Crapistmas

Okay. I don't want anyone to panic but I woke up this morning to realise that it is only 15 days to Christmas.

Fine. Start panicking. I sure as hell am. I have not done a thing. I haven't thought of Christmas. Okay, well, slight lie. I have made a list of stuff that I want. But as for other people, no, no and a bit more no.

Oh God. The buying of presents. The wrapping of presents. The sending of presents to far flung lands such as Queensland for my family to toss to one side and never think of again. Oh God. The wasting of money. And only 15 days in which to do all of this. I think we will start calling it Crapistmas. Spread it around. I am 100% certain it is going to catch on.

Balm for the busy

If you're feeling a little overwhelmed by it all, then suck on this for a couple of minutes.

You Want a Social Life, With Friends -- by Kenneth Koch

You want a social life, with friends,
A passionate love life and as well
To work hard every day. What's true
Is of these three you may have two
And two can pay you dividends
But never may have three.

There isn't time enough, my friends --
Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends --
To find the time to have love, work, and friends.
Michelangelo had feeling
For Vittoria and the ceiling
But did he go to parties at day's end?

Homer nightly went to banquets
Wrote all day but had no lockets
Bright with pictures of his girl.
I know one who loves and parties
And has done so since his thirties
But writes hardly anything at all.

Jesus, I hate poets. They always get it so right. Bastards.

What I'm not talking about.

While I should be putting my two cents into the debate, war, general brouhaha that exploded over at Belvoir in Sydney regarding a certain playwright and his oh so feminist stance (I'm sorry, there's something about men burning their bras for me that sends me loopy) I'm not. Other people, such as this smart woman and this other smart woman are doing a much better job of it and raging against the unfairness of it all. Good for them. I hope something happens from it. It won't, but I won't stop hoping for you. Talk about it till the cows come home if you want … they are still going to have male directors that want to put on male playwrights and have a great big male time of it all. And so it will continue until someone actually gets some balls and does something so wildly unpopular as mandating that our theatres must include 50% of women in all artistic positions or else it's bye-bye to all your funding. Yes, every last cent. Positive discrimination, ring your bell now.

I know, I know. Wildly unpopular. Beat down that heretic little witch. Fine. Call me what you want and yell at me with phrases such as "compromising artistic integrity" as if this will be the first time an artist has had to do that in order to get her work produced, but think on this. You think that women would ever be in the workplace if a law hadn't forced old white men to make it so? Do you think anything changes just because a minority wants it? What world do you live in people? People don't like change. I personally despise it. God only knows what would happen. But the only way we are going to stop having excruciatingly condescending treatment such as "Look, I know we haven't got any women but would you like to have a forum about it one Sunday afternoon if there is absolutely nothing else I can program?" is if someone (yes, I'm talking to you Mr Rudd and Mr Garrett and your little state counterparts) goes BAM! Rips the thing apart. Women, or die. Women artists can't be squeezed into the current system because we have no place to sit ourselves in the current system. Rip it apart. Start again. I swear to god, the empire will stand. No. I lie. The empire is going down. And that's a good thing.

You start coming up with outrageous mandates such as 50% or start packing your boxes and see how quick the relevant theatres rush to ensure that young women artists are nurtured and developed before they let them anywhere near a stage. Go on. Try it. And while you are growing some balls Federal Government, why not grow some more money so that the theatres can actually do what you say. Because it's all well and good to tell people that it is good, it's another to get them to their seats. Perhaps everyone is right when they say (not that they say it out loud) that people don't pay good money for theatre made by women. No, I take that back. That's bullshit. But just in case, we might be needing some more money to fund your new balls.

I know that people will start throwing their arms up in the air and start screaming "Quotas, quotas" as if they were the devil herself, but I have no problems with quotas. None in the slightest. As a woman and an artist, I'll take any helping hand I can. Because trust me, there aren't that many of them. Say what you want about quotas but perhaps we'll finally get to see some real diversity in theatre instead of young angry men talking about young angry men and David Williamson talking about nothing much at all. And some of it will be so good you'll wet your pants at it and some will be horrific but that's theatre. The most important thing you could ever do for a woman artist is to give her the chance to fail. Mistakes are part of creativity and every woman artist has the right to do fuck it up as grandly as possible for as many times as she needs to get it right.

Well, would you look at that. Perhaps I did want to talk about it after all.

Oh wait, I'm not the first. Crikey beat me to it. Bastards.

musings

Things that have changed about me.

1.

Before

Whenever we went away as a family when I was young and I was FORCED to share a hotel room with my brother, I would always have to have the curtains closed fully. Not an millimetre of light was allowed in. If I got woken before midday because of that stupid thing called the sun, then I was not going to be a happy camper. Well, I was never a happy camper, my angst having taken firm root from an alarmingly young age, but this vampiric hatred of the sun was non-negotiable. Anyway, all good and fine, when I was in my own room in my own house, but when I was transported to some hotel room where I was FORCED to share with my brother, there he was throwing open the curtains, blinds, windows willy-nilly like a very happy camper, which he never was but somehow that was deemed "okay" by the people that mattered, aka my parents. I would close, he would open, repeat until you both look miscast in a very boring pantomime. Once that gets boring, start yelling at each other, move quickly to name-calling, amp it up to screaming and then wait for your father to burst through the door with the wails of your mother in the background chanting "You've ruined the holiday" (because someone always did).

Now

Open. Close. What the fuck do I care?

More help

In a nod to fairness, here's an opportunity that will appeal to all the playwrights that like their theatre with words (I know, what an archaic thought) here's a lovely place to get your work produced:

Ensemble Studio Theatre (New York)

Material: One-Act Plays (40min's max.)

We will accept submissions for the 2010 Marathon from October 1, 2009 through December 1st. We accept all one act plays which have not been reviewed in New York City. We recommend submissions do not exceed 40 minutes in running time. Playwrights are welcome to submit up to two submissions, but no more.

We prefer electronic submissions. Please send your script as a word document attachment to firman@ensemblestudiotheatre.org.

http://ensemblestudiotheatre.org/opportunities_playwright.html

Happy writing my munchkins.

 

 

Helping hand

In order to be the helping hand that I truly believe I am, I have an opportunity to share with you that some might find helpful. Some might cheer, although that might make you look weird but really, it's up to you.

But this opportunity that is pretty damn good and might be the turning point in your life is for a particular breed of artist (sorry to all the non-artists out there, I'll get back to making fun of train commuters shortly) and so in order to make this even more helpful and so you don't get to the end of the multiple forms and then only realise that you have nothing to offer and would be an idiot to apply, I have developed (at my own time and expense) a foolproof questionnaire. If you answer yes to all of these then grab a pen and start madly lying your arse off.

If your favourite word is 'me', closely followed by 'everything' and coming up the rear is 'now' then stop throwing your fists around in a temper tantrum and listen up.

Still not sure.

If you like your art spliced, diced with lots of sparkle and set to the dulcet tones of whatever emo goth band is speaking your angst, then put down the razor blade and use your powers for good.

I hear you. You can't be pigeonholed that quickly. No worries dude, I got more. (if the word dude makes you roll your eyes in weariness at the stupidity of the old, then I would take a look at this)

If your bio reads something like, like I dig the multimedia shit and the technology is wicked in line with the art and stuff that I make when I not doing a multitude of other cool things cause I'm just not one thing and never will be you old fucks. But the art, it's really all about the art, everything is art and I make it with the hip hop tunes and dem kickarse beats and wack, wacky stuff that you will, like, never understand because you, old fuckers at the age of 25, you have totally lost the vibe and you will probably say it's too loud or too noisy and, well, I can't even be bothered explaining it to you because you'll probably be dead by the time I'm famous which should be happening right about NOW! so just fuck off and leave me with my digital, hybrid, eco-friendly, comic book slash Icelandic hip-hop inspired silent performance art comedy opera.

Thanks. Not.

Didn't I tell you to fuck off?

Yeah. If that sounds like you, then I have a gift for you. No need to thank me, I just want you to take your mess that you are audaciously calling art and move it to QLD for a while.

Like they used to do with characters on Neighbours.

What? Of course that's funny. Well, it used to be in the 90s.

Oh fine. Go here. Express your genius.

Back

Sound the trumpets. Dust off the costumes for the parade. Start tearing the paper for the ticker tape parade. Because she's HOME! Yeah, she really is. It's no joke. I wouldn't joke about something that serious. Me? You think I go around joking about Me? You people have issues.

Let's move on.

I'm back from the theatre Mecca of the known universe. That's right, New Zealand. JOKE! She spent too long on a plane but she still hasn't lost it. I know, New Zealand. As if. It's hilarious. I know. I'll give you a moment to recover.

Okay, are we ready?

The Mecca of Hobbit-lovers and sheep fuckers perhaps. Oh no, she didn't. She did NOT go there. That girl is on fire! FIRE!

Okay. Enough of that. Calm down Kiwis, I really do love you all … They are seriously the most gullible people in the entire universe. I'M KIDDING!    

Okay, I'm really moving on this time.

I'm back. NYC is amazing. Things have changed. Hang around, and you'll find out what.

 

PS Nice to be back.