Send Positive Energy!

I just got an e-mail:


From: info@wordbridge.org
Date: March 31, 2009 10:44:44 AM EDT
Subject: WordBRIDGE Semi-finalist!

Greetings Playwrights,

Congratulations! Your script is a semifinalist for WordBRIDGE 2009. We received a record number of submissions this year and are very much enjoying spending time with your work. As a semifinalist, your script has indeed risen above the initial pool of applications and been given two positive recommendations by our readers. What this means is that as semifinalists, you are in very good company.

If you can please be patient, we will be back to you by April 8 with further news.

As a reminder, the Lab dates are June 5 - 21st, and you would need to be in residence for that entire time. So if any conflicts have arisen for you from June 5 - 21st, do let us know asap.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact us.

Thank you,
David and Mark
Artistic Directors

WordBRIDGE Playwrights Laboratory
Department of Performing Arts
Brooks Center
Clemson University
Clemson, SC 29634-0525
Phone: 864-656-5415
E-mail: info@wordbridge.org
Web: www.wordbridge.org


Oh my god, I want this so badly. Send positive energy. Please.

"Dark Play or Stories for Boys"

I haven't been on stage in two years. I've done scene work for class and have taken my upper level acting courses, but for the past two years I've really stopped acting to focus on my writing and dabble in directing.

However, I read a play last night that makes me want to act again so badly.

Carlos Murillo's Dark Play or Stories for Boys is a totally original and engrossing piece of theatre writing. The characters are endlessly fascinating and seem to be so real with the theatricality needed for a well-written drama. It's exactly the kind of play I'd love to invest in for months, trying to bring the story to life.

If you like theatre and it's being performed near you- go see it. Or, just read it. Either way, you'll see it's power.

Wow. Kudos, Carlos, kudos.

Scum Manifesto

Ok, so here's the deal.

If you want to write a manifesto, I sincerely applaud your efforts in having passionate enough feelings to get your voice heard via a publication known as something as BA* as a manifesto.

However, when you start advocating the "gendericide"  aka the systematic KILLING of an entire gender, I sort to question your logic. Like, as much as you may believe a new world order of ONE gender can exist and is the right way to go, how realistic are you being?

Some quotes from Ms. Valerie Solanas: 

"... the female function is to relate, groove, love, and be herself, irreplaceable by anyone else; the male function is to produce sperm. We now have sperm banks." 

"If SCUM ever marches, it will be over the President's stupid, sickening face; if SCUM ever strikes, it will be in the dark with a six-inch blade."


Like, really? 

REALLY  Valerie?

How fascinating. I eat this shit up.


(BA* = shorthand, for Bad-Ass. A title that deserves capitalization and an acronym) 


Depressing and Awesome all at once...

Have you ever come across something, either art or a story or a movie, and you are instantly filled with both elation and intense anger? Elation because said art is so amazing, and so well-done it's a beautiful experience. Intense anger because you realize you haven't created it? 

Playwright Naomi Wallace's The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek is exactly that sort of play. Even if you're not an avid play reader, I highly recommend picking it up. It's haunting. I can't stop thinking about it.



Hippo

Dream Interpreters, Listen up!

The most real and strange dream I've ever had. Ever. I wonder so badly what it means. To keep it short: 

I attend a new bar in the city with a friend. The bar is the new "it" thing in way of nightlife. In order to get in however, we're told a price of admission is to be paid that isn't monetary.

We agree and before we're allowed in, we discover that the price of admission involves out palms being sliced open by smashed pieces of jagged glass. We are ok with it, our palms are ravaged, and we proceed into the bar only to buy ice-cold drinks, which we grip onto fiercely, to alleviate the pain of our open wounds.

Intense. And strange. Yet intriguing. I don't know what it means.