Luke Father, Luke Son

*heavy breathing through mask*

*copyrighted laser sword swing from the darkness*

*parry*

*fight leads onto a barely-explicable bridge*

FATHER: Tell them.  Tell them the truth that you know.  Tell them publicly.

*parry*

*fight resumes*

*SON hits FATHER on shoulder with copyrighted laser sword*

FATHER:  Ahh!

*FATHER cuts off SON's hand*

SON: Ahhhh!

FATHER:  There is no avoiding it.  The truth must be made known.

*Son begins to back away down metal beam*

FATHER:  Why are you fighting with me?

SON:  I'm not.  Not in real life.

FATHER:  Then why here?

SON: Because it's a device.

*FATHER swings copyrighted laser sword*

FATHER: Like this device?

SON:  No.  A literary device.  To engage a reader's attention and present information in an interesting way.

FATHER:  Well, stop it!  Stop fighting me!  Join me.  Together, we can own amazon.com.

SON: I'll never join you.  But I'm only saying that for dramatic effect!

FATHER:  If you'd only publicly announce what you know about me.  If you'd only search your brain and share what you find there with the world!

SON:  I've shared enough.  I've shared that you've read some novels.

FATHER:  NO.  I wrote a novel.

*SON's face gets all scrunchy and weird.*

SON: NO!  That's so unlikely!  It's as unlikely as almost the entire cast of the original Star Wars coming back to do a seventh movie!

FATHER:  That is also going to happen.  It's coming out around Christmas of next year!

SON:  That's not news!  Everyone already knows that!

FATHER:  Then get back to talking about my novel.

SON:  I can't.  I can't utter anything intelligible.  I'm shocked and missing a hand.

FATHER:  Then I will talk.  The ebook of A Journey to Reality is available for only $5 here on amazon.com.

SON:  Amazon?  That's where I bought my worm factory!

FATHER:  Yes.  Yes!

SON:  You can buy a worm factory and an ebook on the same website?  My mind is blown!

FATHER: And you can also get both my book and your book for about 1/10 of the price of a worm factory!

SON: THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!

FATHER:  You know it to be true.

Per Procurationem

You've certainly heard the news by now.  The Sovereign Statement, by Bilal Dardai, has been nominated for a 2014 Jeff Award honoring New Work.  In other words, some people* on a committee believe that Bilal's work was one of the five best new plays in Chicago between April 2013 and April 2014.  Those people are correct.

But this blog is not entitled "Bilal Will Be Famous Soon."  Bilal is already kind of famous.  He has 1,218 friends on facebook.^  This blog is about me.  Me me me me me.

Me.

So let's talk about what exactly Bilal did to get nominated for this award.**

First of all, he chose to become a writer, or at least answered his calling.  Then, he wrote a bunch of scripts.  A bunch of scripts.  Then he re-wrote a bunch of scripts.  A bunch of scripts.  Then, he wrote this script, The Sovereign Statement.  Then, he re-wrote this script.  Then, he re-wrote this script.  He re-wrote this script until he felt he had the right English words in the right English order as to convey the images, thoughts, and questions he wanted his audience to consider.

In the end, the play we performed had 24,894 meticulously-chosen words.  And guess what?  341 are my name.  And no.  My name is not "is" or "the."  I'm talking about my last name--Manship--which appears 332 times in the soon-to-be-famous script, alongside 1 use of my first name and 8 uses of a nickname that I'm not at liberty to share on this blog.

That means that my name alone is 1.36% of The Sovereign Statement.  Which means that I am 1.36% of a Jeff-nominated script.  Which means that I am 1.36% Jeff-nominated.

In case anyone's counting.

Now, am I enough of a pompous asshole to presume that my name's presence had anything to do with the impending continued wild success of Bilal's script?  Of course not.^^  I'm just mightily thankful that as Bilal was adding and subtracting words from this little beauty, he never*** edited me out of the thing.

Accordingly, I'd like to give a brief 1.36% nomination-acceptance speech.  It goes like this:

"I'd l . .. "

Music already?

Well, shit.
-----

* Mainly in their 70's from what I can tell
^ He does not, however, have any "like"-rs.
** Hint: It has to do with me.
^^ In the first draft I received, with which Bilal was presumably less satisfied than later drafts, my name appeared only 311 times.
*** Never say never.

Someone Else Wrote This

In a bus from Liberia to Playa Flamingo

west costa of Costa Rica

six rows back

not including the side seats

there are no side seats

unsure of route, stop, or destination

Window a free-per-view screen of stars

The heavens pulled back

A pantalla abierta

Cortina quitada

None of these expressions sum it up

It was as if in this privileged place a miracle occurred

And the privileged few in a place without privilege were privileged to witness the entirety of heaven

The entirety of truth

Seven veils shed

Eternity revealed

There are two basic viewpoints of eternity

From the left, you die and forget

From the right, eternal knowledge

Horror stories, both

And every tale a variation

The same, and don’t let anyone tell you differently

Tonight there was no tale

No narration

Because a tale is a cola is a camino

From ignorance at the start

To wisdom at the mecca

Tonight a wormhole

A bending of time and space

No need to devise or narrate

The tv is tuned to channel 3

And there on the pantalla

A free broadcast

Without deception or ego

The perilous emptiness that is

That undeniably is

And like skin in the unprotected sun

It went right through me

Unprepared

A sudden bout of eternity

One with the stars because we are one with the stars

When I was young I saw a piece of wood and felt the world from the tree’s perspective

I was in gym class

I am still young, and I felt the world from eternity’s perspective

From a star’s view

Through the eye of chaos which is the order which governs our chaos

I thought, “One day I will forget you.  One day you will forget me.  It will be as if we never were.  Our memories will die with us.”

Only time stands between us and the stars

And time is a spongey and unreliable buffer

I grew sad

I wanted to fight but there was in all apparentness no fighting to be done

There is a balance beam we walk

A piece of wood

Everything forever on the right

Nothing forever on the left

And we wobble

Time

Tonight I fell

But clung

Crawled back up

The bus driver taking turns like he was racing

Time had commissioned him not to be late

A 10-minute program, this

Sneak preview

Don’t show your hand

The couple in front of me

Younger than me

More time

The man two seats in front to the left

Less time

An aging specimen of health

The two of them maybe sixteen

Looking at each other, not the stars

The bus empties

With time

The couple gets off before the viejo

The anciano

I was distressed

How could I forget you?

How could this not be part of eternity?

Every human action fell off the beam in the face of channel 3

Pure and simple

Idiomatic

Cliché perhaps

The sponge of time

The sponge of time

Fickle

Fragile

The beam no longer would

How could I not be me anymore

How can my memories die with me

Taking you too in the great flush

You’re stored in blood

Which flows with the heart’s rhythm

You will run out
All of this

Gone

I panicked

I’m building my house on a bed of clay

On an earthquake’s fault line

On a volcano

This is the wisdom I hoped to obtain

A parting gift

Turn in your memories at the door

Here is a sponge

Channel 3 announcement

Attention all viewers

You are eternal

You are nothing

Put your investment in everything

Put your investment in nothing

Time is a sock market

Woolen waste

I changed the channel

Unable to aguantar

Which is used for respiration

And turned my attention quite by accident to the two

The jovenes

She too turned her head to him

Pressed her forehead against his nose

Showed him her teeth

An exuberant maladapted animal

Kissed him

Every true action is a part of eternity, I reminded myself

But I didn’t

Not in that moment

Earlier

In the flow of time

A few steps back on the sponge

Kissed him

My thoughts bled out of me

My memories

My concerns

Kissed him

And here too was truth

Kissed him

And I won’t forget

Kissed him

And I didn’t worry about eternity for one more second.

So I Ate A Crocodile

For the second time in the last six months, the press has written unfairly about me.  This time it’s more than just the Chicago Reader.  It’s USA Today, the BBC, the Huffington Post, the Brisbane Times*.  None of them asked me for my side of the story, or an interview, nor did they request permission to use my image.  I’m striking back. 

For those of you wondering what I’ve been up to since early January, there is a lot to sum up.  First, I left Chicago for Boston, where I substitute taught-acted for three weeks for the organization Urban Improv.  That was back when I was a working artist.  Boston was fulfilling, but I knew I needed more.  I needed to grow and change.  I needed to dig in to my true self. 

So, in early February, I went to Costa Rica.  That was more enriching.^  Casting myself out into Nature was good for me, and I began to build basic survival skills.  I began to get back in touch with my true self, the part so often buried under elaborate socialization.  I shook hands with my heart of darkness in the shadow mirror of jungle life.^^

It still wasn’t enough.  So, yesterday, I turned myself into a python.  Then, I flew to Australia via Chicago.**  Then, I ate a crocodile. 

What’s the big deal? 

This is exactly what it’s like to be an almost-famous artist.  Everyone has an opinion on everything you do.  Even when I sit down to have a meal, someone wants to tell me how long I had to fight for it, how easy it was to sneak up on, even how long I’m likely to be full.  Can’t I have a meal without somebody turning it into an article, a youtube video, a media frenzy?  Can’t I have a few hours to eat a crocodile? 

Frankly, I’m done with this thing people call “civilization.”  Tomorrow, I’m going to fly somewhere else and turn into some other species.  Right after I digest this thing. 

USA Today, BBC, Huffington Post, Brisbane Times, etc:  You’ll be hearing from my agent.  He’s an armadillo in Panama.  And before you ask:  Yes, he’s nocturnal.

--- 

* media behemoth

^ Who needs an artistic career when you can have a kitchen full of roaches, a backyard full of poisonous snakes, and the chance to clear out spiderwebs with your face? 

^^ Still got it!

** Sorry I didn’t call while I was in town.  I’m a python.  

Emergency Weather Advisory

Issued 12:00 pm
Sunday, January 5, 2014

PLEASE BE ADVISED

The National Weblog Service has issued a conversation warning for Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, and this blog.  At this time, any online conversation not hinged in some way to how incredibly fucking cold it is will be outright ignored by the mass of the population.  Facebook residents are encouraged during the advisory to take the following banter precautions:

- Limit all online dialogue to the topic of outside temperature

- Repeatedly reference the following statistics:  -15 degrees, -55 degree windchills, coldest temperatures in 30 years

- Use the term "polar vortex"

- Assume that the population does not understand the term "polar vortex"

- Become fascinated with the term "polar vortex"

- Link only to stories about how frozen everything is, how polar bears are going inside, and how people are pissing steam

- All pictures posted of the Midwest must include a reference to the planet Hoth

- In addition, non-weather-related emails should include at least one inquiry into the well-being of the recipient in "this weather."

This warning is in effect until 8 pm CST on Tuesday, January 7, 2014.

###

It's 2014. Give Up on Your Career.

It's just into the new year, and people are posting things on facebook like this.  Clearly, the season of reflection has arrived, the time of year in which everyone looks at where their life has gone, where it's going, and where it hasn't gotten to yet.  And everyone feels disappointed--or elated.

If you're an artist, you're feeling especially sentimental.  You're looking back on a year of earning $1,000, one in which you barely worked  As an actor, you didn't get cast in anything except those two shitty projects, one of which cost you more money than you made, the other of which never left the ground.  As a musician, you broke your hand, putting you two thousand in the hole and two months out of practice.  As a dancer, you worked a lot, but nothing was really your own, and you're keenly aware of another precious year gone by.  As you look back at 2013, you realize with trepidation that your artistic career really went nowhere in the last 365.

Or, you're looking back at a year in which your artistic career took major steps forward.  You made a whopping $30,000.  You performed in five plays and booked a commercial.  Your band went on a two month tour.  You sold three photos in the same day for $100 each.  (Two of the purchasers were people you didn't even know.)  You ended the year on a definite upswing, and you can't wait to see what 2014 will bring.

Yes, you are elated / disappointed at the state of your career.  Whichever you are feeling, one thing is certain:  whether this year was trying or triumphant, you put in the work for a reason.  You spent another year dedicated to your art, and that is going to pay dividends.  One day, the glass will break.  Onward.  Upward.  Forward.

Bullshit.

Whatever time you spend reflecting on the state of your artistic career, you may as well spend reflecting on how Santa Claus gets all those presents out in 24 little hours.  You may as well be reflecting on the Tooth Fairy's tricks of the trade or on what you're going to do when you win that $700 million in Powerball.  Because here is the unadulterated reality:

There is no such thing as an artist's "career path."

Perhaps this assertion rings hopeless or unambitious.  In that case, let's assume the opposite.  If an artist does in fact have a career path, what is it?  Does it move from poverty to wealth?  From complete obscurity to universal recognition?  Or is it a question of quality of work?  Does an artist's career path begin with ineptitude and end with complete proficiency?  All of these paradigms can be quantified, measured, and mapped, and in their own way, each may vaguely trace an artist's growth.  But a career?

I needn't address the first paradigm, that an artist's career is measured in financial success.  Even the most entrepreneurial-driven artists will admit that the arts are an exceptionally poor choice for someone who's after the big bucks.  There are exceptions in the Keith Lockharts and Quentin Tarantinos of the world, but . . . well, but writing the rest of this paragraph would be a waste of time and web space.  Nobody goes into art for the money.

What about recognition, then?  Shouldn't artists dream of careers that carry them from bullied elementary school nobody to beloved quirky-brilliant celebrity?  As with earning great amounts of money, the odds are against us.  Yet surprisingly, many grounded artists who hold no real hope of financial success still squeeze the expectation of one day being recognized, if not universally, then at least on a street corner somewhere.

This expectation is destructive, discouraging, and unfair, because in the 2010's, an everyone-deserves-to-live-their-dreams mindset has collided with an incredible ease of self-promotion and self-production.  The result is a wildly saturated artistic landscape in which the traditional publishing, marketing, and producing powers are overwhelmed with attention-seekers, and the public eye is equally overwhelmed with an internet swampland of self-produced work.  An artist can create high quality work in his chosen medium for decades, market the hell out of it, yet never have a single attentive eye turn toward it.

More insidious than the futility of this "recognition" career paradigm is its underlying assumption, namely that good work will get attention while bad work will disappear.  The trend, unfortunately, leans the other way.  Speaking in broad strokes, artists that are widely liked and produced are more properly referred to as entertainers.  In earning this title, their work will almost certainly have achieved a certain innocuous quality, stripped largely of its sharpest (and most valuable) ideas, dulled on its edge in order to spoonfeed a common appetite.  Again, there are exceptions, celebrities who have become well-recognized and well-compensated by sharing work that is inventive, uncooperative, potentially divisive.  Can you name them?  Probably on one hand.

Quality of work, then.  Can't we measure our careers by our level of skill, by amplified ability?  Unfortunately, this paradigm is also false, because true artistic growth moves non-linearly on a scale that is constantly changing.  It embraces failure alongside success.  It is evasive and amorphous, and when we try to cage it, we may find ourselves looking a different beast in the eye.  How do we distinguish quality of work?  By how widely well-received a work is?  By how financially successful our work is becoming?  Suddenly, we may find ourselves regressing and calling it "growth."

So where are we going as artists in 2014?  In this humble blogger's opinion, the only true measure of an artist is how well his work expresses truth as he sees it.  Everything else is a distraction.

So, yes.  The glass will break.  But only when you smash your career against it.  Then, among the shards of the illusion of ambition, you may find something worth reflecting.

Holiday Train

Here comes Santa Claus

Here comes Santa Claus

On the holiday train!

We’re going to have the chance to ride the holiday train again!

See inside the people singing singing

All is merry and bright!

Everyone’s waited almost a year for the holiday train tonight!

You better not board!

You better not try!

You better not advance!

I’m telling you why:

Santa’s elves are blocking the doors!

O Holiday Train, O Holiday Train

You left us on the platform

You teased us with your Christmas lights

You led us on with pretty sights

How sad you scorned us and took flight

We would have liked to board you.

O Holy Shit

The children are all cryyying

And the parents, they are all pisssed off

Long did they wait

Their smartphones the train scryyyying

They let three trains go by there at the stop

These three days that I have let pass

Thinking of the blog post I’d craft

Merry Christmas, Chicago Transit!

Youuuu can kiss my asssss!