Ah Guilt, You Motivatory Bastard (A Call For Gum Smacking)

6 Jan

It was a balmy Sunday night at Forrester’s Arms when my best friend began to beat me viscously and grabbed me by the lapels and repeatedly smashed my head against one of the brick pillars that surround the courtyard at the popular Newlands pub. As I lay there, bleeding, picking out the shards of shattered teeth from my bleeding gums, my eyes pleaded for a reason; an explanation for the merciless pummeling I had been dealt. Through a cloud of inhuman rage and with an unearthly voice, he said, “Because you don’t write enough.” Stunned, I sat up, brushed the dirt from my shirt-front, spat blood into a nearby rose-bush and found myself unable to think of an excuse of why I don’t write more. I am a writer, am I not? (Am I? Aren’t I? I am. Or am I? Am I? I am? Are you sure? You’re not? Who are you? Stop looking at my crotch.)

Dorothy Parker is often quoted as saying, “I hate writing, I love having written.” Perhaps this could stand as the reason for my neglect of this blog. And I do specifically mean this blog. I have abandoned you, dear reader. I have left you in the dark, underwear around your ankles, clammy, nervous, unsatisfied. Or rather, perhaps that is how I left myself, while you fled to friendlier shores. It was in this last year that I made the slightest bit of progress as a writer and then immediately neglected the very pages that birthed me into the world of being an utterly unemployable writer. I lost touch with the people, man. I went corporate (as corporate as one can go without making a cent and finding oneself in a hole deeper than the dialogue in an undergraduate’s fourth-year play at Stellenbosch University.) I stand accused of forsaking my duties. My duty to you, sweetie-poes (I tickle your chin at this point). My duty to remind you how fucked we are.

Ah-ha, you didn’t see that coming, did you? Even if you did, I beg you to tolerate me for a second while I lament the state of the arts, especially theatre. What makes my statement relevant to you, I hear you ask. Have I not always complained about the utter arse-water we pour onto the shrinking amounts of stages as the seasons go by? Sure, my pontifications are not new, as a quick browse through the archives will prove, but I endeavor to form a small part of the weight that aims to balance out the ignorance, naivety and general lack of insight that accompanies the theatre industry on its travels. I am but one man. One riot, one ranger. Cue the patriotic music, watch as I grow teary and tumescent, offering my battle hardened member as a floating log of hope through the rivers of uncertainty and disappointment.

As you can tell, I am unfocused in my accusations. Chalk it up to settling into the saddle, adjusting the leather straps to my changed shape (fat), and whispering to the mare that I am indeed her previous rider, even though I have let myself go and smell like the river of shit I’ve crossed to get back to her, I am one and the same. Uncle Loo, here to serve. So, let’s consider this post le blog the turning of the key to re-start the engine. Instead of choosing a topic to rage about, allow me to consider the options and then pick from that fertile field future fulminations that will have their own blogs. Shall we then, for posterity’s sake, take a general look at prospective issues that plague (or seem to plague) this little industry of ours? Come along on a fantastic journey…

  1. Let me begin by charging us, the writers, with dereliction of duty. We constantly step away from the fray to tend to our egos, our pockets and our yearning for acceptance. We rely on guilt, cliché, audience expectation and cheap tricks. This provides many opportunities for devolution and opens the door to the hucksters of workshopped theatre.
  2. Workshopped Theatre. Or to be more precise, the con-artists who use the technique of workshopping a play in order to get away with lazy, faux-democratic, pandering, bullshit theatre. And extra demerits go to the fraudsters who rely on their cast to come up with a story and then have the rotten balls to credit themselves as the writer.
  3. Theatre Management. Your constant reminders to us about how theatres have to do the big, audience friendly, musical, broad shows in order for the theatres to do small, progressive, intelligent plays, is all well and good (an appreciated, sir. Yessir master, I dance fo yah) but it becomes empty platitudes when you don’t actually ever end up doing any of those small shows. You love your houses and your big fuck-off cars and you club memberships, I get that, but will you still love them when they are reduced to ashes by a maniac theatre-maker who has absolutely nothing to lose?
  4. Producers. Pay your fucking crew and actors, you miserable cocksuckers.
  5. Maynardville. Could you stop being shit? For once? Try it out, maybe you’ll like it.
  6. Critics/reviewers. See point 5. But add lazy.
  7. Actors. You are rarely as important to a project as you think you are. You, the foulest of hypocrites at times, insist on being taken seriously and wanting to do better work, but if you chase enough paychecks and you cease to balance it out with good work, then you deserve no respect and not a slice of good work. You can hide behind financial security all you want, but it won’t make you good, honorable or important to your industry unless you are good, honorable and important to your industry.
  8. Theatre-makers (in general). Make good theatre.
  9. You and I. Yes, you and I, dear blog browser and friend. Bad theatre, like apathy, does not exist in a void. We are the oxygen that feeds the monster. The slaughter will stop as soon as we insist that it stops. How do we do that? I’m not sure, but I do know that we’ll be better off if we do it together (apologies for this last burst of sentimentality.)

Here we are then, at the beginning of a new journey. A journey much like the old, but with newer profanities. Please feel free to comment, add topics of rage or to simply call me a dickhead. My hope is to be back quite soon. I’ll give this writing thing another go, lest I seek a trampling from a loved one. Or if I come into some money (in that case you can fuck right off… but that’s a slim motherfucker of a hope, boy.)

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One Response to “Ah Guilt, You Motivatory Bastard (A Call For Gum Smacking)”

  1. jonkeevy January 9, 2014 at 11:38 #

    I’ve got the dates if you’ve got the words.

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