Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Dainty Cadaver Mad Libs-Style Blog Thing: Eric Bland

Eric Bland - in company with the aforementioned Crystal Skillman - ranks as one of the very few living writers whose work we've produced (at least up until this project). Though on paper his play Jeannine's Abortion: A Play in One Trimester might seem to be an odd fit with PMcK, it turned out to be exactly the right show at the right time for us, and our co-production with Eric's company Old Kent Road Theater was one of our high points of last year. Of course, we've known Eric's work for several years before then, and we were happy to see so many of our friends and collaborators in his latest moving stage picture, Emancipatory Politics: A Romantic Tragedy. As Team A playwrights go, he's alright, I guess.


If I could rewrite the ending to any book it would be Ulysses, because _no. ...Welllll, maybe, probably, but I'm not--I'm just, I'm almost definitely...there...I mean, most likely, ish, ishhhh, I'm very "ish" on this--no no no that's a GOOD thing! ...I am soooooo close to committing, you really are everything I ever wanted…baby. --Okay okay yes, for real, let's do it! Yes!

As Abraham Lincoln said, “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget slavery.”

Before I had Piper McKenzie in my life, I was a hollow shell of a human being. Now I see Jeff has that wrapped up, so I took to reading the New York Review of Books and accidentally leaving it on my seat at the Brick to carve out a niche.

The superpower I would least want to have would probably be SIDS.

Out, out, brief candle! / Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, / That begets modernity, / Freud and his fraternity, / How Prufrock could discern a tea. It is a tale / Told by an idiot, full of Poundian sound and a Woolf's fury, / Signifying nothing but eternity.

The first play I ever wrote was whatever, I wrote reams of undelivered poetry to girls on the soccer team in high school while listening to Tool and Nirvana. After that I became less privately creepy.

If I didn’t write plays or do things like Dainty Cadavers I’d probably be a better catch and sadder.

The courage to challenge old forms and a remarkable capacity for abstract, digressive thinking and hyper-curious minds that want to be taken to museums: that’s what little girls are made of.

In the beginning God created tarragon chicken salad with macadamia nuts (the macadamia nuts were in error, everyone fails, and the next dinner party was basically a bunch of people telling God how wonderful the whole spread was without directly comparing it to the first one when He put macadamia nuts in the chicken salad and you were like, "What is He thinking?" as you ate this otherwise decent salad only to suddenly arrive at a macadamia nut and it's like, your teeth, are they falling out, have they fallen--is THIS my tooth?!--I mean, each one was like a little terror you had to linger over, could those things, "What are these...small stones? Jawbreakers? Could you not FIND a softer nut at the grocery, I mean, God, did you really--'Suze, hey Suze, shhhh, but did He really do this? Macadamia nuts? I mean I'm not complaining but really, Suze. I mean really, it just makes one understand the concept of pity'")_.

Have you ever noticed that cellos are always like I'm beautiful,” while cancers are always like “although I'm ravaging your body, I agree with the inexorable beauty of cellos?” What’s the deal?

The next project I'm involved with is writing 31Down's new show Here at Home, a meditation on war, premiering at the Bushwick Starr in May; and later on I will be working on an indeterminate, irruptive piece with Piper McKenzie. Yes!

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