eugene stickland  

My computer went down, so to speak, on Friday and so I had to endure life without one. I felt rather like a Benedictine monk from the 15th Century. I felt an incredible sense of loss and lack of focus. Without easy access to Facebook, I began to feel I was losing my identity. Rendering this even more pathetic, I have access to everything on my iPhone. But it just wasn’t the same.

Clearly, I learned that my habits and proclivities vis a vis the computer amount to nothing short of an addiction.

$740.00 later, I’m back.

Coincidentally to all this — some might say ironically, as no one seems to know the difference anymore — during this time I have been reading Nicholas Carr’s excellent book, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to our Brains. He didn’t have to convince me. From my own experience, I am reasonably convinced my Internet usage is turning my own brain to mush.

It first hit home this summer when I decided I simply couldn’t go another year without reading The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. This is, obviously, what we call a “big Russian novel.” So I found it, bought it, lugged it home, bought a case of vodka and settled in to read the great tome.

Halfway through the first page, my eyes were burning, my head was aching, I was wondering what was going on AT THAT MOMENT on Facebook, I had to check, I put the book down and logged on and I felt so much better, you have no idea.

Two hours later, I got back to the Brothers made it most of the way through the first page before falling into a profound sleep.

A month later, after a sustained effort at reading the book, I was 11 pages in. Clearly. something was happening to my brain, something not so good.

In his book, Carr is very thorough and relentless in his examination of this situation, which isn’t just happening to me. To a certain extent, it’s happening to all of us. Through our use of the Internet, we are rewiring our brains to become proficient at skimming and increasingly unlikely to engage in and deep analytical thinking.And what we’re doing to our long term memories is positively chilling.

I’m trying to mitigate against this. I’m testing and stretching my feeble memory by memorizing poems. Now there’s a quaint pastime in the digital age: memorizing a Shakespearean sonnet. I’m working on #60, “Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore . . . ” (I wrote that from memory!) After a month or so, I’m about halfway through. Still, it’s a start.

And I’m reading books, such as The Shallows, like my life depended on it. But the best way to fight it is probably exactly what happened to me. To be denied access, or to deny yourself access, and to simply walk away from the computer and reading, or going for a walk, or playing with your kid or your dog or whatever — I think it’s critical to do such things.

Such a break was forced on me, but I think it was a good thing, a blessing in disguise, as it were.

And now, rather than post this and check compulsively to see how many hits I’ve generated, I’m going to post it and get back to a very good book. I suggest if you’re concerned about this as it relates to your own brain, you read this book. To say the least, it’s a cautionary tale.

Here I am with my new haircut and Movember mustache -- I hardly recognize myself! -- standing in the Auburn Saloon which looks vaguely like a Mexican bordello, not that I've ever been to Mexico.

Wow, what an odd photo. Maybe it’s because there’s Salsa dancing at the Auburn Saloon on Thursday nights I feel this has a surreal Latino look to it. And it seems that I have a surreal and rather low rent Latino look to me. The machismo of the mustache, perhaps. I’ll be happy when November is over and I can shave it off and I can get back to my clean-shaved self!

On any account, it was the Poetry Slam at the Auburn Saloon this evening. After running the thing for six years, the venerable, the indefatiguable (if that’s a word, I thought it was?), the amazing and magnificent Sheri-D Wilson stepped down as the Slammer of Slammers (although she’s still surely the Momma of Dada) and has passed the torch to a consortium of poets who are going to keep the thing running, under the name of The Ink Spot Collective, comprised of poets Tyler Perry, Jen Kunlire, Erin Dingle and others.

Sadly, Sheri-D could not attend this momentous passing of the torch as she is in hospital, having had her appendix removed. But she was still in the room, and the recipient of all of our awe and appreciation for all she has done for poetry in Calgary over the last few decades. And obviously our thoughts are still with her, wishing her a speedy recovery. (I too am an Appendicitus survivor!)

On any account, the Slam must go on and it did and there was some good poetry and some not so good poetry and then it was all over and then it was Salsa night and it was like it had never happened. But it will carry on, pre-salsa, at the Auburn Saloon under the Calgary Tower on the last Thursday of every month. If you want a snap shot of what’s coming out of the pens and mouths of local poets, there’s no better opportunity.

I read some poems — being decidedly old school, I read, I don’t recite. There’s one that I am quite fond of, and am happy to share it here with you.Thanks for reading . . .

Falling

You fall so far into silence sometimes

It feels like liquid

Like the temperature of darkness

Like the texture of night

Like the taste of the stars

Like the smell of god.

Sometimes thus

Up so falling

You land on the surface of the moon

And look down on the un- and other-

Worldliness of the broken planet

You once called home

And if you didn’t know before

Your silent scream reminds you

You still have everything to say

But you’ve run out of ways so say it.

After almost 40 years of driving a car, I am trying an experiment. I am seeing if I can get by without one.

Growing up on the prairies, in cities that are meant to be driven, not walked, I have always assumed I needed a car. When you’re a young man in the cities and towns out here, there’s a right of passage into manhood, I suppose: you turn 16, you get a car. No questions asked.

For me, it was something I did quite without thinking. I have been leasing a car for 7 years now, kidding myself that this made sense economically. But then on November 1, suddenly my plates, my insurance and my car had all expired. For once in my life, I crunched the numbers and realized how much I pay just for the, well, for the habit of driving.

For the first time in my adult life, I asked myself, “Do I really need a car? And can I really afford it?”

My answers, which surprised me, were, “No,” and “No.”

Part of my way of thinking came as a result of reading Chris Hedges’ book, “Death of the Liberal Class.” I think it’s one of the most impotant books of our time, and should be required reading for all of us who care what’s happening in the world today. I have deep appreciation of the people in the “Occupy” movements all around the world, but I don’t see being an occupier myself. But believe me, I am part of the 99%, and spent a lot of ink and newsprint talking about that in the Calgary Herald, long before it was fashionable.

Suddenly, not to drive seemed a good way not to buy in. I’m not buying into General Motors anymore, or the oil companies from whom I bought my gas. I am doing a tiny little thing to help save the environment which according to Mr. Hedges is probably doomed anyway. It’s a tiny insignificant action, not to drive, but in an odd way it is done for political reasons.

Normally, I don’t have to be anywhere at any given time.  Normally, I am not in a rush. I walk more now, which is good for me. I get to observe humanity up close and personal, which as a writer I can only think is a good thing.

I’m surprised that I really don’t miss my car or the act of solitary driving at all. In fact, I feel a strange and wonderful sense of freedom.

And the money I save, I can put into the odd great bottle of wine, and some funky walking shoes.

From what I can tell after 8 days, there is no down side.

Maybe you should try it . . . you might like it!

The Text

A few days ago I wrote a post about writing a play, reflecting on my time working with my friend and dramaturg and director Bob White at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival on my new play, Those White Things in the Ocean. I was pleasantly surprised that through Twitter and Facebook, the post seemed to be of interest to my friends in the dramaturgical community. That being the case, I thought why not expand my thoughts on the activity of dramaturgy from the perspective of a playwright?At least this playwright . . .

I am, in fact, a dramaturg myself although I have never really practiced the craft. My MFA from York University clearly states that I hold that degree in both dramaturgy and playwriting. Back then, my god, 27 years ago, a dramaturg might likely have been the person who knew the answers about an existing script. While at York, for example, we did a production of “The Caucasian Chalk Circle” by Bertolt Brecht. As company dramaturg, I was expected to answer any and all questions from the director and actors about the play, its origins, its production history, Brecht himself, his theatre company The Berliner Ensemble, how being a theatre company in East Berlin might influence his work, what was the nature of epic theatre, what was the nature of communism, the modern history of eastern Europe, the relationship between the German language and the English language — you get the idea. I would think that dramaturgs who work in such an academic way are most often employed by companies such as the one I am currently a guest of, the Stratford Shakespeare festival.  One can imagine how exhaustive this activity is for the works of William Shakespeare, for example. Or the Earl of Oxford. Or whomever. Whatever.

One of the most astonishing and gratifying developments in the Canadian Theatre since I have been involved with it, say in the last thirty years or so, is the process that is now in place to help us playwrights write plays that are ultimately produced in theatres across the country. If you are under 30 years old, you may take this for granted, but it wasn’t always so. Arguably, playwriting as an activity that is encouraged in Canada is less that 50 years old, and common practice for less than 35 or so.

Significantly during that time something else happened: the personal computer was invented and everyone got one. Hence, word processing as opposed to typing. I’m old enough that my first ever play, “The Family,” was written on a typewriter. It’s a hell of a lot of hard work to type anything on a typewriter, compared to word processing, let me tell you. (If you don’t believe me, find one and type a letter on it. Imagine 100 pages of that!)

Suddenly there was a legitimate art form in our country and a new way of creating it, which together helped give rise to the place of the dramaturg in our theatre. In this particular guise, the role of the dramaturg shifted from what I had studied, to being more like an editor for a novelist. Another set of eyes, someone to bounce ideas off of. Playwriting is a lonely occupation and suddenly there was another person on the scene to give the playwright support, encouragement and advice. This advice, thanks to word processing, could easily be acted upon, and creating a new draft of a play wasn’t a week of finger crunching work. It’s still work, don’t get me wrong,  but of a different and ultimately more satisfying nature.

Do you think that in saying this, I am implying that without word processing there would be no dramaturgy? Well,  many of my plays, by the time they hit the stage, go through on average ten drafts. Would I type that same play ten times on a typewriter, from beginning to end? Not bloody likely. I’m not saying it’s an absolute. Let’s put it this way: being able to word process must have made playwrights less resistant to changing their work and more open to the suggestions of the dramaturg. The question that then arises is, and I’ve heard it many a time, Are the plays any better for all that rewriting? Personally, I think so. I know so. I hear of playwrights who believe they are taking dictation from god or something and their first drafts are masterpieces not to be tampered with by mere mortals. But I believe in my heart that my own plays have only gotten better with each new pass at them.

If you want my honest opinion, I think writers who don’t or won’t rewrite are egoistical or lazy or maybe even both, a dangerous combination!

I’ve heard it said best that the dramaturg doesn’t serve the playwright, or the producing company. The dramaturg serves the play.

Nowadays, the person to see a new play first is the dramaturg. This could be based on a personal/professional relationship, which it is in my case with Bob White who functions both as my dramaturg and director (not to mention psycho-therapist). Playwrights’ service organizations, such as the Saskatchewan Playwrights’ Centre or the Alberta Playwrights’ Network, provide dramaturgical support for writers. In some cases a producing theatre will assign a dramaturg to a production. I’ve heard of playwrights who resent this scenario, but I never have. I’ve never encountered a dramaturg who wasn’t well-intended or who was doing anything other than helping the playwright make the play as good as he or she possibly could.

It’s a fluid, dynamic relationship and process, never the same twice. I remember once at the playRites Colony in Banff, ATP’s dramaturg Vicki Stroich was assigned to me and my play, I think it was “Midlife.” We went for a coffee together and she came stationery shopping with me, which is a big part of my process. And then she left me alone which was exactly the right thing to do at that point of that particular process. That’s not to say she didn’t help me in a more textual manner later on, she did. But at that point, she had the sensitivity to figure out how to best support me, how best to facilitate the writing of the play.

That was a process that went quite smoothly, but there have been others. Oh my god, yes, there have been others. When we were getting down to the short strokes with my play “Sitting on Paradise,” I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing anymore. I was a gibbering idiot lying in the fetal position under the table in the rehearsal hall. Bob White bailed me out on that one, to the point that when the play was published, I considered wording it like this: Sitting on Paradise by Eugene Stickland, as dictated to the playwright by Bob White.

I can’t speak for all playwrights, but personally I feel a tremendous debt of gratitude to the dramaturgs in my life, including Don Kugler, the late Larry Lewis, Bob White, Vicki Stroich, James Defelice, Bradley Moss, Johanne Deleeuw and Vanessa Porteous. They have all made me and my plays better than I could have done on my own.

Finally, a couple little jokes about it:

Q: How many dramaturgs does it take to change a light bulb?

A: Does it have to be a light bulb?

Q: How many playwrights does it take to change a light bulb.

A: I’m not changing a fucking thing!

You never know when you’re writing a new play exactly what your process will be. I think this new play of mine, Those White Things in the Ocean, is my 19th play. Yet every time out, the process has been different. I’ve had to work a lot the last few years. Also, I got hit by a car almost two years ago now which resulted in a bit of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I don’t recommend to anyone. So, while I’m usually pretty quick when it comes to writing, and have rarely been plagued with writer’s block, this play was a little slow in coming. It took a few years, writing sporadically when I had the time and energy.

I got a hurry up call when I was invited to take part in this year’s retreat at the Stratford Festival. I had to show up at Stratford with something completed. And so I finished the play, finally, before I came here, about a year later than I had originally intended. I got the best part of the play written at a self-directed residency at the Banff Centre in February, but didn’t actually manage to finish writing the first draft until August.

And then the various places in my life that employ me and pay me were kind enough to allow me these three weeks, and so I find myself in Stratford with nothing to do but concentrate on my play. Earlier today, after two weeks, I completed the second draft. Two years for the first draft, two weeks for the second. There’s no better way to point out the value of retreats like this. For those of us who have to work, these residencies give us the opportunity to keep our real careers moving forward.They allow us to write our plays.

It’s been a lovely two weeks. I learned to write in Balzac’s coffee shop, as well as in the beautiful place they provided me to stay in while I’m down here. We have had convivial meals with the folks from the festival and my playwriting brothers and sisters from across the country. All in all, a magical time.

Some of my students and young writers in general ask me about the value of doing an MFA in creative writing. I always say it’s a good idea because it allows you time to keep writing. I got my MFA years ago (York University, class of ’84) but I am still always on the look out for opportunities to have the time to write. They seem to get more and more rare and therefore more valued as one gets older. These three weeks have been so important to me. They have reminded me what I’m all about, what I’m meant to be doing in this short time I have on this planet.

Here’s a guy you’re constantly thinking of in this town, a constant source of inspiration. We were caught in the rain together . . . .

A fallen maple leaf, Canada's symbol. which we rarely see on the prairies where I have spent most of my days.

I am at the end of my first week of the playwrights’ retreat at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival in Stratford, Ontario. Pictured above is my daily journal, with a maple leaf I picked up on my street (Front Street) earlier today. I used to live in Toronto and knew southern Ontario a little, but that was 20 years ago. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here, with all the big trees changing colours and the fabulous old brick houses. I guess I love the prairie more, I like the openness and the austerity, but southern Ontario is looking very beautiful this October. The daytime temperature goes up to 25+ C and I have found it hard to stay inside the lovely apartment the Festival arranged for me.

That’s ok. Sometimes a writer needs to wander the fields, in the manner of Charles Dickens. The ideas in one’s head bounce around with each step and eventually, the play one is working on begins to take shape. After that, it’s just a matter of sitting down at the computer and transcribing those thoughts, shaping them.

I came here with a play called “Those White Things in the Ocean.” After a good meeting with Bob White (who is not one of those things in the ocean) I have had plenty to think about in my walks. Cryptically, I can tell you those are 1) what is the nature of metatheatre as it relates to m play? and 2) what are the distinctions between A and B, who are characters in my play? I have some vague ideas, but more walking is required before I sit down to write the next draft.

Meanwhile, I read Chris Hedges’ book, “Death of the Liberal Class.” It affected me immensely, and I recommend it to anyone reading this. I have been, and still am in some ways, a member of the university, the media and the entertainment industry. Hedges talks eloquently about how all all three of these, along with the church and other so-called liberal institutions, have failed in the last century, to lead us to the terrible state many of us find ourselves in now. I wondered if I could not do more, so I started to write a play based on some of the ideas and images of Hedges’ book.

Well, let me tell you, grim, grim, grim. So then I wondered if it could be a comedy, more likely a farce. So I spent today trying to make those grim scenes funny. I think I’m funny, and a good enough craftsman to do that, so we shall see.

It’s wonderful to have the time and space to follow such flight of fancy. It’s in this manner that many great works of art are born. And some not so great ones. So we shall see.

The best thing about being here are the people I have been blessed to meet. I haven’t had much chance lately to hang out with theatre people and I feel a real connection. I feel very much at home here. The other writers and I are having a pot luck Thanksgiving meal at my place tomorrow evening. For these new friends alone I can give thanks. I hope your thanksgiving is spent with amazing people, too.

This is a swan. There are some geese here pretending to be swans, and some ducks pretending to be geese, but this is probably a real swan.

Well, here I am at the Stratford Ontario Shakespeare Festival on a Playwrights’ Retreat, I think they are calling it. There are ten of us from around the country. We have been invited here as guests of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival to have some time to work on our new plays or whatever we feel like working on, really. There’s no pressure, it’s pure writing time. This is what all writers need more than anything else: PURE WRITING TIME.

I have with me my new play entitled “Those White Things in the Ocean.” Today I had an excellent dramaturgy session with my friend/colleague/mentor/dramaturg/director Bob White. I learned a lot about the play. I think I have about a week of walking around with my notebook thinking about it, then I will sit down and create a new draft.

I am also vaguely working on another play entitle “Ham” which is about ham. Turns out that Stratford is not only the Shakespeare capital of Canada, it’s also the place the pork producers call home. God works in mysterious ways.

While we are here, we can see any of the plays that are currently running. I am hoping to see “The Homecoming” by Harold Pinter tomorrow, one of my favourite plays.

Beyond this, I have found a coffee shop I like and a bar that has all the baseball games on.

I have made new friends and renewed old acquaintances. I feel blessed to have been invited here.

It’s a dream gig, being a playwright at a festival dedicated to another playwright, especially a famous one, maybe even the best one, ever. No pressure. The fact that a festival like this has invited living breathing writing playwrights to its facility, and paying us to be here, is really so encouraging on so many levels, I honestly never thought it would happen in my lifetime. But I’m glad it is.

More updates to follow. Thanks for reading. Here’s a wobbly photo of me looking dramatic (almost) on the stage of the Misanthrope:

I turned 55 today and it seems too old, somehow. I’ve never been one to worry about age, or maturity for that matter, but somehow 55 just hit me the wrong way. Maybe it has to do with the concept of Freedom 55, the idea being that if you’ve lived your life properly, intelligently, and definitely within the lines, you could contemplate retiring at 55. And then go sailing on your boat with your trophy wife and the rest of that fucking nonsense.

Truth of the matter is, I still don’t have a real job.

So I found myself in Calgary’s beautiful Riley Park today reading for an event put on by my old friend Sheri-D Wilson. I never read the email properly. The poems were supposed to have something to do  with this being World Peace Day, which never registered on me at all because it’s my birthday.

So I read too extremely inappropriate poems, one of them laced with obscenities which I started to censor when I saw all the little children in the audience. Oh well. It’s somewhat heartening I guess to be 55 and still able to play the fool.

The best part of my birthday, as usual, was being taken for supper by my beautiful daughter Hanna. A lot of her growing up took place a few blocks from Riley Park and I couldn’t help but think of those days when I left the reading and walked up 13th Street, where we lived when we were still a family.

It’s all good and I’ll get over my birthday, always remembering that it’s better to be having a birthday than not having one, and for at least one more year I found myself looking at the green side of the grass.

Here’s the poem I read today. It was only written in my notebook, so here it is typed, still raw, the few people to check out my little blog will be the only ones to know about it, aside from a small audience in Riley Park this afternoon.

Freedom 55

Freedom 55 they call it.
Today I am there.
Yet it doesn't feel like freedom to me
Except that as a friend reminded me
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose . . .

The sound of the children playing grows fainter
I no longer hear their laughter
I turn my collar up
Against the spectral chill of autumn
Trudging a while longer
Towards the final destination
Towards freedom at last.

Earlier this summer I received an email from Gail Howat, who tracked me down at St. Mary’s University College where I am the writer in residence. Gail was asking about a column I wrote several years ago about the difference between cats and dogs. I explained that I was so many computers removed from when I wrote for the Herald that I no longer had a copy. But then today I was looking for another document on my MacBook Pro and there it was: catsanddogs.doc.

The column was really an elaborate excuse for me to forward a funny email I’d received. I’ve cleaned it up a bit and so for Gail and anyone else who might be interested, here it is, so many years later.

Cats and Dogs

(Excerpt from column in the Calgary Herald, originally published in August, 2007)

This is my nightmare, being ripped apart by three pitbulls.

So here’s an interesting question, at least to me: what makes the man who likes to make people laugh, laugh?

Looking through this paper, there isn’t much to laugh about these days, for most of us. In fact, it’s looking pretty grim out there.

But I’ve always thought there’s a lot of comic potential in the old cat-dog debate. I’ve written columns that were transcriptions of conversations I had with my cat, Kiko. In particular,  one bleak day when I found out I had not received a Canada Council grant I was counting on, and she presented me with a dead mouse.  As if to say, “Here’s my contribution to the house for the winter.”

And I am on record as saying that in a dating situation, once the woman pulls out pictures of her pit bull, or schnauzer, I am out of there. Exit, stage right.

I’m a cat person. And so this little email, sent to me by my friend Brent, confirms everything I ever thought about cats and dogs. It made me laugh until I cried. I hope you find it funny as well:

DOG DIARY

8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!

9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!

9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!

10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!

12:00 pm – Lunch! My favorite thing!

1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!

3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!

5:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!

7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!

8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with my people! My favorite thing!

11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

CAT DIARY

Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow– but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released — and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe…..

For now.