Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Are You Playwright Enough?

There's an exciting NaNoWriMo-like challenge starting tomorrow for all playwrights:

31 Plays in 31 Days is the challenge for playwrights to produce a play a day (one page minimum) during the month of August.

I'm terribly excited by the idea.  I've known a few other playwrights who've managed to do a play a day for a year...trying to make a month is about enough for me!

Today's the last day to sign up officially (I think) so make sure you send your info in!

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Nothing's Gonna Change My World

I hate moving.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I hate packed bags; I hate packing bags.

And yet, curiously enough, I love travel, and adventure, and being on the go.

It's the expectation of movement that's the worst.  As Eliot puts it so succinctly in The Hollow Men:
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
I've made quite a few movements in my life.  It used to be that when people would ask me where I was from, I'd heave a sigh and explain that I was born in Amherst, Massachusetts - but don't remember it - and then moved to Worcester, MA - which I do remember - and then in Nursery School to Portsmouth, NH - which I loved very much - and then wrenched out of there mid-fourth grade under trying circumstances to the (initially) trying home of Pompton Lakes, NJ.

Jersey took four years or so to become home, once I made friends four years later in high school - but soon after it was off to Steubenville, OH for college, which was more home than home because in 1997, mid-college, my family moved from Jersey (where I'd finally felt rooted) back to Massachusetts (which I could barely remember)...the very summer before I went abroad for a semester to do nothing but travel - which was wonderful, and trying, and perilous, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

My body was in MA from summer 1997 on, but home was Ohio - and remained Ohio for a good year after graduating.  Hence, I didn't really live in Massachusetts until 2000, after I came back from a stint to England, and began teaching and - much to my surprise - put down tentative roots, fifteen years in the making.

And now, just as my roots are secure, I am moving again.

What makes this particular move more difficult is that I'm not going with family, as I did when a child, or with some particular goal, as I did when I went to college.  I'm not going with a set job (I'll be temping); nor roommate; nor even immediate goal.  Yet, I am going.  I am, to put it frankly, being sent.

I'm walking on water; I'm hoping there's a handy whale with a bad digestive system.  I'm speaking with Isaiah and Samuel's words, "Here I am, Lord!  Send me!"  I'm hoping His parable about the lilies of the field is accurate.

Yet, even as I look at the choppy waves, and the whale's enormous esophogas, and the fall of every sparrow, I'm reminded of a few things:

    • I was terrified of little things when I left everything at Hudson Catholic (and it forcibly left me) to pursue my Master's at Emerson College.  I remember, I worked up all this gumption to go on the silly train to and from Boston, and nearly freaked myself out over a trial-run a week before classes began to scope out the train, and the campus, and my classrooms and everything.  Yet, now these places are my stomping ground.  There was nothing frightful about the change, other than the possibility of having to share a seat on a crowded commute.  And that little change out of my comfort zone of six years back in Hudson is what first set the groundwork in me to realize I could make a living as an artist.  All it took was the gumption to get on a train.
    •  After I finished Hamlet, our first production of Gaudete Academy and the beginning of the end at HCH (although I didn't know it), I was in a state.  I was still deep in the world of Hamlet, I was feeling called to leave HCH, I couldn't believe that we'd actually pulled off Gaudete Academy, I was losing my first "theatrical child" - whom I'd directed in something like fourteen plays - to college, I was exhausted.  So naturally, my mother sent my sister and myself for a week to Ireland.  I didn't want to go - not that I didn't want to travel to Ireland, but rather we were leaving the day after the show closed, and I wanted time to collapse.
      A sign we saw in Dublin.
      The first few days were tough: Mum had arranged for us an itinerary of meeting distant cousins and staying in abandoned houses they owned (sleeping on the floor) or in nunneries, and drinking more tea than even my constitution could stand.  It would have been my Mother's dream trip - she's a genealogist - but it was tough going for us.  (As was driving on the wrong side of the road while jetlagged in the middle of the night on roads we didn't know to places we'd never been.)  
      However, when in Dublin we went off our itinerary.  We saw The Importance of Being Earnest by an all male-cast.  We visited the university.  We took taxis.  And at last we went the "wrong way" on the road, followed the mountains out of Dublin sans map, and found ourselves in perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland I'd ever seen.  Which is to say, sometimes going under extreme pressure and choosing right or left by His whim lead one to the bits one ends up loving the best.
    • Not all adventures are successful: I shouldn't have gone to Paris alone (or at least, I shouldn't have spoken to strangers in Paris), and tromping off alone and attempting to scale cliffs while upset at the world and in tennis shoes with no traction while the ground is muddy wasn't my best idea.  
    However, going off alone in London to Hyde Park to practice Rosalind's speeches to a tree and then running into some legitimate Shakespearean actors who inquired of me information (which I was too young and fearful to pursue their friendship) was a good idea (it was also daylight!).  And saying, "Bollocks" to pretty much everyone who's ever said, "No," or "We're not sure," or "It can't be done," re: doing some piece of theatre and just doing it instead has nearly always panned out.

    Those times when I haven't hidden (such as at Emerson) have always been better than those times I have (such as in Hollywood).  Those times I've stuck to my guns have been better than those times I've caved.  Those times I've pursued friendship have been better than those times I haven't.  Those times I've jumped with God (such as when I grabbed my unpacked bags and ran off after the train to Italy) were better than those times I've fried my brain on TV (too often).  Those times I've walked with God are better than those times when I've moped on my own.
    • Last, but hardly least, I'll keep in mind my first day of first grade.  My mother dropped me off - herself weepy; myself as well.  Then, unbeknownst to me, Mum watched through the window to see if I was all right.  She saw me muttering to myself, and getting ready for the day.  Later that night, she asked me what I had been doing.  And I, ever precocious, looked her in the eye and said very gravely, "Well, I was scared.  So I thought to myself, 'I need a pep talk.'  So I gave one to myself.  And then everything was all right."
    What's also amusing is how encouraging everyone has been.  Amusing solely because it's the response of someone who's been There and Back Again, someone who knows there are dragons and they can be fought...and who also knows that the dragons are less numerous than the multitudinous other unexpected beauties along the way.  Having now sent off quite a few students to college, I've been that amused person more times than I care to admit: the person who's excited for the adventure my student is going towards, even as my student quakes with fear at the unknown.  So it is now; only I'm the student without a school this time.  I'm Bilbo, setting forth from the Shire, unaware of the adventure that lies before him.

    I'll end with the best pep talk my Dad ever gave me.  He's the sort of fellow who'll buy a birthday card and then put speech bubbles and captions all over it.  One birthday, he gave me a picture of the companions from the Wizard of Oz, and on the back he wrote this:
    And all the people said, "Ahhg! A Lion!"

    And the Lion turned around and cried, "Oh No! Where?"

    Remember: You are a Lion.

    Saturday, July 14, 2012

    On the Need for Martyrs

    I've always been a fan of martyrs.

    I think many Catholics are.  Martyrs have some of the best stories, some of the best one-liners (1), and frankly some of the most inspiring lives - no matter how cut off in their prime - of anyone who've ever lived.  Check it out:

    St. Cecelia
    The patron saint of music, St. Cecelia was a beautiful young Roman noblewoman who was forced by her pagan father to marry another nobleman, Valerianus (we'll call him Val), despite having sworn her virginity to God.

    Nevertheless, the marriage went through, and on her wedding night as Val entered the honeymoon suite, he was greeted by his new wife who informed him that she was terribly sorry, but she was a Christian, and - what's more - a consecrated virgin, and that incidentally if Val tried any hanky-panky, her angel would cut him down.

    "Go take a walk," Cecelia ordered Val.  "Think about it.  Come back and tell me what you think."

    Val went out for the walk, and when he came back, he saw Cecelia talking to her angel.  Val converted pretty much on the spot (and agreed to the no-sexy-times relationship).  Soon after that, Val's brother also converted.

    Unfortunately, the boys were caught early by the anti-Catholic government officials of Marcus Aurelius, who had the men put to death immediately.  Cecelia lived on a while longer, converting many, until she was finally caught, subjected to various tortures, and at last put to death by beheading.

    The rule at the time was that executioners only had three tries to cut off someone's head.  They tried three times...but failed...and so left St. Cecelia to bleed out.  She died and was buried in the catacombs, having arranged her fingers to show "three" and "one" on each hand - to indicate her belief in the Trinity.

    Several centuries later, her body was discovered in the catacombs - incorrupt.  Her body was moved across the Tiber and in the crypt of a new basilica, now known as the Basilica of St. Cecelia. (2)



    St. Maximilian Kolbe
    A humble Franciscan priest, taken into Auschwitz for opposing Hitler.  When someone stole some food out of desperation, the Commadant decided to put several of the prisoners at random into a starvation cell.  One man who was chosen, broke down and begged for his life: he was a family man.  St. Maximilian Kolbe, who had not been chosen to be starved, volunteered in the man's place.  While starving, St. Maximilian was heard not only offering spiritual counsel and confession to his fellow prisoners, but also leading them in songs and in jokes.  They did all eventually die of starvation.  The man whose place St. Maximilian took did survive, was reunited with his family, and testified on St. Maximilian's behalf at his beatification.

    St. Robert Southwell
    A distant cousin of Shakespeare, Southwell not only chose to become a Jesuit priest (the thorn in the side of the anti-Catholic English monarchy) but begged to go from the safety of France back to his native England, there to say mass, hear confessions, and minister to his persecuted countrymen.  For several years, he managed to live in England secretly, moved from Catholic house to Catholic house.

    During this time, Southwell, an accomplished poet himself, wrote a letter to Shakespeare - who was just beginning to write a few plays and poems and enjoy celebrity - saying, in effect, "Your work is very good.  You have much talent.  It's a pity you throw it away on writing trivial stuff.  Think of what great work you could do, were you to write about more than fluff."  (At this point, Shakespeare had written Comedy of Errors, Titus Andronicus, Love's Labour's Lost, and probably Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night's Dream.)

    Soon after, Southwell was found out by Queen Elizabeth's chief priest-hunter who imprisoned and tortured Southwell.  After enduring several years of this, Southwell was at last ordered to be executed by being drawn, hung, and quartered (3).  The day of his trial, the crown tried to publicize the execution of another criminal in order to keep people from viewing Southwell's death (since many had converted several years earlier at St. Edmund Campion's execution).

    However, when he was being hung, Lord Mountjoy and many of the other onlookers rushed forward and pulled on Southwell's body so that he would die in the hanging.  His lifeless body, therefore, was quartered, and not one person in the crowed called out the traditional "Traitor!"

    After Southwell's death, Shakespeare - who was very likely in the London crowd that day - began writing plays with richer significance and greater depth and glory.

    I could go on and on.  St. Joan of Arc, St. Thomas More, St. Edith Stein, St. Isaac Jogues...all those persecuted for being Catholic in the last century in Spain and in Mexico, or previously during the Reign of Terror in France...all the Catholics who to this day are persecuted and killed in China and Japan...all those Catholics who are, to this very hour, being murdered while at prayer in Muslim-held territories from Egypt throughout the Mideast.

    It's pretty staggering, when you think about it.

    Yet, in light of current events, I can't help but think that America is long overdue for her martyrs.

    I remember the day the news came out that the Supreme Court had acquiesced to Obamacare - just two weeks ago, now.  My entire household, as Catholics, held their breath regarding the ruling.  Would we be forced to fight for our religious rights?  Would we be forced to pay for the death of infants?  Would we be forced to shut down our relief services because of government command?  Would we, in effect, be persecuted thanks to a clever legal loophole?

    It's not an impossible thought.  Look at the martyrs listed above.

    They all faced the ruling forces and would not kneel.

    My mother held out hope that the entire bill would be struck down.

    But somehow I knew, I knew, as I sat at my job with the vein under my right eye twitching (a result of a high-stress job, not of the ruling), that the Supreme Court would bow to Obama.

    I knew, even as I said my rosary for the Fortnight of Freedom - sneaking in a decade here and there as I went to the bathroom or drove to and from lunch - that the Catholic Church would be made to fight.

    I knew, I knew, even as I fervently prayed that God would spare our country, that He was sparing our country.  He was doing it at this very moment.  He is pouring out His graces - but in the way that He always has:

    Through His blood we are healed.  Through His cross are we granted salvation.

    He didn't say, "I come to bring fluffy bunnies."  He said, "I come with a sword."

    He didn't say, "Pick up your remote control and follow me."  He said, "Pick up your cross."

    He didn't say, "Blessed are those who grow fat and comfortable and forget about their God while sprinkling themselves insensibly with holy water when they can be bothered."  He said, "Blessed are you when people insult you, and persecute you, and utter false things against you for My Name's sake.  Rejoice and be glad!  For your reward is great in Heaven."

    However, He also didn't say, "Run into buildings, take out a bunch of infidels with you, and follow me."  Christ didn't unleash His power upon His persecutors - He forgave them.  In fact, He even promised to bring the thief to Heaven that very day.

    Is it any wonder, then, that as in Egypt when God allowed His people to suffer under Pharoh, as in Soviet Poland from whence our late John Paul the Great came in opposition to persecution, that He would allow our human government once more to feel its full power and therefore to truly ask of us, "Who do you say I AM?"

    Is it any wonder when, like with the debaucheries of Rome, He saves us by allowing the world to truly witness (what "martyr" literally means) what their debaucheries were getting them: the circus, the death-matches, the Christian holocausts of the first centuries.

    The Church requires her martyrs.  By the blood of the martyrs - those brave fools, those men and women who would not bend even when the world was being trampled, those ordinary folks like you and I who said "I am God's servant, first, and my life is His," those glorious saints who are a bafflement to their peers, a scandalon in the soft shoe of the comfortable, a stumbling block to make men stop and look and think and believe.

    I do believe that we are heading towards a time of martyrdom - of bloody martyrdom.  I pray we are not.  But I fear that we have become too comfortable.  We must wake ourselves.

    We need those martyrs who stand up for the waking truth, even in the midst of a world gone mad with nightmares.  God, give us Your grace.  Amen!





    (1) Classic example: St. Lawrence, patron saint of saints, was being roasted alive by government officials who were furious that Lawrence wouldn't stomp on the crucifix. Lawrence, far from - you know, screaming - merely said: "Turn me over, boys! I'm done on this side!"

    (2) Back in 1997, I visited the catacombs where a statue of how St. Cecelia's body was found lo those many centuries ago.  Inspired by this, I diverged from my tour group one afternoon, dragging a classmate with me, to find the Basilica of St. Cecelia.
    Directions: from the Coliseum, go left towards St. Peter's/the Vatican.  Right before you'd go into St. Peter's, turn left, keeping the Tiber on your right.  Head down about half a mile until you could go left again and see that crazy round head thing from Roman Holiday which is supposed to cut off your hand if you tell a lie while your hand is in its mouth.  By the way, it doesn't work, but it freaks you out when you do it, anyway!  After you've had fun with the crazy round pagan lie-detector, go back right and over the Tiber via the closest bridge.  The Basilica is on your right, and they tie on fake roses to the bushes (at least in November).  It will look like a teeny villa, but don't be deceived!  It's her humble Basilica!
    When I got there, I was disappointed to find that the doors were locked.  Fortunately, a very pretty organist came up - one of those with a carefully careless beard, rosy cheeks under dusky skin, and brown curly hair falling into his eyes, head mostly bowed, music tucked under his arm, as he rushed up to the basilica muttering to himself, keys swinging from his pocket.  Very pretty.  I went up, batted my eyelashes, begged to be let in (in my broken Italianish), and was let in.  However, then pretty boy was trying to...flirt back?  And I was in full pilgrimage mode and didn't much believe that I was bait for gorgeous Italian men.

    Note to self: invent time travel and punch my former self in the windpipe.

    (3) For anyone who doesn't know, this form of death is particularly awful, and includes the following steps:
    • The victim is first drawn from his place of imprisonment to his place of execution by means of a sled, so that his back, head, and torso are dragged along the road and the filth.
    • Next, the victim is hung only to suffocation, not to death.
    • Then, the victim's torso is cut into in a cross form (light enough to keep him alive).  Then his arms and legs are tied to four separate horses, who are then sent off at a gallop in different directions, so that the prisoner is alive as his abused body is literally torn apart.
    Yeah.   Nnnngh.  The Tudor's favourite form of execution.

    Sunday, July 1, 2012

    Free Books? Yes, Please!

    Exclusive offer!

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    For this month, you can purchase Nachtsturm Castle at 50% off...

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