Read as the intro to the Theatre portion of the 2017 Forte Awards on November 2nd in tandem with John Frederick.
A STORY OF SORTS
It’s late at night, dealing with the feeling of getting it all out right. Letting this real thing equate with both fight and might. Conflict and strength. A struggle with the struggle, and I predict great length.
If you go to GLM in the heart of Midtown,one of the many wonderful theatres around, there’s a sign on the wall that reads, “We Tell Stories Here” I swear there’s the barest needs in the heart of every artist that bleeds. In the deepest parts we heed creeds like these. ‘We Tell Stories Here’.
We put the audience back on that carpeted floor in a circle listening to the teacher read. We evoke responses and fulfill innermost need. We create. We welcome, not hate those of different ages,different stages, different wounds, different cages, different tunes, on different pages.
We perhaps release our rages and our disdain for this age as crazy, but better covered, than any other ages before. But, in our hearts and dreams we’re telling stories.
We dare to compare ourselves to giantsof the past. Though it’s unfair to think the flare will last. Because none of us will truly. That’s part of our art and why we’re unruly.
We tell stories because stories need to continue to be told. To all generations. We look at what’s in you; young, undone, and old. We tell stories to broaden perspective, and to welcome into the fold. We tell stories to help the wounded heal and help to be BOLD.
We tell stories, and somehow become family along the way. At best, little rest, subsisting day-to-day. But, tired as you are, you’re still missing the people with whom you get to play.
So we write, and act, and manage stages, we build props, we create costumes, we direct, we light, we all bring sound, and we design. We put up posters, buy make-up, and canvas Wells to Vine.
From Atlantis to UNR, we take our chances in our rickety cars. We travel to Truckee and as far as Carson City or further onward. We keep our hearts and eyes on the stars and bend bars to let stories out of their cells.
We tell the stories that beg for their tells.We recreate sights, sounds, touches, and smells. We look all through time and drink from its wells. So please pardon the shouting, the doubting, the dyes, and the gels. Because before the applause,there was a desire to tell a story, and to see and hear stories told.
One love. One flooded emotion. One plus ton of devotion. A passion, where sometimes you feel like you’re the onewho is smashing, and sometimes you’re the one who’s getting a lashing. And there’s rarely a cash-in.
But, we get to be a part of a legacy started by gathering around a fire, and will last for all time. Thank you for telling stories, and letting me (us) share my (our) rhyme.