O Drama

Could it in fact be as simple as this?


I am reading "Bambi v. Godzilla" by David Mamet. Instead of a two-act play, this book is a multi-chapter description of screenwriting, and more deeply, why the hell there are screenwriters. Among Mamet's theories is this paraphrased nugget: things do what they do. The huskie in Alaska has one thing it loves doing: running in packs. It really does - you never see the guy on the sled brandishing a whip, because there's never any need to. The huskie is all about the run. Similarly, our cats are all about the hunt. No matter how dull we make their lives - through kitty treats, cat trees, petting, etc. etc. - they always revert back to being hunters. To extend this to people: our core is drama. Love thy neighbor all you want, but it is impossible to get away from drama.


Thus, we have screenwriters. They are the journalists of the heart (which itself sounds like a bad movie title).


Recently, I've been feeling pretty lousy. The New York trip, as mentioned, was frustrating; in the months following my (successful) play, "The Tearful Assassin", I've written no less than four full works, but none have had that extra thing that made them mine (I thought more than a few times I was chanelling the wrong muse and was actually transcribing someone else's play); those closest to me - and now you - know that I've been going to couples' therapy for the last few months (heartily recommended, especially if you like being an emotional pinata); I have felt the people I admire wouldn't want to work with me, and the people who are coming up now wouldn't want to work with me, either. I've felt isolated for a few weeks now - it is almost a pity I didn't make it a resolution for 2009, as I would have been able to chalk up an overwhelming success.


Almost as a side note, but worth mentioning, is that I haven't been able to quite get on the I-Hate-Rod-Blagojevich bandwagon. It is not that I have heard the Tale of the Corrupt Politician long enough to not be impressed anymore; it is rather that I have empathy for the guy. I work in a law firm as an administrator (in that grey area above secretary and below paralegal) and one of my group's biggest functions is outsourcing: that is, fucking you out of your job for fun and profit. And I do it without blinking an eye. Like a veteran in a slaughterhouse, I merely zap the cow in the head, step through the feces and cut it up like Norman Bates while thinking about what my next purchase on Amazon is going to be. And I'm small potatoes. I'm not running a state. I can only imagine what bizarro deals and side deals and backdoor deals go on at that level.


So you've gone through these four paragraphs like a good sport, so let me tie them together for you now. I think it's possible that, because people love drama, that the end result is the chaos we see around us every day. And it isn't because of *those* people and *their* drama; it is our own versions of drama, our own versions of being like the huskies (all about the _________ [insert your favorite thing]), that, when multiplied by millions, equals the world as it is. The incompatability of individuals gives rise to insanity on an epic scale. Witness the current war on a feeling we are raging throughout the world.


I'll put myself back on the intellectual chopping block here: I cannot think of anyone I dislike when I first think about it; however, when I review events in my past, I can pick out people that I refuse to talk to anymore. That's pretty close to "dislike", surely. There was one woman I knew last year who I felt a bond with on an artistic level - I envisioned working on bizarre, creative, challenging projects together, maybe even reinventing the opera into a postmodern equivalent - but then she hooked up with a married guy. That's it. Cut. Snip. Can't have that in my life.
Ah, but wait a minute, I think to myself. Back in the day, Married Woman was one of my four major food groups. One such particularly unhealthy dalliance lasted three years. It feels odd for me to now say 'can't have that in my life' because (a) it's not in my life and (b) see (a). And, when I really, really think about it, I don't bear that person any ill will at all. In fact, me not talking to her anymore won't accomplish anything other than - and this is a stretch, admittedly - reinforce her own level of self-worth. People who see married people are a sad breed, no matter the gender. I know. So why not talk to her? Because I'm punishing her for resembling an aspect of me that I'd rather keep hidden. End result? Drama!


As I play with this theory of "the huskie is all about the run" and apply it to people and situations in my head, I find it fits just about everywhere. The older lady who works near me who swears all day, when she's not talking down to her printer or other inanimate objects - is she miserable because she actually likes to be miserable? Hmm! There is something to that. If you're miserable all the time, no one can really piss you off - you're already there. I think of Janelle, a kindred spirit who lives in New York. I was glad to see her perform - though I did not see her on the stage. She was "on" most of the time and, personally, I loved that, as that's where I am most of the time as well. She likes being "on", and, like me, has chosen a partner who is quite happy with not being "on." And the examples and lists go on and on.


Let me really tie this in with one more quick reflection of your humble blogger. I mentioned above that I was feeling isolated. That I fear people don't want to work with me. That, worst of all, I am a law firm administrator (in that grey area above secretary and below paralegal, just to remind you of that important bit). And where is my favorite place to be, as a writer? On the outside looking in. Observing. Commenting.


Ah, I think. Maybe I shouldn't be feeling down about being isolated. Maybe I should say, 'whew -- made it!'