It’s starting to happen.  Key elements of The (script) Project fall into place easily now.

I have a skeleton Production Team of me and Huzzy.  Huzzy has marketing strategies at the ready, as well as a willingness to research theaters/rehearsal spaces and work with the management.  He will also tend to all things financial (bless him.  It’s not that I can’t, it’s that any left brain I can spare should go towards directorial goings-on.)

Huzzy is also my biggest supporter and energetic sounding board.  He sees this becoming big and become theater-viral.  Like Blue Man Group with fewer Twinkies.

My Dad, also a supporter and in no way a theater guy beyond being an enthusiastic and frequent audience member, is an IP expert.

The two men suggest I stop talking about The (script) Project and getting a copyright to protect myself and the work.

To this end, I took off the list of ideas I had in a previous post on this site.

I hate it, but I think they’re right.  I’ve been mildly burned in the past.  I’ve told jokes or toyed around with ideas I wanted to try with trusted members of my improv classes before we began that evening’s work, and lo and behold, my ideas were suddenly coming out of the mouths of other people.  They often did cast a sly, almost apologetic look my way.  There are no Squatters’ Rights when it comes to this sort of thing.  It’s all about getting to the punch line first.

I did take small comfort in the laughs that my jokes/characters/premises got.  Very small.

I will still discuss the process of creating and birthing The (script) Project here, simply without details until I’ve got it protected.

Of course, one can argue (and I often do) that at this point in human history, that all art is derivative.  All stories (and some, including me, argue there aren’t as many as you think) have been told and we can only retell and repackage and reframe the stories in a way that honors the original Mothers and Fathers who told the same stories.  I find that beautiful, actually, rather than stultifying. 

I do feel that T(s)P is special.  It burns like no other idea I’ve had in other contexts.  I fight my better nature.  I believe in trusting people.  I also believe in T(s)P (like my new acronym?  Like I’m so busy I can’t type out “The (script) Project.”  Look at me!  I’m rushed!) 

I wrote a scene.  I am ready to write another one.  I am excited.

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My neighbor, the one who reminds me of Anne Ramsey from Throw Mama from the Train, comes out to chat whenever I’m outside watching the boys.  She has a lot of opinions about how I’m raising the boys, based mostly on what she sees from her window.  She also feels very comfortable disciplining my kids and me. She will snap at J. if he walks towards the back of the house without me.  The other day, she walked over and said, “I want to watch one of them.  Only one.”  She looked at me expectantly.  I suppose I was supposed to respond, “Golly!  Yes, neighbor I barely know who scares the living crap outta me! Which one do you want to take at this very moment?”

I didn’t say that.  I laughed it off.

My better nature nags at me a bit…she is lonely.  She has isolated herself from most of our neighbors due to mini suburban wars she has started/escalated.  She is older.  Her health is not good.  Her husband’s health is not good.

My protective mama nature nags that I really don’t want to leave my kids alone with her.

My inner nature tells me I want to surround myself with positive people. 

Inner Nature’s a bitch.

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I feel pangs every time I see newborns or preggos.  I want to slow time down.  I will never be able to Mother this phase, this exact age again.  It weighs on me.  I suppose this provides me opportunity to relish and cherish each day.  I am trying to be so very present with my boys.

Still grieving.

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On to browner pastures.  Speaking of which, in line with this post, once Huzzy and I drove through Michigan and had the following conversation:

“Those are some fuzzy cows.”
“That’s because they’re buffalo.”

Does it really matter who said what?

I’ve been avoiding the Improv Catharsis.  Part of it is fear.  Part of it is that I’m not certain it’s going to do me any good.  Part of it is that I’m not sure where to start.

I do know that if I’m this afraid of something and this befuddled about where and how to start, it must be done.

I know I run the risk of making myself very angry and looking like an angry improvised-challenged screw up in the process.

Louise Hay suggests people who are angry at someone should repeat to themselves, “I forgive you for not being what I needed [what I wanted?] you to be.  I forgive you and I release you.”

At first pass, I laughed.  Hard.  It sounds so arrogant.  I forgive you?  I forgive you for not living up to my expectations?  How lovely of me.

However, I was so hurt by the experience, so let down.  I’ve been blaming it, chewing it like fuzzy cow cud.  If I’m blaming it, I have to forgive it.

I have the first painful post.  It allowed me to dip my toes into the memories.  I’ll post it this week. 

Dribs and drabs and occasional blarbs.