My Friend from Pakistan

I had tea the other day with a wonderful playwright who is also, a dear friend. A Pakistani-American writer. A Muslim. She was going on a trip and I wanted to speak to her before she left. We sat in a little cafe and over a Blueberry tart with two forks and steamed soy lattes, we talked. She was not writing about the things that she was really thinking about. I felt they were terrifying things and that she had moved away from them and was therefore in a depressed state. Her last two plays were about lost or un-acted moments, and t hen one in which there was no play at all.

"Where's the Play?" asks one character.

"In my pocket." says another.

"But you have no pockets," says the first, "so where's the play?"

"There is no play"

"But you said you want to ready your play. So where is it?"

"Its..."

Now, this writer is really good and anything she writes is of interest. But I intuitively felt that her running from her own thoughts, that certainly, in today's climate of racism and general hostility toward immigrants, particularly Muslims, must have had some effect on her writing. I could feel that her next play might not even be there at all.

I approached the subject with trepidation because I don't want to interfere with a writer's creativity. At TNC there is no censorship. My own history in the Theater includes a number of moments when a Producer laid their heavy hands on a piece of artistic work, and cut out the soft and beautiful center of the play, in their efforts to make it a more sell-able product. In a writer's development, this bodes Evil. In my memory, as well, these actions did not make the play better. It made it Stupid. TNC is a place of freedom for a writer.

However, this was to me, a time in which I must speak out! And I did! I told her that writing is a risk taken. That without that risk, the baring of one's soul, the the nakedness of one's vision. There is a cloud that will descend on your work and Block your path. I told her that I am taking a risk in writing a Blog, and that I too am afraid of repercussions, criticism, anger and even hatred, as a result. I told her I was gearing up for this year's Street Theater, and I had plenty to say. Worrying that I might offend her, I waited for her reply. And what a reply it was!

She told me that she indeed had decided not to write about Muslims in America, or the trials and tribulations of a woman Muslim, or about the United States invasion of Afghanistan or Iraq, or the horror and terror that the Drone attacks are causing in the country (Pakistan) where her family still lives.

Then, she told me, in a torrent of words, that ever since 9/11, she has had fear of reprisal for being a South Asian. And, even more, for being Muslim.

I told her I understood completely since I once wore a hood and scarf combination in Winter and someone spat at me, thinking I was a Muslim. She told me that after 9/11, she wrote plays that dealt with issues that were indeed Socio-Political. But the dirty looks and sometime actual verbal and even semi-physical assaults from strangers after seeing her plays, had had an effect on her. She told me also of the great applause and sometimes standing ovations she received, and that they only exacerbated her fear. And now she found herself in the middle of a standing Political fight that she could not actually participate in, for she is "Just a writer and not an activist." Wow! What could I say?!

I told her that we must be brave and that I, as well as she, must write our Hearts out, because that is what were put on this earth to do, and lo and behold, she thanked me! It was as though I had somehow, given her permission to go ahead! She smiled--she laughed! we drank our tea and shared our Blueberry tart,, and I wished her a safe and happy journey. We had actually given each other courage. We had laid bare our fears and understood what we had to do. We knew our fate as writers was to write--about whatever--and come what may. That was, and is, and will be our salvation.

What Makes A Good "Read?"

I have been reading, late into the night, an old play by a relatively young author. Reading it, because I must pick 20 pages of it, as a work sample for a Grants application. And this much I can tell you—a good play is a good "Read." So many plays are impossible to get through. They pontificate, or they report, ad infinitum, the same thoughts. Even the same lines. They have no action. No passion. No suspense.

I remembered, last night, because the play I was reading was such a good "read," the plays of Chekhov I used to read, over and over again. The thing about a really great play is when the author does not tell you what he or she thinks, but lets the story unfold so that you get the point, maybe three hours after you've read the piece. The play pulls you into its world. You become one with its characters. Lost in the drama of their lives. And what is that, really? It's a good story. A good story is at the bottom of every good play. Why do so many authors think that a play is a place to force an Audience to hear their ideas. A really good play is innocent of lecturing. It lets its characters know less than the author. Just as a good actor knows more than the character he or she plays. The audience then becomes the wise one—not the author, and what makes a play different from a nove. A play is life set before us. Truncated—compressed like the computer can do to a program or a file. The wild passion of its people is never stated. It happens in front of our eyes. Simply...and after with no comment by the author. The author should seem a dunderhead. Naive, gullible, totally taken with his/her characters. Only the reader knows "what's up."

And in every good play, we find a development, a movement forward that actually grips and drags its audience with it. And this development happens on stage. Right in front of our eyes. That is why many actors fall in love with each other when working on a really good play. And the reader of a good play will not wish to put it down until it is ended. And then, will wish o live a little longer in the world they have been allowed to enter—by a really good playwright who knows that "life" on the stage and in a really good play "happens" 'without comment. Without reason, almost. And that, first and foremost, the story that lives behind the plot, makes for a really good "read."

The Lower East Side Festival of the Arts

The Theater presentations in this year's Lower East Side Festival of the Arts were so incredible that some of them actually emitted Gasps of awe from the audiences. Especially prominent in this category were Suspended Cirque, an Aerial Dance company that will be the top U.S. Contender for a Gold Medal in the Theater Hall of Fame. Their collective beauty in the air was worthy of P.T. Barnum and Dostoevsky; an unbeatable combination when you add a little Niels Bohr, Harlan Ellison and Stephen Hawking to the mix.

Interestingly enough, the Infinity Dance Theater, under Kitty Lunn's direction, was equally orgasmic with abled and disabled dancers sharing the spotlight. Dixon Place's work was exceptional. This also included an aerial component. And Heidi Latsky's Dance Company, which also included abled and disabled dancers, working together, was so very moving. Not a dry eye in the house. What is going on?! The best stuff of the 3 incredible evenings were all either in the air, or swept us up in their desire to move beyond physical limitations. I think we are all headed for the sky and one day, with either a fiber optic silicon chip, or the mental strength of 3/4ths of our brain, which we're not yet using, we will fly!

That is, if we don't blow ourselves to Kingdom Come, or nuke ourselves to death, or drill Mother Earth to a crumble looking for anything else she may have to offer.

Which brings me to some of the great protest moments of this 17th Annual 3-day confluence of many minds and Great matters. Lissa Moira's cry against the Bamboozlement of the 99%, the Occupy Wall Streeters, and the Latin Heartbeat of Maquina Mono and Circus Amok tore us apart. The Radicals of the evening (except for Lissa) were quiet and charming in their demeanor, which only goes to s how you that Revolution in this new age, is taking on a new and different face. Actually, much closer to TNC's philosophy, non-violent, non-categorized, gentle leaderness, but with the persistence of a flea in your pants that bites and stings and never gives up. And the worst part of it is, you can never catch it. Eventually, you'll tear your clothing apart trying to put it down. And it'll land, finally, in your ear, and you'll never hear the end of it.