6:45pm, 23 May 12
I’m waiting for two actors and a director to arrive for rehearsal. As I sit waiting, upon a green cushion tied to a red vinyl chair, it’s raining and I feel the warrior.
I’m a writer. A playwright. Words are my love and by love, of course, I mean the ultimate channel, the means to something good. When in doubt, I gather pencil and paper and throw down thought. In the end, an explanation in the form of a story arrives. I fill notebooks (or type), a logic is discerned, and that’s been the rhythm, the pace that sets a verse. Or two. Or three, on a good day.
The warrior has changed everything. She is a revolution.
This warrior has either leapfrogged beyond story, or hasn’t even formed one yet. The warrior is a wave, a visceral presence. She’s the main character and a force of nature in equal measure. Her name is Slam and she is a multitude, a rush of mistakes and charm and capricious anger.
I’m vibrating, you see.
This may become the new means. If so, I welcome it, because underneath this unpredictable force is peace and anticipation.
Perhaps Slam needs one of Chekhov’s guns.