I do not understand what it means to “make it your own” I will never have a refreshing cover or remake.