The Art of Dramatic Living

Imagine a stage within your mind. On that stage you can place anyone or anything. You can bring what you place on the stage to life and direct the action of the players as you will. In a Dramatic Living workshop the participants bring their creative aspirations, projects, blocks and anxieties to life onstage and interact with these objects as characters. This can have profound impact on your creative work becuase it gives you the opportunity to experience a dynamic dialogue with your imagination.

What!?!

Let’s explore an example.

An evening in the theater will cost you three hours of your life. It’s only worth the time if your mind cracks open, your heart breaks – or you laugh so hard you snort out loud.

One of my favorite acting teachers used to say, “Drama is not about the day that nothing happened!” He would scream this at us in class when we were BORING – when we were mis-handling a character’s passion with too much reason – with too much intellect, distance, sophistication or insight – when we were too rational.

I can hear someone much more intellectual than me asking, “What about Waiting for Godot?” And – whoever you are – you’re right. Waiting for Godot  is precisely about the day that nothing happened. That’s what makes it so heart-breaking.

I have missed out on time.
The 4 has come and gone.
This 5 is packed.
I wedge my body between 2 elbows
and the door.
The deaf black boy cannot hear
Jamaica weaving out the radio.
If I sway out of sync with this ride,
The largest women will whisper,
“crazy, crazy” behind their bibles.
Men have giants and bulls
sitting on their heads.
They want me to move away.
Out of the way.
It’s this way
to town.

My father rides on
A bicycle built for two
Past mother’s garden.

He tips his hat towards her.
An empty seat follows him.

She is elbow deep
In mud and does not look up.
She is hoping for

Some green life to grow. She digs
Deeper and deeper. Nothing.

His black and efficiently small suitcase
is open on the dining room table.
He folds three pair of socks air force tight
and tucks them in.
Cigarette packs are layered
over boxers and white T-shirts.
He sits with his coffee and stares forward.
A one-eyed cat comes to have her ears pulled.
She purrs at him with her blind side,
jumps onto the table, crawls into his case
and curls herself tight.
The shower turns on in the bedroom.
It is his wife. The coffee is drained.
He drops the cat on the floor
and zips to leave.
At the door he yells, “Goodbye,”
to the woman still dripping in the bedroom.

My mother played piano.
And I, Isadora, would dance.
When our house caught fire,
I mimicked the flames with the arch of my body.
My mother stared solidly into the blaze.
She leapt only once,
when the piano peeled away from its legs
and twanged into a crackled chord.
When the song ended,
curls of dust rose in adagio and followed my lead.         

My spirit found its form in fire.
My dance ignited in sparks.
Now I spring past myself into your light.
I am your blink and your grasp
your leap up from the kitchen table,
the turn of your head to your lover’s voice.
My spirit is the static of your negligee
as the material clings.
I cling and you are lit.