Archived Writing

If living is the sleeping,

Then our love is the dream:

That far-but-near where

Our angels and demons sing in the same choir.

I do not often take to luring people with one thing and delivering another, which is why you will seldom read advertisements of any sort on this page. I will occasionally, however, point your eyes (or ears) in the direction of something that requires your attention.

I recently purchased a CD by David Fiuczynski (guitarist extraordinaire) and Rufus Cappadocia (electric 5-string cellist), entitled KiF. The best description of this material is probably "eastern-influenced music with a western jazz arrangement". My preferred, though more ambiguous description is, simply, "beautiful".

This is a truly special recording, full of untouchable musicianship and the sort of emotion that one can only feel in the heart and the soul. If the purpose of art is to bridge the gap between the sophisticated concrete and the primal abstract, Fiuczynski and Cappadocia are artists of the highest caliber, years ahead of what we would call their peers.

If you'd like to hear samples of their work, go to: http://screamingheadlesstorsos.com/Website/kif.html

That will give you a taste. I certainly hope that you'll find a mere taste to be insufficient. I know I did.

The two posts below this one are assignments for my Intro to Dramatic Writing class. The drafts posted are the originals. They do not reflect the comments/suggestions made by my professor or peers. "Rishvowal" is, as indicated, an excerpt from a larger work (a dramatic interpretation of one of my novels-in-progress, as a matter of fact). "No Survivors" is a stand-alone, fresh attempt at crafting a short work for the theater. It will either remain in its current form or sustain the addition of one more scene. It is meant to deliver its full impact in a small space.

Enjoy.

No Survivors

by Brian Warshaw

(Musical inspiration provided by Fiuczynski/Cappadocia: KiF)

Cast:

JAMES - 10 years old

DREW - 12 years old

TYLER - 10 years old

BRIAN - 11 years old

Scene 1

            Minimal scenery, or none. Spotlights only. Scene opens with JAMES, DREW, TYLER and BRIAN, gathered together.

BRIAN (wired): Oh my GOD, guys, did you see the blood? I've never seen that much before, you know? All at once, I mean.

TYLER: I think I'm gonna puke. (begins to double over, faces back to audience and silently feigns vomiting)

BRIAN: Geez, Ty, don't be such a baby. (looks at JAMES and DREW for approval). What a wuss! It's just some blood, I mean -

DREW: Shut up, Brian! Just stop talking.

BRIAN: What's your problem? James -

JAMES (flatly, lacking energy): He's right, man. Maybe you should just cool it for a while. (to DREW) Did you see his neck?

DREW: Yeah, it sure was...yeah man, I saw it.

BRIAN: Well it's not like the little bastard didn't deserve it. It's like my dad said, we gotta get them before they get us. Freakin' terrorists. Him and his kind, trying to take over our country, like they got a right to -

TYLER (turning back into the group, wiping his face): Guys, please. Please don't talk about it anymore, I can't take this, I can't believe we...oh my God! (falling to his knees, he breaks into sobbing ultimately laying his head in his hands until the scene's conclusion)

BRIAN: There he goes again, the little crybaby. Guys, we need to -

DREW: That's enough! Leave him alone! What's the matter with you, acting like we just won some kind of game or something? What do you think just happened? You think he's gonna be there on Monday morning, kissing your feet 'cause we won? You think we're gonna be there on Monday?

JAMES: We really did it, didn't we? I didn't think we actually meant...God, Drew, please tell me we didn't. Tell me we're just dreaming.

BRIAN: I thought you were on board with this! You're not going soft now, are you? Man, if we get caught -

JAMES: Brian!

BRIAN: What, man?

JAMES: Did you see his neck? Did you see his awful neck? Do you have any idea how much that must have hurt? How scared he must have been?

BRIAN: We talked about this. This is what we wanted to do! The little creep deserved it! I mean, how much could it have hurt anyway? He probably died when he hit bottom.

DREW: And how the hell would you know that, Brian?

              I saw it. It looked like it hurt. What if he didn't die instantly? No, I wouldn't have wanted to be in Sam's shoes.

BRIAN (sarcastically): Since when are you calling him "Sam"?

JAMES: It's what his friends call him.

BRIAN (gleefully): Called. Samir doesn't have any friends anymore.

JAMES: No, I guess not. (to DREW) What are we gonna do?

DREW: Well, first thing, we need to get outta here. I don't feel too safe out here any more.

               Brian, help Ty up.

BRIAN: Why don't you help him up? You're the one that's worried about him.

JAMES: I'll help him. (he walks to TYLER and kneels beside him, slipping his arm onto TYLER's shoulder.)

DREW (still focused on BRIAN): You better calm down man, you're a little too wound up.

BRIAN: Calm down? Calm down? You guys are the ones wussing out. God! We finally did something important, we finally made a difference, and you just can't enjoy it!

DREW: You enjoy this? Were you even at the edge of that pit? Do you know what we've done? We killed someone. We killed Samir!

BRIAN: You didn't have a problem with it a week ago!

DREW: That was before we...before...what did he ever do to us?

BRIAN: Are you kidding? Him and his kind...what about New York? What about protecting ourselves? We talked about all this!

DREW: But what did Samir (motions to back of stage with one arm) do to us (indicates the group with both arms)?

BRIAN: Well, he would have...I mean, come on. For God's sake, he's a freakin' Arab!

DREW (solemnly): Not anymore.

Stage adaptation of an excerpt from Rishvowal

by Brian J. Warshaw II

Characters:

Simon Peter Billicut (SIMON): Early twenties, wiry physique. A college student.

Kathryn Anne Michaels (KATE): Simon's age. Simon's love, and a student at a separate                                                                   university

Harold Edmund Billicut (HAROLD): Late fifties, early sixties. Simon's father. An                                                                       attractive man with a well-shaped (though not                                                                "ripped") physique

            Stage is divided into two distinct halves, each angled slightly outward, though not physically partitioned. SIMON occupies stage left, a finely-furnished Victorian room. KATE occupies stage right, a college dorm room. SIMON is sitting at a desk next to a door. A telephone is on the desk. KATE is sitting on a bed with a receiver to her ear.

            Lights come up on SIMON's half of stage.

SIMON (to audience): Kate called this past evening. This one may have been the last.

            Lights come up on full stage. A phone rings. SIMON picks up his telephone receiver and puts it to his ear.

SIMON:  Simon Billi-

KATE (urgently): Simon, I've met someone.

SIMON (to audience): That had been the start of the conversation. There was no greeting, none necessary. The voice was unmistakable. It would be a day before I fully processed those first words, and even several moments before they made it past my shock and into my mind.

KATE: I actually met him last year. He was in one of my classes.

SIMON (to audience, though more musing to himself): Last year? Have we been separated that long: that we might need years to describe the passing time?

KATE (cautiously): I think it might be getting serious -

SIMON (to KATE, cutting her off): How serious?

SIMON (to audience): I hated myself for managing so little; I hate myself all the more for it now.

KATE (pauses, begins cautiously, then out with it): He's...Simon, he's asked me to marry him.

SIMON (angrily): What? Kate, this is ridiculous. You've known him for a year and you just...you're just...

KATE (softly, sounding defeated): Simon...I'm not going through with it. It's too soon, but...Simon, we haven't...you just aren't...things aren't the same anymore.

SIMON (calming down, almost pleading): Well...what about us?

KATE (with emotion): What us? (bitterly) Your father made his feelings about us clear a long time ago, and you just let him have his way-

SIMON (to audience): I have known Kate Michaels for years and loved her for most of them. I usually call her what everyone else does, Kate, except in moments of certain joy or certain grief: in moments when I am surest of my love.

              (to Kate, softly): Katie...

            There is knocking at the door.

SIMON: Katie, I'm-

            More knocking, more fervent.

SIMON (distracted): Kate- (the knocking gets louder and quicker)- Kate, there's someone at the door. Please don't hang up.

            SIMON places the receiver on the table, rises, and goes to the door. He opens it, revealing HAROLD, who continues knocking the empty air for a moment while SIMON addresses the audience.

SIMON (to audience): Of all the people, all the visitors that a shy college man could have at eight on a weeknight, my father - drunk out of his mind on Jameson's 50 year-old - was the last one that I wanted to see at that moment, interrupting such a sensitive conversation.  As usual, however, I forced myself to humor him.

  (flatly, to HAROLD): Hello, Father.

HAROLD (joyfully) Hey there, my boy! I've got great news!

SIMON (to audience): I could practically smell the joy on his breath

HAROLD: You've got it!

SIMON (slowly, puzzled): Got what, Father?

HAROLD: You know...

SIMON (with a look of disgust that goes unnoticed): No, I don't.

HAROLD: Don't be silly, my boy. The internship! Stein said he would have you! You have a meeting with him tomorrow at the hospital!

SIMON: Father, I'll have to check my-

HAROLD: Say! You can wear the suit that we picked out!

SIMON: I don't know where-

HAROLD: It really is a fine suit. It fills you out, hides your stick of a figure!

SIMON (trying to hide his offense): Alright...I'll wear it then. But I still have to check my-

HAROLD: Well, I'd better be going on home. I'm sure your mother must have cooked something.

SIMON (to audience): My father is not an affectionate man; he never has been. In fact, until recently, I cannot remember so much as a hug. Father is a man who pats the back and shakes the hand; even family gets business as usual. So, when he leaned through his drunken breath and kissed my cheek (HAROLD leans over and kisses SIMON's cheek), it caught me off guard. I was, in one sense, repulsed by the scents of Irish whiskey on his breath and his latest affair on the rest of him. At the same time, however, I was confused. He has never been a sterling example of good fatherhood, and yet I could not, as his son, ignore the feelings that this display brought out.

                                    I suppose on many levels, I hate my father; he has certainly earned it. In spite of that, in a deeper, untouchable realm, there is love. I have love for my father, and regardless of how that love is challenged, I am hopelessly bound by it.

                                    Soon, Father was gone (HAROLD exits and SIMON closes the door behind him), and so was the moment. In an instant, I remembered Kate, our conversation, the unhooked phone that may or may not have still held a link to her. I rushed to the phone (SIMON scurries over to the phone while talking, then picks up the receiver), but she had hung up. (A dial tone sounds) Perhaps she had heard my conversation with Father, perhaps not. It doesn't really matter now. I didn't sleep well last night, and I'm afraid that Kate, my Katie, might be gone from my life forever.

Let me first say that this post is in no way meant to be offensive to Kate, a kind person who took the time to visit my site. My comments were inspired by her post, yes, but they are not criticizing her or anyone.

Kate is from Japan; she is studying English as a second language.

If you read the comments for my last post, Kate requested my assistance in her pursuit of eloquence in English. I visited her web log and read through some of her journal entries, and something stuck out:

"Get a hustle on."

At first glance, such a phrase seems distinctly foreign. By foreign I mean, of course, unknown to my ears, yet it may just as appropriately indicate a foreigner trying to speak our language. How do we make the student of English understand what is "right"?

Though I love the technique, the intentional misuse of words for humor or metaphor remains a mystery to me. I suppose it always will. Why do we feel a need to replace a perfectly acceptable phrase with one of greater wit? Why must we be poetic? The easy answer is that we like to hear "pretty" sentences, that the artfulness of eloquence is aurally appealing. But why is it appealing?

Why do we have to "get a move (hustle) on"? Why can't we simply "begin our task" or "begin to take our task more seriously"? Why must we be caught between a rock, another rock, a hard place, or anything? Is it so hard to just have a tough choice? Perhaps I am now "caught between two rocks", and I suppose I had better "get a move on" before I drive myself insane! Ahhh!

Perhaps the best explanation that I can offer is that as humans, we become dissatisfied with what we have, regardless of how appropriate or deserved. Dissatisfaction comes in several forms: boredom, sadness, anger. Perhaps we are bored with life. Maybe expressing that boredom in dull, logically constructed phrases only enhances the problem. By resorting to metaphor, we make something cold, lifeless, and dreary become a larger, stronger, vital ideal. You might even say that our reliance on metaphor is a metaphor itself, taking that with which we are dissatisfied and adding enough spice to provide contentment.

I love our language. I love the way that our language is used, even when people miss the mark. The very fact that English is so exact and malleable at the same time is one of the things that make it beautiful. It is the model for an ideal person; it is the language of the renaissance man.

Enjoy your studies, Kate, and "get a hustle on". You've alot to learn, though don't despair; it's all worth it.

Who here remembers Mad-Libs, those delightful collections of blank-littered writings, in which we, the commoners, are asked to contribute to an article?

I would like to introduce my own set of "libs", so allow me to begin with one today. Simply copy and paste the Crazy Lib®, print the Crazy Lib®, and then have hours of Crazy Lib®bing fun with all of your friends. Remember, however, that the beauty of Crazy Lib®s is that the word-giver should be unaware of the subject matter. So try to keep it a secret, no hints!

A Visit to the Doktor

One Tuesday morning, Jimmy Walloon, a Belgian waffle- occupation-, woke up with a terrible case of the -strong alcoholic beverage-. He asked his wife, -former un-elected Republican presidential canidate-, if she noticed anything -synonym for swollen- about his upper -internal organ specific to females- region.

"Mildly-offensive expletive; no "f" bombs!", said she, "your -internal organ- is about ready to -method of travel-! You'd better get over to see Doktor -musical one-hit wonder-, stat!"

So off went a very -insulting adjective- Jimmy to see the doktor, with whom he had grown up in the ghettos of -theme park-. He hoped that the doktor would give him a straight -food item- regardless of their long-standing -noun-.

After having some tests run, a -adjective of sexual orientation- Doktor -same one-hit wonder- sat down -preposition and appropriate article- Jimmy. The doctor put his -body part- on Jimmy's -body part- and spoke slowly:

"James, I'm -happy adjective- to tell you that your -body party- has -gruesome verb, past tense-. You have -number- -noun, plural- to live. I'm awfully -adjective of supreme jubilation-."

So it was, that -number- days later, Jimmy Walloon fell -state of being- of a/an -adjective- -way of dying-.

In summertime I'm often torn

Between the bright or gloom. The morn'

Is clear though dusk is drear on me.

Who am I?

On autumn days my countenance

Pleases those whom I meet; My dance,

A feat, is azure sweet to view.

Who am I?

The winter chill has tried and failed

To make me feel it's gloom. Assailed

With cloud I turn up brightly proud and clear.

Who am I?

Though spring, some say is room for joy

And celebrating life, a boy

Who's lost his mother can't be blue

As I, when under temperate sun,

Remain. Yet still man has his fun

At my expense.

And so I ask you, who am I?

I prowl around your house at dark

With night vision. You seek to learn

My ways though you cannot know them.

Who am I?

You serve my whim with fervent need

To please my every wish; my love

Cannot be bought though still you try.

Who am I?

I wear a coat you can't afford

And couldn't find in stores should funds

Be yours with which to force the sale.

Who am I?

Though sapien and canine kind

May seek to charm or end my stay

On Earth, I nonetheless prevail.

Who am I?

"Something terrible has happened."

These words were spoken this morning by Tim Russert, chief Washington correspondent for NBC's "The Today Show". As many of you may know, Russert was speaking (generally) about the disaster in Louisiana. As some of you may have inferred, Russert was speaking (specifically) about a lack of adequate, or at least timely response to the devestation of Hurricane Katrina.

Russert followed this statement with what seems to be the American ideal for self-preservation (I'm paraphrasing):

"There will have to be accountability."

Let me say first that I'm not trying to attack Tim Russert. Frankly, I don't know all that much about him. I am not the sort of person who often descends from the clouds to address the more practical issues of a country stuck in political turmoil (I speak of America, not Iraq). I can logically understand, however, that Russert is speaking for America, the people. You can see this in the newspaper, hear it in your locale. Something terrible has happened (besides a hurricane) and there will have to be accountability (for someone other than Mother Nature).

So who did what wrong?

Let's start with the beginning. From what I'm hearing (which I do understand is subject to scrutiny), FEMA (I believe I'm writing that properly) had predicted this potential disaster. FEMA had given instructions as to what might be done to prevent such chaos: strengthen the levees, put supplies and personnel in place.

When Katrina hit, it became apparent that the advice of FEMA had not been followed, at least not to the supposed necessary degree. Journalists immediately began looking for targets, particularly the mayor of New Orleans. He weathered attacks and vicious questioning about why he hadn't strengthened the levees, or why his city was unprepared despite warnings.

The problem with American culture, and perhaps even history as a whole, is the desire to crucify one for the sins of many. This only worked once, and only because of the compassion of our creator. It was not based on the desire of the weak to have a scapegoat but on the inability of man to meet the requirements of a righteous god.

The finger-pointers are no more righteous than their victims. They are not motivated by compassion. They are riding an emotional current of ignorance that seeks to redirect the blame from its natural course.

The blame for this crisis does not rest on the shoulders of a few men but on a country whose national decisions affect everyone. Apparently, a New Orleans vote decided against strengthening the levees sometime prior to this event. Federal funding for FEMA had been diverted to other resources. People at the local and national level felt that the money could be better used elsewhere, and the nation as a whole didn't seem to be complaining before this disaster. Now, a week and a half later, all sorts of people are coming out of the woodwork with 20/20 hindsight.

I am moved by the compassion of all of these donors stepping forward to help with the relief. They've given millions of dollars to the cause. It would be interesting to see, however, how many of them would have donated less money to strengthen the levees and store provisions before the event. This is not to say, necessarily, that there is something wrong with these people. It is simply important to note that the apparent American way of thinking is that inconveniences are only acceptable when somebody dies. Preventing the loss of life has never been one of our priorities.

I must conclude this discussion for the time being, but it's an interesting topic that needs to be explored, and I'm certain that I'll have more to say soon.