conversation

do you know what you remind me of?
(no.)
winter.
(and?)
being cold.
(uh-huh. and i suppose that's your way of telling me-)
i like being cold.
(nobody likes being cold.)
sure they do. lots of fun things happen in the cold.
(like?)
rosy cheeks. snowball fights.
(runny noses. frostbite.)
you can see your breath.
(black ice.)
sure, but that's expected. it's just a by-product of the cold.
(by-product into the fucking ditch.)
you can expect it. you can prepare for it. you can throw a bag of sand in the trunk.
(you need to prepare for me?)
yeah, of course. not the same way, but metaphorically, yes-
(you know what you remind me of?)
-but you are something that i can prepare for. i like that. if i said you were like black ice in the summertime- what do i remind you of?
(my high school physics teacher.)
oh.
(he had a pony tail. and wore a lot of flannel. and played nirvana before class.)
i remind you of a mid-90's pac-northwest thirty-something-
(i wanted to blow him under his desk.)
jesus christ.
(i told susie kemper. at a sleepover. that i had a dream about sleeping with him. she rolled her eyes. the next day in class, someone had carved "SLUT" into my lab bench with a pocket knife.)
jesus.
(high school was never the same after that.)

a moment

hey.
(hey.)
you know what i like?
(easy girls?)
shoveling snow.
(blow jobs?)
trees without leaves.
(knee-high socks?)
chopping firewood.
(me wearing flannel pajamas.)
yes.
(and thermal underwear?)
promise?
(just one thing, ok? keep me warm.)
you're gonna love the winter.

an unabridged first edition of my opinion

i don't write as much as as i should
and i never give my friends as much time
as i need to/
i think that i can solve
the mysterious things
like how to keep a happy cat
or how to properly disburse
my armies
to defend
my south american stronghold/
but i know that i can never
solve
the truly difficult things
like
math equations that take up more than
one line
or
how to be
in the face of love
like a lion roars
and then licks your face
with it's rough tongue/
i don't always eat right
but i love the taste of ginger
and chocolate
and coffee/
i don't know much about cars
but i want an old one
that smells like decades of suntan lotion
and has a top
that gets stuck
when i put it down/
i learn little things
and i never leave
whiskey
in
my
cup/

and if it is
your birthday
today
then
it's
glen livet
and
i
give
to
you
some
love
and
happ
iness
(and
a song i play
that makes it's way
across
fourteen states-
a radio station
playing
just for you.
happy birthday!)

she had a black eye, and wouldn't tell me why

rain makes me change my mind
like
"that sounds good to eat"
maybe
orange chicken and rice
but
i get home
take off my wet jacket
and eat pretzels and yogurt.
or
i sing the rolling stones
on my bike
but
i get home
shake out my beard
and it's charlie parker
with a hendrix chaser.
and i remember
all the times that it has rained
and all the windows i've opened
to let in
the muddy fingerpaints
of god.
or
the times
that i forget
how old i am
and i close my eyes
and lie down on the earth
inhaling
all the times
at once.

calamity, my daughter's name

the messiest parts of
life and also the
best, the happy
warmth of being
surrounded by
calamity, misunderstanding,
past-due notices
and
shepard's pie
with french bread
eaten on the floor
of an empty
apartment.

Open-source Theatre

Open-source Theatre

Coming soon to San Diego, California
Swarming with local writers, directors, designers and actors.

What is "open-source"?
Usually referring to the practice of providing access to the source code for software, allowing for manipulation and programming by users, "open source" is a state of mind that relies heavily on the collected ideas of a large, non-hierarchical group of individuals. Open source projects can thrive only through transparency, integrity, and dedication to the task at hand.

So what is an open source theatre?
Primarily, we work with sources that have no copyright. Ideally, those sources (text, music, dance, video) are created by our team. On a deeper level, the open source creation process then allows for an incubation period where we get to know the material. Readings, workshops and exercises are utilized, and every idea is explored for inspiration.

Where do you perform?
Wherever and whenever we can. Living rooms, coffee shops, public parks, and even (sometimes) legitimate theatres.

What should the audience expect?
To be surprised, inspired, pissed off, rotated, adjusted, malfunctioned, rebooted, rewritten and rewired.

Patrons should expect a story-telling experience relying heavily on the generous talents of the creative team. we place an emphasis on innovation, team work, and a steadfast belief that theatre plays an important role in our community.

And with that, a theatre is born.

rizzoraab@gmail.com

it's not much

she used to tell me, in her god-voice, that it would always be just a puddle-jump away. and tonight, as i stood staring up at rain clouds in a world that was the opposite of on fire, i understood what she had always been trying to tell me. between me and my car, me and my radio, me and my warm bed, was a ferocious, man-eating, black-as-asphalt puddle.

lines are written to be spoken.

we're all only sailors on an upside-down sea
where we'll all land is a mystery to me
only that there will be hope
and something to taste
and monsters to wrestle
and chances to take.

two nothings and a rumor

boom boom boom.

and then nothing.

and then, again: boom, boom, boom.

it was thunder in rapid succession, like he'd never heard it before. but it wasn't supposed to happen like that, was it? it should have been a surprise, an interruption to the rain tapping on the cold window like dead fingers, a proclamation of the inability of man to control the rhythm of the skies. but there it was, and again. and again.

boom, boom, boom.

---------------------

on the edge to the point that she could feel the sand crumbling under her feet, elizabeth contemplated the enormity of the sea, which shot straight up into the black night, rode round the world like a sopping wraith, and crashed on the shore beneath her, swallowing up sand and rock like a terrible hungry whale. "two similes in the same sentence," she thought. "if i don't do it now, i never will." outer space sunk to earth like a heavy example of every twist in every science fiction story she had ever read. like the decayed teeth of all the god's that ever existed. "fuck," she thought, stepping away from the edge. "that was two more." her brain spun like a galaxy, pain exploding into beautiful clouds, and happiness warming the tip of her nose.

she never saw him watching, waiting with a blanket and coffee and a story about a girl and the sea. he sighed and turned away. she'd be back, and he'd be waiting.

---------------------------------------

without the ability to push air past vocal cords, how can a ghost speak, sing, or howl?