Are you watching Tour de France Unchained Season 2 on Netflix in preparation for the 111th Tour de France beginning on June 29th? I’m going to write about the Tour next round. This is me amping you up.
WHAT HITS
Hannah’s essay, “In Thanks to My Friend,” featured in The Honeypot is vast and precise. You’ve got to check it out.
I went to the The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and was struck by photographer Annie Wang’s, Mother as a Creator. My favorite was, “At the Same Height,” when she and her son both sway a little punk in the same year.
A DRIP on process
I am knee deep in a writing project that’s taking all my juice. So, inspired by the book I referenced last round, The Work of Art by Adam Moss, I’m taking some time to breakdown the creation of a few plays I wrote for The Infinite Wrench on grief.
I’ll cover three monologues I had in the show over the course of a 14 month period. This is not an accurate representation of the show. You typically have one monologue in at a time. This is me telling you that when you go to The Infinite Wrench that it won’t only be work like this.
This is how the Wrench works. We hang 30 pieces of paper numbered 1-30 on a clothesline over the stage, start a timer for 60 minutes, and the audience orders plays by shouting numbers. We grab the first number we hear, set up the play, yell the title, yell “go”, the play occurs, and at the end of the play yell “next” which is the cue for the audience to call out another number. When the timer goes off, the show is over. We roll two dice over the weekend, pull that number of plays from the show, and pick that number of plays on Tuesday night for the next weekend’s show. For example, we roll a total of 9, we cut 9 plays from the 30 on Sunday night, we write, pitch, pick, and rehearse 9 new plays on Tuesday night, we perform 30 ( 9 new + 21 old) plays on Fri, Sat, Sun night. Eventually, the world ends.
PLAY 1: Vladimir Putin
PROCESS: This was written in March of 2022, a month after my bud died. The Wrench is many things, one is a living newspaper. I was reading everything I could about Russia’s recent invasion of Ukraine, consumed with what makes people do what they do. When researching war you are fed a history of decisions. I started reading biographies.
Tech was simple. A soft spot on me standing behind a boombox center stage. I needed to use this boombox again after buying it for the play prior that I reference. It was out of practicality that I made an echo play. Whenever I dropped good cash on a prop, I tried to fit that prop into everything to justify the purchase.
PLAY: Vladimir Putin - go
CH stands with boombox playing Third Coast Percussion’s Aguas da Amazonia: No 1
In February, I had a play that used this song playing through this boombox. In the play, we discussed if Russia had yet to invade Ukraine. At the time, they had not.
I’ve been thinking of Vladimir Putin. His birth was preceded by the death of his two brothers. One died in infancy. The other of starvation at age 2. In World War II, his grandmother was killed, his father was severely wounded, and his maternal uncles disappeared on the Eastern front.
I’ve been thinking of this Ukrainian man whose wife and children were killed the first week Russia invaded Ukraine. They were all in the same car. He had hopped out to grab something before they began their journey.
I’m suffering from a loss that I cannot comprehend. The man and I both stand on the precipice. How to continue with grief. For the first time, I find myself considering both directions. I do not have to be good.
His surroundings, chaos. My surroundings, you.
The play that happened in February only happened once. And the music wouldn’t play out of this boombox. Both my friend and the man’s family were alive that night. They would pass within the week.
After the show, I told Neil, “That really sucks that the music didn’t play.” He looked at me funny and said, “Yes, it did.” - next
REFLECTION: The play I’m referencing really did only happen once. It was in for one weekend, the show was running long, and it wasn’t called until the Sunday night performance. I believe a past HITMAN centered around this same Mary Oliver reference from Wild Geese - you do not have to be good. It’s interesting to have a timestamp on when the argument began. I tried to present this piece casually. The tech had it grounded. I didn’t it to appear self-important or come across like I was comparing grief, but pointing towards the decision after it. If I could change anything, I’d try putting the boombox under the spotlight and stepping to the side so I’m visible but mostly in darkness. Make the writing lean towards anonymity even though it isn’t. A lighting shift might’ve pushed the focus to that decision of “good” even more and invited the audience to put themselves at the crossroads too.
PLAY 2: hold
PROCESS: Pitching hold was hard. It felt like, man, is this art or is this just exactly what I’m thinking? It felt extremely stupid. I wrote it four months after he died. I was awake like I’d never been. Everything around me was firing at 110%. Will I ever find that level of awareness again? It would rip.
There was no tech, aka no special light look or sound effects. I locked arms with Neil who locked arms with Ale. They both attempted to pull me out the door of the theatre while I pulled in the opposite direction, reaching towards the audience. Death feels like such a big deal to write about. It is, but it’s also a thing that happens to everyone. I kept aiming to write about it in a way that takes it seriously but with laid-back language. For this round, I tried to keep this casualness by including one too many expletives and prefacing the pitch with, “I want this to sound like I’m telling this to someone in a bar at 2am.”
PLAY: hold - go
Two Neos pull CH out of UPSR door, CH pulls down towards audience.
i heard this story from a monk a few years ago. these parents had told him their 3 year old wanted to be alone with their newborn. so they gave them a moment and they stood outside the door. and the 3 year old said “tell me everything about where you came from, for i am starting to forget”
i used to care what people thought about me thinking about the world beyond this. maybe i sound too religious. or like a hippie or some sh*t. but that care has evaporated with my friend X’s passing. i’m going to believe in the next realm in the same way i believe in this one. with quite a bit of guessing.
CH focuses next paragraph at audience member in center, corner chair.
like im standing here, you’re sitting there. that appears to be true. and if i reach out i and touch you, let’s say if i put my hand on top of your had, we both know what that would feel like. im not going to try but what if i did. and what if for some reason this time my hand just swiped right through yours? what if?
the day i was supposed to fly to begin a journey with X, i went skiing because X was dead. it was a horrible day. and at lunch, this three year old, who i later learned was named riley, stopped in her tracks when she saw me on the ski lodge patio. she just stopped. the whole patio really thought it was really funny. it was funny. and her parents felt weird with their little freak kid just staring at me. but i told them, hey, if she’s happy, i’m happy. so we just stared at each other. and then around minute 7, i’m not kidding it was that long, she ran to her dad and grabbed a map of the ski routes and ran back to me and laid it on my lap and started pointing at all the individual routes. and then she really started to laugh. she has to rest her forehead on my lap because she was laughing so hard.
so, i guess what i’m trying to say is i’m going to believe that the kids know something. i’m going to believe in the expanse of death. i’m going to believe that riley was open and willing to relay a message of love from X. that he will still be with me on every route moving forward.
CH pulls away from Neos and walks center. Neos exit through door.
and trust me, i hear how cheesy that sounds but I don’t give a f**k. i’m just going to believe it. nobody can take that from me anymore. nobody can touch that. and even if you did, your hand might just swipe through it
CH walks out the same door. - next
REFLECTION: The thing that made “hold” turn into anything was the task. It’s what the other two monologues lack and would’ve benefited from. It was exhausting for all of us, my inhales became necessary so I couldn’t place them at the end of phrases. They’d cut up the sentences all wrong. Because I was inhaling so quickly to get through the piece as fast as possible it turned into a sharp gasp. When I broke away to deliver the last lines, I couldn’t get my breath to steady so the gasps played their role all the way out. If I could change anything, I’d add another joke. The audience would chuckle briefly when I said, “it was funny” and “i’m not kidding.” An invitation to laugh builds trust. Like, yes, you’re surfing with me through this cracked and narrow thing. It’s not super fun. I appreciate that you’re here. And actually I need you to hang with me a little longer while I try to land this plane. Another laugh may have helped.
PLAY 3: letting go
PROCESS: This writing at its core was arguing for a way to flip the outcome, the title acknowledging you can’t. At this time, I was praying I’d wake up from a dream. This phrase is a cliche, but it is the strangest thing to understand. There was a chapter where I genuinely believed, “well, maybe I can find a way to wake myself up?” I knew it was dumb. So I wrote this play.
The grand plan was to have 20 tin-foil birds hanging from the ceiling using fishing line. This did not work (more on that later). Here’s what did. I sat on two stacked blocks center stage. A single tin foil bird floated down from the ceiling on fishing line and rested in the palm of my hand. KR sat on a block to my L holding a tin foil bird. Dan sat on a block to my R holding a tin foil bird. Your Love Will Set You Free by Caribou starts to play midway through my monologue, a simple house beat. The only lyric for the remainder of the song is, “Your love will set you free,” repeated. We timed it so the first time he sang the line coincided with the end of my monologue. Then there was a blackout. During it, KR and Dan smashed their birds, left them on their blocks and exited. I smashed my hanging bird and exited. We lowered a disco ball. When the lights came up, it was a big empty dance floor with Caribou singing “your love will set you free,” and my smashed tin foil ball hanging beneath the illuminated disco ball. It was sick (I hope). If you really want to get into it, start listening here and then read. This writing is intentionally strange and visceral. I didn’t do all of these things. I almost did none. It’s a house of mirrors pointing forward and backward. Surf with me here.
PLAY: letting go - go
CH is sitting on two stacked blocks C, tin foil bird floating in hand. KR and DKH on blocks L & R with tin foil birds in hand.
Jesus, the opposite. Can i regurgitate it backwards and upside down. Will it come then. Suck a white russian through my heel on the back porch of a house party. Make a bad lunch and puke in the dorm’s purse. The back of class in front of you. $10 in my pocket and no fear. Duct tape franzia boxes to my hands and just milk. Let my teeth rot and unforgive the water. Tell the priest christ is chill and god is ragged in the confessional. Make the table nervous with my stench. Bong rip out of a pear can. Late for work. Cheap headphones out of a rotting backpack. The back of class in front of you. Skip geology to climb a bridge and first. East of 8 years later in a sunroom north of st boniface cemetery find the kiss again. In your sleep at dawn. Book the ticket on my walk to work between the gravestones.
And JFC, your heart does not give out the night before my plane lands
- KR enters with bird and sits on block
And JFC, I do not lay your gravestone west of Truth and Consequences, New Mexico. - DKH enters with bird and sits on block
JFC, that was bad turbulence i text you when i land. You say that sucks but I’m 8 minutes away from you. I say I’m flying southwest and you’re 8 minutes away from me. You pull the 3 page letter from your teeth, with a smile only i will ever see. Grab my bag and my neck and repeat it like you did last november from your white pillow just across the river. $10 in our pocket and no fear. Jesus, the opposite.
“Your love will set you free” (hold)
"Your love will set you free” (KR, CH eye contact)
"Your love will set you free” (DKH, CH eye contact)
"Your love will set you free” (blackout)
Lights up, crumbled birds, disco ball - next
REFLECTION: This one is weird on paper. I purposefully delivered it fast and without inflection so there was never enough time to make sense of it, tried to perform it just as a set of words. I wanted to bring the audience some sense of self-liberation in the disco ball moment after getting lost in the life cave. You spend a lot of time in your womanhood trying to be pretty. That reflects in your work. All of it takes undoing. I don’t know if this play worked, but it signified a turning point for me in that I didn’t need to try to be pretty in my writing anymore. I think the thing that worked the most was the eye contact with KR and Dan.
The night this premiered, the 20 tin foil birds kept falling in rehearsal before the show and I started crying. Dan, KR, and Annie were completely locked in giving me all the “YOU CAN DO THIS,” energy. But it was hilarious. We were minutes from opening house and the most efficient way forward was taking direction from me while I’m making these fast tech calls and openly weeping. I remember sobbing at Dan saying, “Ok, so here’s the new cue.” It was so funny. I was crying for all the normal reasons - fatigue, anger, fear, grief, hunger. This was also a turning point in my relationship to crying. You can cry and be a totally stable decision maker simultaneously. In order to make those fast calls smart ones, I had to emote somewhere else. Had I not, I would’ve emoted all over the direction of the thing.
PLAY 4: Just kidding. That’s it. I’m deeply grateful I had an artistic home to write through the first year and a half of this grief. If you don’t consider yourself an artist, and someone you love dies, you should know that if you feel like making something about it - you should. You don’t have to share it. Or you can. Whatever. You do not have to be good. Take this as permission. There are one thousand ways to cry.
WHAT’S UP, RIPP?
RIPP!!! The life of the party, the light of my heart, my dude Ripp. I am so proud of her today and every day. My first memory of Ripp is riding in the trunk of an SUV from our sorority to the fraternity we were paired with for homecoming to complete our required pomping hours. My most recent memory with Ripp is laying on her couch for four hours in April reflecting on our role in human existence. In essence, the same memory. She has taught me you’ve really got no choice but love. And not like the “love yourself, babe!” way. In the way that she knows it’s not the breezy choice. But it’s the one. She’s going to hang by your side while you choose every other option. But Ripp is the friend pointing at you, while you gasp at the debris of your circumstances or decisions, saying - buddy, you’ve got one way through. And once you figure it out it she’s going to be the first one to say - buddy, party time. She does this for everyone. I’ve witnessed it for over a decade. It rocks.
1. What is something strange, cool, or funny that happened to you recently?
2. What advice would you give yourself one year ago?
Know less. Later sk8ter.