Sick boy creativity.

My youngest son spent the day at home yesterday, sick with a sore throat and slight fever. This child doesn't spend a lot of time alone as he has an older brother and sister and a best friend who lives up the street. When he is with his brother he is usually playing whatever the older brother is playing. Likewise, his best friend is much more of a leader, so my son tends to play whatever the friend plays.

Yesterday, I saw the creativity in my child that we don't usually see, because of his nature to follow along. While sick, he asked his mother if he could have any clothes that he could use to cut up. My wife gave him an old shirt and pair of pants. He disappeared for a long time, came back with the clothes in shreds, and some red fabric cut into strips and scotch taped to his body and said, "I was attacked by a bear."

My son in his "I was attacked" pose.

I just love the creative spirit!

A strange evening of theatre.

Just over a week ago I went to see a play at a local university. I had intended to write about the play that evening when I came home, but in the time since then I haven't been able to come to any real conclusions as to my own reactions over the play. I've thought about the play quite a bit since seeing it, which would usually indicate that it struck me, somehow, in a positive way, but I don't think that's true. It is this dilemma which has haunted me.

The play was O, Jerusalem, by A.R. Gurney. For those who aren't familiar with Gurney, he is known in the theatre communities as the W.A.S.P. playwright. He is one of the most produced playwrights in America, having achieved some fame with The Dining Room in the 80's and continues his popularity with the oft-produced Love Letters.

A few years back I had the opportunity to stage manage a new Gurney play, The Fourth Wall. In the play, Gurney explores, and breaks, some of the conventions of theatre, such as breaking through the "fourth wall" (he does it figuratively, and literally in the play). In O, Jerusalem, Gurney continues to toy with the theatre traditions. This is conundrum number one.

The pretense is that the actors on stage are actors on a stage performing a newly found work called O, Jerusalem. They break out of scenes some times to explain that they thought the scene went on too long, so they're cutting it here and they explain what the scene went on to do. They do this type of thing with some regularity. And I didn't care for it. And yet...

Part of the problem is that when Gurney tries to get experimental, he's still as whitebread as you can get. He seems to "push the envelope," but never very far. While I didn't care for what he did in the play, I admire that as a writer he is still trying to explore new theatrical conventions. It's the same reason I enjoy Ionesco -- exploring and pushing the theatrical conventions. It's just that Gurney does it so timidly.

Next problem I had was the set. It was beautiful. Elegant. Suggested an Arab setting without going over-board. The open-ness of it lent itself to Gurney's experimenting quite well. But it was hardly used.

In my mind, most of the action, certainly most of the important action, occurred on the stage level, in front of the set. As I think about it, and go back scene by scene, I'm sure that I could see that people entered or crossed among the levels fairly often, but I have this gut reaction that the set was used primarily as a backdrop, rather than a functional set. Is this wrong? I don't know. Certainly it isn't right that I came away conscious of the fact that the set was under-used (in my opinion), but maybe this was a conscious decision on the part of the director (and maybe even playwright)?

Part of Gurney's experiment with style and convention was the use of slides on an upstage backdrop. These did nothing for me. Perhaps the images of the twin towers in New York burning and collapsing are still fresh enough in my own mind that I didn't need them. Perhaps I just think that slides in a theatrical production are just a little cheesy.

The acting was fine. About what you'd expect from a university -- good, but no one outstanding. One female lead did do an exceptional job with her accent and character, and the fact that she was a freshman suggests that she'll see leading roles for a few years. The male lead was fine but I did feel that he actually had trouble swearing. Any curse he uttered seemed very forced and unnatural. I actually wondered how I might have been as a college student and how easily they might roll off my tongue today.

And then there's the story.

The play is about events leading up to the 9/11 disaster, focusing on one foreign affairs secretary. Because Gurney is toying with our perceptions of theatre, I don't know where he is drawing the line between factual information and fiction. Is the entire work fictional? Is it based on any truth (other than that the events of 9/11 did occur)? I don't know. And certainly, since one of the play's endings is set in the future, we know that part is fictional. And what that does is take away any rage we might have felt over the inactions of others. In fact, we are left totally and utterly with nothing. No feelings of sorrow, rage, frustration, fear, anger, happiness, delight... nothing. We leave the play having witnessed something, but not quite sure what.

And this is why I have been thinking about it, but not sure what I'm thinking about.

Is this all part of Gurney's great plan to push the boundaries of theatre conventions ... to make us think about a play, but not think anything specific about it? Or is it a failed piece of story-telling?

I'm inclined to believe the latter (...but I'm not quite sure...).

I'm here. Not queer. And I'm proud (but I'll never be an essayist)!

Not too long ago I wrote that I've really made a turn in my enjoyment in reading non-fiction. Two of the best books I've read lately are Tyrone Guthrie's A New Theatre, and Malcolm Gadwell's Blink.

And then there are essay collections. What are essay? Seems to me they're pretty much like blog posts except in paper print, usually for a classier magazine or newspaper.

And while it could very well just be my perception of things, it seems that two of the bigger names in personal essay writing are David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. Both names are mentioned in some of the literary websites, and both have a few books out that are recognizable.

I remember picking up Sedaris's Barrel Fever at a friend's house and after skimming a few entries, getting a chuckle and making a mental note to read more of his work.

But now, having read Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by Sedaris and being nearly finished with Burroughs's Magical Thinking, I've come to the conclusion that I'll never be a successful essayist if, for no other reason, than the fact that I am not gay. Both authors, in these two collections, not only point out their sexuality, but shove it, metaphorically, in the reader's face. And yet, the essays aren't about being gay. Maybe that's why I have a problem with them.

I suppose, if an essay is a little slice of a life experience, and the author happens to be gay, then that essay will contain homosexual elements, and then, obviously, I am not the targeted reader. Silly me. Somehow I thought that big name essayists would be writing in such a way as to have something to say that would impact most readers and not just those with a particular sexual orientiation. Not so, says I.

Sedaris's book doesn't dwell on his sexual preference nearly as much as Burroughs, but after reading the book, I came away picturing Sedaris as whiny, manipulative, argumentative, and bitchy, and I completely disliked the man himself.

What I've come away with so far from the Burroughs book is that he is an insecure, alcoholic, physique-obsessed homosexual. And why would I read his essays? I'm asking myself that same question.

Do people really enjoy reading about the masochistic, self-destructive nature of homosexuals?

Rural wildlife.

Around midnight last night, I walked through my living room and, as I often do, stopped at the window to peer out at the night.

There, not ten yards from me, though separated by the sheets of glass in the window well, was a doe, feasting on my damned birch tree that continues to struggle to survive.

I took a moment to enjoy the sight of the deer, but then irked at the thought of the cost of replacing the tree, I took to flashing the porch lights and garage lights, and even the inside living room lights, in hopes that it might frighten the deer away. Of course she didn't seem to give a damn about the flashing lights. Probably added to her enjoyment of dinner. "Oh, a light show! *munch munch* This was a good choice! *munch scrunch* Just like they all said, *chew* 'Try the birch at Stix's, it's young and tender and going fast. *munch munch slop* And if he's awake, he'll put on a show."

Then, just as I gave up, the deer stopped, stiffened, and cocked her head warily. Then she bolted. I watched her white tail until it was all that I could see of her as she disappeared into the dark down the street.

And then I saw why she ran. Across the street, wandering through the neighbor's yard, was a large, mangy, hungry-looking coyote.

"Wow," I said, out loud. "I'm glad I didn't go outside to scare off that deer," I thought. Though the truth is, the coyote didn't look like he was in to fighting for his food. He wanted an easy meal ... a lazy cat, a lame dog, stupid squirrel, whatever he didn't have to work for.

Still, the site of the predator took me by surprise, and as I closed the curtains and made ready to go back to bed, I made a mental note, "I have to be sure to tell the kids not to wander around the neighborhood after dark."

Whispery haunts.

It is easy to understand the fear and belief in ghosts that hold sway over some people.

Last night I sat bolt upright sometime around 4am when I heard the very distinct whispering..."Dad. ...Daddy?"

This actually is not too unusual and I will usually wake up enough to walk one of my children to the bathroom and then back to bed. And last night, as I sat up I looked around, expecting to see one of my boys standing near the foot of the bed...but no one was there.

Not only were they not there, but they were sound asleep in their own room, which is on a different floor of the house.

What I heard was real. Too real to seem to be part of a dream. Real enough to sound like so many other nights that I truly expected to see a child (my child) near the bed. So what was it?

I'm guessing it was a dream. One of those dreams that does seem real. But I can't remember anything other than the whispered calling for me. The "ghost hunters," I'm sure, would encourage me to believe that the house is haunted.

When I told my wife, she looked a little shocked and said, "Sometimes I wake up at night and I'm sure that I hear someone walking through the house."

Again, this would seem more fodder for the believers that our house is haunted and visited by spirits. And quite frankly, I have an active enough imagination that I might go along with that line of thinking, except for one thing.

Our house is new. Built for us. Never been lived in before. And was built on a piece of property that was prairie land .

The whispers for "Dad" and the nighttime sounds of footsteps might make for good story-telling, but to prove the existence of the spirit world? Nah.