Monday, May 5, 2014

Dear Graduates

Dear Graduates,

I haven’t been asked to give you a speech today, because frankly, who am I?  I’m thirteen years out of a prestigious private university, and everything I have done in my life is in the broadest view completely unimportant.

My BS in psychology is lost.  I literally don’t know where the diploma ended up, nor have I used most of the rote knowledge I gained from earning it.  If you gave me the tests I passed 13 years ago, I would fail them, I think.  If you asked me to write the essays or do the research and projects again, I’d balk at the idea.  If you showed my psychology career on paper to my professors from thirteen years ago, they’d probably balk, too. 

This is not to imply that I’ve done other things with my life.  I haven’t, in fact, done too much in other career fields, either.  Most of my time I’ve spent teaching children, performing, or writing.  I haven’t in this process earned a teaching degree, nor have I ever taught full-time.  I haven’t performed anywhere that more than a half a percent of the population has heard of, and fewer than 200 people have read my writing.

I have backed out of, messed up, and failed at things.  The aforementioned diploma was probably left with my ex-fiancee when I moved out.  I’ve moved five times since then and kissed no fewer than a dozen women, most of whom I hoped would like me.  Like, really like me. 

Professionally, I’ve dropped out of the Second City Conservatory.  I’ve been rejected by theatre companies too small to even register on the Boston scene and not landed roles in student films clearly desperate for actors.  My first and only sketch comedy group stayed together for two years.  That’s more years than we got laughs from an audience.  I have a collection of rejection letters from agents, publishers, and play festivals.  One told me my book was exactly what they were looking for—then they read it.  I have also almost daily chickened out of stand-up comedy. 

So, no one has invited me to speak to you at this important time in your life.  Instead, they’ve probably invited someone wealthy and reputable who may have also attended your university, someone who wants to give back or serve as an example of all that your hard work has set you up to deserve. 

Which of us are you going to trust to advise you on your way forward?

If you’re smart, you’ll choose neither, because neither of us can say with any true certainty what happens for you from this day on.  Neither of us know what your life will be like.  In fact, nobody knows what your life will be like. 

Nobody, for example can predict with any certainty that if you are smart and persistent, you will generally get what you want.  Nobody can promise you that if you get what you want, you will be happier.  It may be the opposite.  Nobody can safely advise you to behave if you want to stay out of trouble.  Good behavior is sometimes rewarded with cruelty if not mild disrespect, and bad behavior may well go unpunished or even rewarded.  People who tell you to be patient are lying to you and maybe to themselves.  There may be absolutely nothing ahead of you, nothing worth waiting for, no light at the end of your tunnel.  You may never see the end of the tunnel.  After all, strictly speaking, nobody can guarantee you that the sun will rise tomorrow.  One day, it won’t.  You may or may not be around for that day.  Nobody knows.     

Probably you will need or want to get a job.  If that’s the case, you will probably have to choose between your financial standing and your personhood.  Most jobs that promise monetary success come from social factions that are in some way exploitative.  Of their employees.  Of their customer or fan base.  Of the poor.  Of the weak.  Of the innocent.  Of the environment.  Of me.  Of you.  I can say with some certainty that you already have and will continue to be asked to support exploitation in your career path.

If you choose instead to go out on your own, to reject the support of any exploitative elements of human culture, then I imagine that most of your projects will fail.  This may not be true.  You may make major financial gains for yourself.  You may achieve recognition, respect, and honor.  These things may bring you great happiness, and swiftly.   

Probably not.  Probably, your ego will be beaten to death by an ever-growing population that doesn’t find you nearly as special as you have been brought up to believe you are.  Consequently, I hope you don’t believe that dreams come true.  Sometimes they do.  Sometimes they don’t.  Often they kind of come true.  Usually they change. 

None of what I just wrote--depressing, uplifting, or otherwise--is certain or reliable.  If there is a logic to the fate of individual humans, it has proven itself for centuries to be well beyond our collective comprehension. 

What, then, can I (the man who has not been invited to speak to you) guarantee you?  If there is no promised connection between your choices and how much freedom, pleasure, and privilege you receive in return, then what is the purpose of making choices at all?    

Hermann Hesse wrote a possible answer into the pages of the iconic novel, Steppenwolf:  

“You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable room where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and wireless.”

In this passage lies a priceless and timeless truth:  that the world needs heroes, and that you, so long as you are in charge of your mental capacities, will have the opportunity to be one.   

It doesn't take much.

You can be heroic in looking at human need when others are looking at their bank accounts.  By responding with patience when met with angst.  By guiding intolerance with the eye of acceptance.    By meeting adversity, whatever form you face, instead of sidestepping it for the sake of convenience.  In the personal truth with which you live your life.  In the forgiveness of self and others. 

Heroism happens in the gaps between moments and is rarely noticed on a wide scale.  But it happens.

There are many people, most of whom will appear or claim to be socially superior to you, who will encourage you to aim your heroic impulses at the immediate and the simple, to build ant hills instead of empires, to undersell yourself because, really, what is heroism going to get you?   You, dear graduates, do not have to listen to those people.  You can throw that idea right back in their face and go on and be heroic anyway.  As a reminder, probably no one will notice your choice or congratulate you.  Your life might suck from a material stand point because you didn’t put yourself on the auction block.  Your ego might ache. 

Sound fun?  There’s a reason people try to turn away from heroism.  And yet, there is also a reason it follows them:  because it is one of the only reliably true things this world has to offer any of us.   

This graduation speech may seem like a pathetic and depressing one.  If it strikes you as such, consider two things.  One, no one asked me to give a graduation speech.  Two, consider a second passage from the same book by the same well-commended author:

“The image of every true act, the strength of every true feeling, belongs to eternity . . . even though no one knows of it or sees it or records it or hands it down to posterity.  In eternity, there is no posterity. . . It is there that we belong. There is our home.  [And] our only guide is our homesickness."

I hope that you, now that you are no longer away at college, will always feel a little homesick. 



Tuesday, April 29, 2014

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.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

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.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

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.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

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.  

Saturday, January 4, 2014

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.

###




Friday, January 3, 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.