Search This Blog

Tell me your email and I'll tell you a secret.

Tell me your email and I'll tell you a secret. Subscribe to our newsletter

Thursday, February 28, 2013

work day

In the life of a playwright your work day may look like this.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

I may never post this

But if I do, here's what I want to say:

I'm feeling pretty angry.

So angry that I can't get past it. That never happens. I gave up rage years ago after throwing a chair at Dave. He ducked and it smashed against the wall and he said something like: if we're gonna be together you're gonna hafta get that temper under control. Turns out, at that time in my life, I'd been angry for most if it.

So I worked on forgiveness. I tried to learn how to pray again. I tried to open my hands instead of clenching them in fists.

It wasn't easy, but I got that bitch under control.

Without delving into the backstory too much: I made a joke. It went badly, as these things so often do. Things were misconstrued all over the place. There was drama. Now it's over. Maybe things are irrevocable, maybe they're not. Whatevs. We stand where we stand.

So for the record, here's a list of things I'm free to joke about any time I damn well please:

  • being punched in the face by my dad when I was 13 years old
  • being left by my mom when I was 10 months old
  • having taken plenty of drugs and lived to to joke about
  • my friends who did not live through it
  • being pushed down the stairs by my step mom
  • being told my dad's second divorce was my fault because I wasn't doing my chores
  • throwing chairs at my husband (I don't do that anymore)
  • anything else that is or was painful in my life
  • whatever I damn well please
I guess I'm posting this now. Hopefully I won't regret it. If I do, here's hoping I'll be able to laugh about it later.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

R train blues... and greens

One of these people in reeking of green this morning. Who is it? (I already checked my coat, and my bag, it ain't me, people.)

Also the girl next to me was reading Crime and Punishment, so that's a win for humanity right there.

Meanwhile I'm typing up the continuation of Radio Mara Mara on my iPhone and listening to Beirut's March of the Zapotec & Realpeople- Holland. (Because my commute is just that long.)

Monday, February 25, 2013

found (in my life)

Inspired almost entirely by the old zine Found and internetkhole, I'm posting some found pictures from my life.



Dave and I and DB at the Grand Canyon. I can see now why everyone thought Dave looked like trouble. 2000 maybe.


my childhood bedroom from when we lived in N. Andover, Mass. I was into Holly Hobby.


My step-cousin Sean and my Dad at his second wedding, 1981. That's me in red. I was the flower girl.


My mom and dad sometime after their wedding.


my mom and dad at their wedding.


I moved in with my mom, step-father, and brother DB when I was 15. this is our first Christmas.


Me and brother NJE. clearly I liked that hat. pretty sure I stole it from my hs drama dept


at Dave's grandparents old place in Northeast, with JDM and Dave.


I think this was my 10th bday. the game was trying to get donuts hanging from a pole. That's Sarah down front. I'm the tall one grabbing the pole, and that's Nikki behind me.


typing up notes 2001. Juniper Street. Phila.


Brad Rothbart, Dave and I in our first place in NYC. Must be 2002.


Layla took this picture of me in college. I think I stole this hat too.


hot summer day Phila with Dad and NJE for his naturalization.


20. morphine.


typing up notes with a joint. Spruce Street, Phila.


my mom when she was little, with my grandpa.


cheesecake at my wedding.


Dave's grandparents' house. 2001 perhaps.


traditional Norwegian costume. Lawrence, Mass.


seven years old.


the back reads: visiting Santa at Benson's Animal Farm.


Helping the bride CJC with her hair. Lavender flower girl dress. That's my mom in back.


at my Gram's old house in Long Island.


me and Julia.

seeking advice

It's been a month since I've had this blog up. If you've been following along you probably know me pretty well, or at least nominally well.

So here it is:

I'm seeking advice.

On any topic.

Personal or public.

Comment below or li88yemmons [at] gmail [dot] com

Sunday, February 24, 2013

organizing principle/organized religion

A friend said he was up for a new post, so here's what's on my mind:

My son's getting baptized today. It might seem a bit late in the game, because he's already three years old, but I was eight years old I think, so he's def ahead of the game in a family tradition sense.

Most of my friends would define themselves as secular humanist atheists, in as much as they choose to define themselves at all, which I think is not much. My maternal family are lapsed Catholics, like since the 1970's, at least, and my paternal family are more born-again Christian types, where you live a life of sin, suffer a great loss, have a shocking revelation, and come back to Christ. So we got a fair amount of push-back when we expressed our intention to raise Chars in the Church.

The thing was it was a pretty easy decision. I didn't have to do much soul searching to know that I wants Chars to start with a religious foundation. Here's why, in no particular order:

• western literature.
• a set of moral guidelines that have their root in something greater than human reason, empathy and compassion
• the understanding that living a life of faith is a real true option
• if he gets lost somewhere along the way (like I have, do, will do again), the traditions of the Church and the repetitions of mass are like the proverbial crumbs in the forest that can help you find your way back.
• the rigorous academic standards at the Catholic school we're sending him to, and the "Catholic discount" on tuition.
• the Church will be something to question and cast off like so much molting snake skin when he comes of age to do that.
• he'll know that deep down in the center of his heart, under all the anxiety and horror of life, is a true pulsing love that perhaps even death cannot extinguish

I know alot of people I know and care about think that makes me sound like a crazy person.

(Apropos of crazy is after I read Go Ask Alice I thought how I'd really like to take drugs. It sounded amazing, except for the parts where she totally stopped taking responsibility for herself, I mean girl, keep a cool head. But I was vaguely seeing a guy at the time, a guy who drove a mustang, and I knew he could get LSD. So u said hey guy, go on and get me some LSD! And be said actually no, you're too crazy, I'm not going to make you more crazy. Don't worry, mustang guy was not my last chance.)

Anyway being a crazy person is the least of my concerns.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

about reviewing shows and conflicts of interest

In which I review Thais Francis' Outcry, directed by Christopher Burris at Jack, in Brooklyn.

Now and then I write reviews for Jody Christopherson's New York Theatre Review. I like the Review, which published 12 plays from the Sticky series in 2009, including one of my own, and I like Jody, who I worked closely with on Eschaton Cabaret, presented at Dixon Place and the late, great, Bowery Poetry Club from 2011-12.

At first, when I would write a review for a show in which I knew all the people, I would put on a disclaimer, saying that I'd worked with those persons, and that I thought they were terrific. This disclaimer indicated that I might perhaps be biased in my review, and that the reader should understand, in reading my review, that I could perhaps be unduly influenced by my affection for those persons.

But I've given that some thought, and I don't do that anymore. Why not? You might ask, oughtn't I let the reader know that I could perhaps be unduly influenced?

No. And here's why.

We all know each other downtown. We all have seen each other's stuff. We are a community that runs deep. I am not just reviewing a specific show, when Jody gives me an assignment, I'm tapping into a body of work that I've seen develop, that I'm watching develop, that I am interested in seeing develop. I don't always like the work I see, be it performed by friends and adored colleagues, or no. But whether or not I like something is not what a review is about. In fact, whether or not the reader should go see the show or not, is not what a review is about.

A review is about continuing the discussion of the ideas in the show. What is a show trying to say about what it is to be a human being? About how we ought live together in the world? That's what I want to talk about.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

coming out (about my day job)

I always thought I'd get to a place in my career as a playwright where I could forgo the day job and just live off of my good looks- er- residuals. And there's plenty of people I know who do that. For some reason that hasn't been me. I've been paid to write, don't get me wrong. But does it pay the rent? Consistently? Year in year out? No, no it doesn't.

Lots of times I've felt ashamed of my day job (although I pretty much feel ashamed of everything), it's like you're 30 ehem ehem years old, how can you call yourself a writer when you still got this mf day job? That's what my inner self says to my inner self, and then at cocktail parties when someone asks "so Libby, what do you do?" I just cram my mouth full of cocktail weenies and laugh until I choke.

What do I do? I do everything, I write stuff, I produce stuff, I've probably even produced your stuff (and if not I probably want to). I take care of my kid, I do a bunch of stuff I will probably never talk about online, and also I work this day job.

The thing is anyone can say they're a writer, all you have to do is write stuff. Writing stuff can be a job, like people who write tv shows and movies and even Broadway shows and other kinds of advertising copy.

I don't do that. I don't dwell (anymore) on why I don't do that. I do what I do. Lots of times I love what I do. Lots of times I get frustrated. Lots of times I'd be glad for some more cash.

Recently I talked to an artist who I think is just incredible, really talented, really good looking, really kind and generous. He does so much stuff! Amazing stuff! And it turns out he has a day job. He doesn't like to tell people about it. And I'm okay with that, you don't have to tell people about your day job if you don't want to.

But day jobs are not uncommon. So I'm coming out. I Have A Day Job!

photos from Radio Mara Mara

We had our first showing of Radio Mara Mara last night. K.L. Thomas came out and took some photos, and here they are.

I was really happy with the work we've done on this project, and what I learned last night is that I want to keep working on it. I want to keep working on it with this cast and director, too. I think there's alot more story that needs be told, and judging from audience response, so do they.

Thank you Christopher Burris, Zoe Metcalfe-Klaw and Ali Ayala, thank you K.L. for documenting this whole thing, and thank you Dave for being supportive of the project.



Zoe Metcalfe-Klaw as the Archivist

Christopher Burris as the DJ

The Archivist transfers decades of reel-to-reels to digital.

The DJ plays eclectic tunes for the remaining populace.










Monday, February 18, 2013

R train blues

I'm heading out to my show Radio Mara Mara tonight, and have the misfortune of riding the yellow trains from Brooklyn to NYC.

Here's a glimpse.

The cover girl is my super hero. I mean c'mon, I would lose an eye.

And eating on the train is one thing, maybe a to-go coffee, but what the hell does this woman have going on here? Also it smells. And it's been going on a good twenty minutes. And she just opened up another tupperware.



I brought my kid to rehearsal

A few years back I read an article about an actress who'd brought her kid to rehearsal. The kid was a baby, under a year, and she'd wanted to be able to nurse during rehearsal. The gig was not a big money gig, but it was a good role (if memory serves), and she felt that the baby would not be an imposition. At the time, I thought: that doesn't seem real professional Actress, maybe you should have gotten a sitter.

But of course I didn't have one of my own.

Anyone who's worked with me in the past few years has seen my son once or twice at rehearsal. It was easier when he was an infant, because infants are really very simple (they sleep, they eat), but now that he's almost three, well...

It's kind of a different story. He's not so simple. He's got lots of energy and interests and he wants to be involved in what's going on.

I brought my son to Radio Mara Mara rehearsal on Saturday. Dave had to work at the last minute, I didn't have time to get a sitter, and there was just nothing for it, so he came along.

He was pretty good, considering he's almost three, and people were generous and non judgmental about it, which I appreciate.

I also realized something: moms can tune out their kids better than anyone, while at the same time knowing exactly what's going on with them. My son found a hiding spot behind a chair, brought his snack and ipad back there, and settled in. I worked on the show. But I knew he was back there, I knew what he was watching, his general state of happiness, and how long I could anticipate his amusing his own self under these conditions. I knew the proximity of the electrical outlets, stairs, and his rate of speed to get himself to either place.

The awkward truth is:

You can bring your kid to rehearsal and still get shit done... Other people might have trouble though.



Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Lucretia Brown

Lucretia Brown is about 30 years old.


LUCRETIA
I had this friend once, in high school and she fucked me overfor this guy, totally betrayed me for him. And he betrayed me for her. Then when I saw her, at our five year reunion, and I knew that he fucked her over, left her pregnant and aborted, and I was all like bitch, now you know how it feels to be fucked over by someone you love. And she felt it. She felt regret, and she cried. She cried and she wanted me to cry too, she thought we shared sad feelings, but I had long since finished shedding tears for Craig Stallwich, Craig Stallwich wasn’t my heart break anymore, he was hers, and I would not sympathize with that. I hadn’t once, not since the day she took a ride home in his car and sucked his cock by the reservoir. Made me look the fool, some perkier, prettier- Genevieve always said I was prettier, and by five years later my tits were one hell of alot perkier- I wore this little, low-cut

(gestures)
Made sure she noticed. And while she’s there, staring at ‘em, she heard the whisper. It started like that, like a whisper, and it grew and grew until it hit her. It was me I whispered it until it was loud. I’d told everyone what happened to her. Told everyone in school about the abortion and what Craig did to her and she knew then. She knew she made a serious mistake up when she fucked over Lucretia Brown.

Caroline

This one is from Bridge Over Sand.


Caroline is an engineer. She's realizing that very little has changed since middle-school.

CAROLINE
When I was in seventh grade we had to do these projects, these projects where we got partnered up with people. And I got partnered up with Billy, who was awful. He was like one of the hangers on, y'know, he like hung around the popular kids and hoped to get invited places with them but behind his back they called him pizza face. You know the type. So when Mr. McCloskey announced the partners Billy made this like audible groan, y'know, for the whole class, 'cause he had alot he had to prove. So we exchanged phone numbers and after school I called him so we could coordinate about the project. But he never called me back. And in school I tried to talk to him to coordinate about the project, but he would just call me names and tell people I was only talking to him because I liked him. In the end we never got together at all. And I made the whole map of the triangle trade myself, with little diagrams showing the sugar cane, rum, fish and slaves, and little tall ships that moved through slits in the cardboard from West Africa, to the South, to New England, and across to England. I wrote the paper too. When it was time to give the presentations he grabbed the map and the paper and wrote his name on it, and stood there silently while I delivered the whole presentation, and showed how the boats moved. I got an A on it. Mr. McCloskey was very impressed. He congratulated us for making such a conclusive and detailed report. After class I went to Mr. McCloskey and I told him that Billy didn't do any of the work at all, that he wouldn't even talk to me about the project, that he shouldn't get the A, I should. And you know what he said? He said Get used to it. That's what happens to women, he said, they do all the work and men take all the credit. I just chalked it up to him being an asshole but I guess he was right.

Carla

This is a monologue from a two-hander I wrote called Pacific. It's a mother and daughter piece. Awww. Carla is talking to her mom here.

CARLA
I wrote pornography.  I wrote about this lady reporter, traveling the country to cover breaking stories.  Her car broke down on a dark stormy night by the side of the road in some deserted place.  She gets out of the car, checks under the hood.  She’s a woman who knows her way around an engine, she can really take care of herself.  As she checks the engine the rain pours down on her, long strands of chestnut brown hair matted against her face, her shirt molded wet around her plump breasts, her woven silk skirt clinging to her thighs, revealing her panty line.

A truck pulls up, one of those big semi’s.  The door swings wide and a smooth back woods voice slips out of the cab and up her skirt.  She climbs into the cab and with no words exchanged they fall onto each other.  He embraces her like a bear, plunging himself into her mouth, her ass, her cunt.  Over and over.  And she likes it.  She’s smiling, she’s screaming, and suddenly they’re out in the rain, but his body keeps her warm and he sucks on every part of her until he’s ready to explode again, this big bear.

In eighth grade.

They kept asking me why.  Dad and Karen at the dining room table.  At dinner.  Angel hair pasta with cheese and broccoli.  What made you write this?  I don’t know.  What made you think of this?  I just thought of it.  Did your mother tell you about these things?

I didn’t have the nerve to say I read about it in Dad’s Esquire magazine.  The story of a burly bear man in Esquire magazine.  Dad with his six foot slammed my chair back.  My head against the sliding glass doors and darkness, they heard the crash, behind me a crack.  They told me to clear the dinner dishes.  Putting away the milk and butter Dad came over to me and asked again.  I just thought of it.  He hit me when I said it and I fell.  Karen blocked the shots, taking his foot in her side, her back, a buffer.  Carried me to the bathroom under fire.  Door locked, head back to stop the bleeding.  Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad pounding.

Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad pounding.

Did he hit you with his hand or with his fist?  With his fist.  Dad’s footsteps recede.  We stayed in there until the car drove away.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

let's not talk about that

When I was growing up, the whole politically correct movement was really starting to influence curriculum. At first we kids were taught that every kid was the same, whatever their gender, skin color, physical or mental disability. But as we grew up, the lesson changed from everyone's culture being equal to this idea of valuing differences (yeah, I went to private school, and I'm not ashamed to admit it). So instead of being color/gender/disability blind, we were supposed to recognize that we were different, how we were different, and value that difference.

Then there was the thing where if a person doesn't have their roots in a given culture, they can't possibly understand it, and should leave the understanding of that culture to those who are intrinsically of it.

Then there was "write what you know."

So there I was, in college. I was writing what I knew, about being a girl who had really strong passions, who loved alt music and staying out late and drinking 40's out front of the Philly Record Exchange, a girl who lived through multiple parental divorces, who'd even at one point come home to find all her stuff on the sidewalk out front of my childhood home, put there by my step-mother. I was a girl who'd done lots of stuff that girls do, and I wrote about it.

I didn't think that I was specifically writing for or about white people, but now that I'm looking at all these casting kerfuffles, I'm realizing that if you're a white playwright, there's an assumption that the characters you write are white.

Not cool casting directors.

In my college writing workshops, fellow playwrights T. Tara Turk and Jennifer Mattern, along with prof Edward Allan Baker, said that I should be writing for black people. I said how the hell could I do that? I'm not a black person, how, based on the whole aforementioned academic mind fuck, could I write what I didn't know/had to value as different from myself? I was scared to do it. I was afraid to be judged, I was afraid the work would seem inauthentic. I was afraid.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't want my plays to be only white people, but I didn't want to write what I didn't know.

I went to grad school, I studied with Eduardo Machado (lemme just throw out that he's the greatest). I was writing up this story about a sad murder in my neighborhood, NYC's LES. I wrote that the characters' race and/or ethnicity could be whatever. Eduardo said just write down their race and/or ethnicity. I did it, but it felt weird for some reason.

Then finally my 20's were over. And I realized that I know everything and can write whatever the fuck I want. So I'm writing some plays for black people. I hope that doesn't mean I'm a racist.

Monday, February 11, 2013

sex kitten Linds Halloway

Sound editing for Radio Mara Mara in the middle of the night. 

Here's the mobile version.

Might be NSFW, depending on where you W.



RMM Collaborators

Meet the Radio Mara Mara cast.



 Christopher Burris (DJ)  REGIONAL THEATER: Oregon Shakespeare Festival (Idiot’s Delight, The Winter’s Tale, Playboy of the West Indies), North Shore Music Theatre (Romeo and Juliet),  La Jolla Playhouse (Blood Wedding, Sheridan), Greenbriar Valley (To Kill a Mockingbird), Shadowland Theatre (Lobby Hero). NEW YORK: The Cell (Baltimore in Black and White), Church of St. Joseph (Murder in the Cathedral), New Federal Theatre/Ensemble Studio Theatre (Jesse), Inwood Shakespeare Festival (Merchant of Venice), Hampton Theatre Company (Six Degrees of Separation), New York Theatre Workshop (Helen's Heart, Neighbors [workshops]), Phare Play (Arcadia), Women's Project (365Days/365 Plays, The Feign'd Courtesans [workshop]), FringeNYC (A Raisin in the Salad: Black Plays for White People, Bang! Bang! Bang!, Mankynde, Caresses), Resonance Ensemble (The Lower Depths, Time to Burn). @christopherbnyc


Zoe Metcalfe-Klaw (Archivist) is ecstatic to be working and playing with such a talented group of artists. She has been a part of the blue box world family for years, and is very excited to explore the world of Radio Mara Mara.  She has a B.F.A in drama from NYU, Tisch School of the Arts, where she studied primarily at The Stella Adler Studio of Acting.  Some of her favorite theater credits include: Cloud 8 (Theatre 80) Pontiac Firebird Variations (The Ohio Theater/Ice Factory Festival), Helpless Doorknobs (New Orleans Fringe Festival), Distant Sex (Trickster Theater/Exit Art), Greendale GP (Eastwind Theatre Co.), Sins Is In Her Skirts (Sanford Meisner Theatre).  She is a member of Papo Colo's Trickster Theater Company and lives in Brooklyn. www.zoemetcalfeklaw.com



The DJ

Here's a monologue from Radio Mara Mara.

The DJ
I was visiting my foster mom. She was suffering from dementia and didn't always know who I was, but when she did I knew she was glad. She always taught me you look after your own, and even though we didn’t start out that way, we made each other our own. She took on other kids, y’know it wasn’t just me- but at a certain point it was like it was Us doing it, in a very real way. When I aged out I aged out at her house, and she even let me stay on another year.

I heard shrieking from the nurses station so I ran out into the hall to see what was going on, and this little nurse was collapsed on the floor. She told me what happened, "they shot the President," she said. I picked up her hat but she didn't want it. I went back in my foster mom's room to break the news to her. "They shot Fukiyama," I said. But she just looked at me with her big lost eyes. 

That was the last time I went to see her actually. I knew, if she couldn't remember Fukiyama, then she probably just wasn't in there anymore.

The Archivist

Here's a monologue from Radio Mara Mara.

ARCHIVIST
What I really wanted was for there to be something special about my life. Something meaningful, something powerful. And I worked for years on that. On that special thing.

And then it turns out that all the really meaningful things-- all the Really meaningful things, are the same for everyone. There is no special sunrise that isn't special for everyone who chooses that it be special to them. Do you know what I'm saying?

All the really special things that give life meaning are really special for everyone, they give everyone's life meaning, they aren't just meaningful for me alone.

Friday, February 8, 2013

reel to reel player

Here it is. It's not working yet, but the look is what I was going for, so I'll call it on the road to victory.

For those of you who haven't been following along, this is a key prop for my new play Radio Mara Mara. In a nearly abandoned radio station, the Archivist is transferring decades worth of reel to reel archives to digital in an effort to preserve the history of her country, Leunsa.

We hear interviews from music legend E.G. Fukiyama and his wife Leoni Washington Fukiyama, played by Shawn Randall and Carol London; pop star Linds Halloway and actor/filmmaker Kenny Ikeda, played by Ali Ayala and Imran W. Sheikh, respectively.

Writing for Homa

It's different writing for an actor than writing straight from scratch. I was set up with Homa Hynes by Mariah McCarthy for her PussyFest project, and we met up at her place a few weeks ago to get started.

It was a bit of a crazy day for me. I had an early afternoon meeting with my old friend Jeremiah to talk about hosting a Sticky in his unused restaurant space in Williamsburg, and I had my son with me, who is almost three. He's a good sport, and a joy to be around, but he's definitely an added element when trying to get things done.

We left Jeremiah, headed to Homa, thankfully in the same neighborhood, stopping for bagels and mango juice boxes on the way. When Homa met us at the door, Chars took her hand and followed her inside, even though they'd never met. At first I thought: be concerned, your son is not afraid of strangers, but then a thought: he just instantly likes Homa, and so do I.

Somehow even though we'd just met we had alot to talk about. As we talked about our lives I kept thinking of this story my Gram had told me. It was a personal story, and my Gram doesn't tell to many personal stories, so over Christmas when she just started talking about herself out of the blue, I listened. My Gram is 90 years old, in possession of her full faculties, and is a very intelligent woman. I've written about my Gram before, but always about stories that I'd heard second hand and gone back to her to fact check, never something she told me directly.

This story was about a miscarriage that I'd known had happened somewhere in the late 1950's or so. But from what Gram told me it was more of a stillbirth, and then as the story went on it wasn't even a stillbirth. The baby had been born in horrible shape, and would only survive a few minutes. I wanted to cry about it myself, sitting there with my own son, who while quite perfect now, post surgery and recovery, had been born with a skull deformity. But my Gram didn't cry, it seems she'd got all of her crying done long past. She was very sure that the right decision had been to not look at the child when he was born, that it would be easier to get over if she didn't have his face in her mind all the time. The thing is, she still blames herself for the death. She's sure that the baby was irreparably harmed when she took a midnight tumble down the stairs.

Homa and I talked about babies, and it felt very cliche to talk about babies. When I was pregnant I swore to myself that I would never be one of those women who writes about babies. But it turns out being a mom is much more like being a child than I would have thought.

Homa and I decided to write about my Gram, and babies, and trying to be the person you made up for yourself to be. Jordana Williams directs, tomorrow night at PussyFest.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

4:33 am

Woke up from a dream in which I was about to be shot in the head on my grandmother's front lawn in front of my two year old by a man who was then going to shoot my child.

I watched most of the pilot of The Following last night.

Something happened, post anti-hero as protagonist, wherein we writers went from telling stories about main characters who were damaged but understandable and somehow redeemable through their good intentions to stories about main characters who are just bad. Now our stories are about getting into the minds of people who do not have good intentions, who set out intentionally to harm, and to try to make that relatable. I'm talking about Dexter, I'm talking about all the SVU's where we find out that the child molester is only a child molester because he was molested as a child so we should pity him, too, not just his sad victims.

Something happened where we went from writing naturalism, as in show people as they really are, zits and all, to showing humanity at its worst. I'm talking about House of Cards, Sons of Anarchy, The Shield.

What happened to beauty? What happened to acknowledging that the human creature is flawed, yes, but capable of great beauty, and not just in blood spatter patterns after decapitating their latest victim with a chainsaw?

I want beauty. I want to see humanity with good intentions. I want to see it fail and try again. Maybe we don't need heroes, maybe as a culture we just don't buy it anymore, but I could use a proper anti-hero, zits, good intentions, and all.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

The Map

While writing Radio Mara Mara I realized I needed a map of the area. So I drew one, because when you're a playwright you're a cartographer.

Radio Mara Mara: it's really happening

"...the fires are bright tonight, take cover where you can..."

I'd be so glad if you'd come check out this play. 
I wrote it, so that's a bonus, but even better it stars Zoe Metcalfe-Klaw and Christopher Burris.
And is directed by my long time friend and collaborator Ali Ayala.
tickets may be purchased here.






Radio Mara Mara
In an abandoned radio station in the hills around a bombed out capital city,
the DJ and the Archivist come to terms with the world that's left them behind.

by Libby Emmons, directed by Ali Ayala
starring: Christopher Burris and Zoe Metcalfe-Klaw

featuring the voices of:
Shawn Randall, Carol London, Imran W. Sheikh, Charlie B.E. Marcus, and David Marcus

and an original cover of N.W.A.'s F%$k the Police, by Stacy Rock

as part of John Chatterton's Midwinter Madness Short Play Festival
Roy Arias's Stage II
300 W. 43rd St., 4th floor
$15

The show dates are:
Monday 02/18 7:15 pm
Thursday 02/21 8:30 pm

Monday, February 4, 2013

Endings

I'm into stuff that ends. TV shows are cool but they never end. Just like the human race. But people end. And I am a person. So I may as well embrace mortality, even in my narrative art forms.