Why I am Not Boycotting the Sochi Games
The Olympics are not what they used to be. Far from the bastion of true amateur competition and beacon of international cooperation they once were, the Olympics have become a multi-billion dollar corporation like so many others. Bottom lines, revenue streams and merchandising are at the top of the pyramid now, where once the spirit of competition, friendship and peace reigned supreme. The resultant influx of professional athletes into the Games has watered down their meaning in certain events, making them little more than an All-Star team vs. the tiny countries with no hope of winning.
In the United States, an equally ambitious and fundamentally tone deaf corporation brings the Games to our television. NBC, who has been permitted to outbid every other network for exclusive American coverage of the games for what seems like decades at a time has long been known for delayed coverage, poor analysis, sensationalism, and mostly boring mini-documentaries during prime time which have little to do with any of the (tape delayed) sports coverage. What coverage there is provides far less suspense than it could for the average viewer.
In short, NBC’s coverage of the Olympics is generally poor. But in this country it is the only game in town, so those who want to watch the Olympics, in spite of all of the corporate influence, must watch it, in all it’s weaknesses.
So why watch? Because there are still moments that are reminiscent of the original purpose of the games, especially when amateur underdogs from underfunded countries most people don’t hear about surprise the world with an excellent performance. Because I want both smaller countries to have a chance, and watch my own countrymen succeed. And, despite all of its faults, the Olympic Games is still one of, if not the single biggest international event wherein so many different cultures and nations and peoples gather together in peace. (Heaven forbid that change in Sochi.)
It’s still fun and still worth it, even though it ain’t what it used to be.
Which is why I won’t be boycotting the games, despite some of the virulent anti-gay views of the host country that have recently been codified by law.
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I support rights of homosexuals in all areas of life. That’s pretty much a deal breaker with me, and I haven’t set foot in Chik-Fil-Bigot since their whole anti-gay stance hit the fan. I wouldn’t watch Duck Dynasty even before their obvious bigotry was revealed, so I certainly won’t now. But I will watch the Sochi games.
Why? Because I don’t watch to support or endorse the host country. And it is not the athletes that have passed such laws. There are to be plenty of gay athletes in attendance at these games, some of whom are American. I can’t claim I wish Team USA well if I don’t watch them on TV, because their hosts are anti-gay. I watched the Bejing Summer games for the same reason in 2008, and I object to China’s civil rights record. (And to NBCs glossing over it during its coverage..declaring them the best games ever.)
If the International Olympic Committee were to ban homosexuals from competition, I would stop watching. And though I am concerned that the IOC chose such an intolerant nation as a host country this cycle, I’d never see Team USA or any other countries compete if by watching on TV I had to declare my support for the host nation’s every domestic policy.
Besides, there is something to be said for having them surrounded, as it were. If the world is filled with voices cheering on gay athletes as well as straight ones, that in my mind does more to counteract to vile policies in Russia than does refusing to acknowledge the games at all. This is about the world. About cooperation. About the people. I won’t toss that aside because I hate what the Russian government is doing.
I’ll boycott Russia, sure. Never had any real desire to go there anyway. But because I can’t blame the Olympians that I enjoy watching on the albeit lousy NBC coverage for the intolerance of Vladimir Putin, I can watch the Sochi Games with a clear conscience.
Though I will still mute Bob Costas when I can.
My Accidental First Date with Self-Publishing
Winners of the 2013 Nanowrimo, like me, were given a small promotional code to use on Createspace. (One of Amazon’s self-publishing setups for hard copies.) The code entitled the user to two free printed copies of their Nanowrimo book. I opted to avail myself of that option. I usually at least consider free stuff.
But I knew that even for free, publishing a first draft would be a bit of a waste. So I made it one of my goals for 2014 to clean up my Nano novel in a single revision, and have two free copies made of that. I could pass them around to friends and family to read throughout the year. Then I can decide if I’m going any further with it next year. And if not, I have two copies of it.
I finished the revision earlier than I thought I would, so I began the process of redeeming my two free copies. That’s when this minor, accidental adventure began.
You see by two free copies, I thought it would be an Office Depot kind of deal. I send them to .doc file, they print up what was there and bind it in some nice thick plastic rings or something. Saves me a trip and the 40 dollars. But no, as I got started I quickly realized that this code was for the whole deal; I was going to be flat out self-publishing my Nano book.
How did I get into all of this? I was in no way ready for it when I sat down a few evenings ago, thinking it would be one of my final things to do before shutting off my computer for the night. They weren’t kidding around here, and I thought I should perhaps abandon the whole idea, and make time this week to go to Office Depot. Maybe I could look at new computers while I was there. I’ve been putting that off, after all.
But free copies awaited me. So, I kept going, careful to choose only the most minimal, and free options.
I included no cover photo. I never thought It would have a cover, so I didn’t think about this. I chose a simple solid color. A nice earthy green.
Nor did I include an author photo for the back cover, another option. Once I saw how in depth this was, I opted to use a pen name, if only in case a copy of this book-like product should become lost. I’m happy with this novel but it’s in no condition to have my real name on it yet. I didn’t want it to be the first impression people would have of me as an author. So I thought of a pseudonym. A good one, I might add. Sounds like someone who would write this kind of book.
Then we got to ISBN numbers, and I almost gave up. Sounded like the deep end of the pond to me. But, there was a free option, wherein Createspace could assign me one. I took this, even though it means that in the unlikely event someone should look up the ISBN number, it will take them back to Createspace, and not my own imprint. I may pay the 300 dollars for my own ISBN if I self publish any “official” work of mine. But for these two free copies of a second draft of a Nano novel under a pen name, I figured an assigned ISBN would suffice.
Which means I had no publishing house logo to upload to the back of the book, so I skipped that, though it got me thinking what sort of logo I would use when the time came in the future.
Then it asked me for a quotation “about” my book, for the back cover. I was never sure if they meant a third party description, or literally a line from the book. So, I opted for one of the protagonist’s lines, and attributed it to him. Seemed like a good choice. Attention-getting and such.
Then the back-cover blurb. At first I’m thinking, “no big deal.” Just a sentence or two to let whichever family member who picks it up know what it’s about when they come by the house. Plus, even a minimalist cover design would look kind of silly with just a single quotation on the back. Something had to go back there.
Twenty minutes and seven drafts later I had a reasonable summary of the plot and tone of the piece. If I may be allowed to say so myself, I think what I came up with would work in a full publishing and marketing campaign, if ever I were to pursue one with this tiny book.
Then, to upload the file. Easy enough. But it takes a while for the site to “check” it for major problems. (I wonder if this is when Amazon also makes sure it isn’t erotica, which they have been cracking down upon lately.) Half hour or so later, I get an email. There are five problems with my file. Oh no. Time to break up?
Numbers and margins and gutters were mentioned. Believe it or not, not all writers are good typists, and I am one of the worst typists. The explanations might as well have been algebra, for what little I understood of them. All I knew was, my file’s words would not fit on the pages of the size of paperback they printed.
Now, I’m thinking, “why can’t you just make it smaller?” But in my mind I know that for many reasons surpassing my understanding, it isn’t that simple. I considered if I want to try to look up what all of this means, and reformat my file, or once again, just let it go and head on over to Office Depot.
But then, a golden option; I don’t remember the exact wording on the button, but the gist of it was, “We’ll see if we can resize it for you, if you want.”
Of course I want. This is for two free copies, after all. So I pushed it. A few minutes later, a new, reconfigured copy of my file emerged for download on the website’s dashboard. I was advised to check it out for any major mistakes. I downloaded it and did so. Other than having to fix a few stray carriage returns, it looked good to me. But would Createspeace accept its own reconfigured file?
A few minutes later, it did. After trying to get me to buy a hardcopy proof to have sent to me so I could double check, (nice try) it allowed me to review an electronic proof. All the words were on the page. All the chapter numbers in place. Looked good to me. I hit approve.
Then the snag. In order for me to continue, I had to set prices for the book, as well as choose distribution channels. Now I’m enjoying this date for the most part, but it’s a little early to be meeting her parents at home, you see what I mean?
I tried everything to move on without doing this, to no avail. I’d already spent about 90 minutes on something I thought I could whip up in 15, just to get two free copies of something. I hated the idea of shutting it all down now. Yet even with a pen name, this book is not ready to be advertised and sold and reviewed and such. And here I am giving my tax number and everything so I can report royalties.
Well, after not one, but two emails to customer service and a few days of waiting, the way was paved for me to just order my two copies, and not have to introduce an unpolished manuscript. And that’s exactly what I did.
And the code worked! How’s that for satisfaction? It’s right there on my receipt. They are in fact free. Five bucks for shipping, but that’s to be expected.
They are projected to arrive in just under two weeks. You can expect a sequel to this post so I can describe what the copies are like.
So, I’ve had my first date with self-publishing. There is no way the current edition is being sold to the public, in e-form or hard copy. Only two copies exist.(2). If I decide later on to do more with this title, I don’t have the slightest damn clue about how to change it or update it. I may in fact have made some severe mistakes for the future in that regard, I don’t know. But for all intents and purposes, and way before I thought I would, I have entered the world of self-publishing. To think I merely thought I was printing something for free.
The point of this silly story is that some of the mystique has been removed from the process. Now, I am well aware that when I put my real name on titles, (which I plan to do with some short stories this year), it will require more time, more effort, a bit of money and a steeper learning curve. I will have to be more picky and scientific when I “officially” try it. I know that when that time comes I will be driven somewhat insane with all of the details I have to tend to.
But after this experience, I don’t think I’ll be a deer caught in the headlights about it anymore. Perhaps a cat caught in the headlights; it will still stare up at you for a while and impede your progress. But it has enough sense to eventually decide it’s time to move on and let you pass without a whole lot of fanfare.
So, the whole accidental debut was a learning experience. Even if I don’t go with Createspace again, I’ll have an idea what it feels like on the most basic level. All because I was greedy for two free copies of something.
Another reason to finish Nanowrimo. It pays off, kids.
Open Letter to a Former “Family”
For the purposes of this open letter, the family to which it is addressed will be known as the “Morse Family”, Dana, Samantha and Alicia. —Ty
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Dear Morse Family,
I’ve got a few things to say to each of you and all of you today.
It’s been a while since I have heard from any of you, of course. Such is the way you chose it to be over the last several years. Again. Though this most recent ostracizing appears to have stuck for good, given that it’s been going on for about three years now. I wrote Alicia a brief hello about six months ago on Facebook, just to see what would happen. This despite her not following me anymore. I have received no reply, which is exactly what I expected. So I suppose after all these years, and one-sided disagreements to which I’ve never truly felt free to respond, the dismissal is permanent.
It remains somewhat disappointing when I think about it. But most recently it also seemed inevitable, given the pattern of our relationship. It’s become clear you are not what I thought you were initially, and as I result, I’m not broken up about this anymore.
But there was a time when I was, and that’s what I want to mention to you today.
At various times all three of you had said to me, “I love you,” or “you are a member of this family now,” or something equally welcoming and potentially life-changing. I never have and still don’t make that much of an impression on a family very often. So when a family says such things over and over, even a cautious introvert such as myself tends to take it seriously eventually. At least for a while.
But please let’s just be honest here, as we are all adults; you weren’t serious about it were you? Any of you. I’m not exactly saying you were lying, but you were probably a bit loose with your use of the words “love” and “family” right? You can admit that now. You aren’t the first people to exaggerate you affections.
Never mind how often you said it. Never mind that for years I would rearrange my schedule to attend your functions because of how much you “really wanted” me to be there. Never mind how you would beg me to stay behind late into the night after everyone else went home from the party because you always wanted more time just to talk to me. Never mind the individual gestures each of you made at any given time. It’s clear that despite the words, the actions didn’t always back it up when taken as a whole. If the feeling was there on your part, (and perhaps it was), it wasn’t as strong as you allowed me to believe it was, given how often you said it.
Some of that is on me I guess, but it wasn’t difficult to determine how I felt, either, and you could have acted closer to your reality if you had truly wanted to. If you think deep down about the things you said and what we went through sometimes, it becomes easy to deduce why someone might think you were sincere in what you said. (And I’m not the only person to have felt similarly duped by you, by the way. But that’s their letter to write, not mine.)
I’ll admit, I should have probably walked away sooner. Should have accepted what seemed clear to me in the various times I was dismissed from your life for reasons I barely understood and still barely understand.
I should have noted that despite your apparent enjoyment of my company over the years, you never accepted any of the invitations on my side. Never came to a play I was in unless one of your other friends was in it. Never went to any public events I said I would be attending. Never once walked the two blocks from the coffee house you were always visiting to my apartment to say hi, even after I told you I lived there.
In short, it seemed to me quite clear that I wasn’t worth as much effort on your end, as you were on mine. I could come visit and provide whatever entertainment or satisfaction I held in your eyes for a while, but you weren’t about to rearrange anything for me. That may not sound accurate, but I assure you, you never accepted any invitation that came from only me. Not once. There was always a supposed reason of course, but 0% is 0%.
I should have realized there was probably less behind the words than there appeared to be. Maybe I realized it, but was hoping I was wrong, so I kept visiting and spending time with you all.
I should have also realized this when you became the first, and to this day only group of people that ever accused me of excessive “inappropriate affections.” (If anything I’m seen as aloof and cold, thus driving people away.) I didn’t even know there was a problem until after weeks of my “adoptive family” not replying to my messages, Dana explained it all to me. If I laid a hand on a shoulder or a back or kissed a cheek when I left that made someone uncomfortable, it was unintentional, and only the result of feeling that yes, we had become “like family.” I apologized to you Dana, and I even attempted to make everyone feel secure by offering to not come around for a while until things cooled off, or to only ever meet up in large groups where I was unlikely to make the same mistakes.
Dana, your response to my attempt at contrition that day should have been another clue that I and your family were not meant to mesh. I guess I was simply supposed to accept your explanation, and leave it alone, or thank you for showing me the light. But your reality was so different from my own, that I wanted to address the hurt and the embarrassment I had caused you and the rest of the family.
But you didn’t accept my attempts. You berated me. Insulted me. Made me feel like a pervert and accused me of, and I quote “throwing shit up against a wall, just to see what sticks,” instead of owning up to my mistakes. In other words, I found my “adoptive family” both abandoning me and refusing to accept the best apology I knew how to give for mistakes I was trying to acknowledge.
When I then tried to apologize to Samantha or Alicia directly once I knew what happened, you messaged me with more anger, telling me I was trying to turn your own family against you. Was I not supposed to explain what I was thinking to them? Was I not to try to make it right with the very people I offended? And was I not supposed to mention I realized some things when I had spoken to you about it?
It was some of the deepest hurt and sense of betrayal I have ever felt, those years ago. And the calmer I tried to explain that there was a mistake, the more pissed and bitchy and nasty you got about it, until I said nothing.
Is that how you treat family? Is that how you treat someone you “love”, and someone who has attempted to be there for you in the best way he knows how during darker times? I suppose in your mind, that is the godly thing to do? In my mind, it was not, and is not. I attempted my apology over the incident even though I didn’t completely understand what I did. I never received yours, and of course, I know I never will. Even if we were still talking, you never were one to admit a mistake of that magnitude. None of you are, it seems to me.
Forgiving isn’t easy, but I know it is the right thing to try to do. Which is why a year later or so when you all slowly made your way back into my life, for the second time, (an incident that was less dramatic years earlier had also driven me away) I let the past alone, and began to hang out with you again. Message you again. Let you tell me you loved me, again. I thought I was being a good person for doing so. But I was a more careful person this time, and I think I may have paid a price for that as well.
Why did I allow you back into my life? I suppose I thought of all of the better times. Or all of the times when you showed trust in me. Like when Dana would vent to me for hours on end over AIM about how poorly her husband treated her, and her plans to divorce him. Or the time you all invited me and me alone to the single most awkward, uncomfortable dinner I have ever attended when said husband/father came back and began what you thought would be a reconciliation. A dinner to which I was given the impression several others had also been invited.
What in hell was I doing there?? In the end, I determined I was there because I was important. Because I was family, and you wanted me there for the start of what you thought was a reconciliation. I don’t know, for sure. I only know that once somebody has been made a part of such a strange moment, it’s hard to forget.
Maybe I allowed your return into my life because such things, and others, appeared to prove that I still mattered. That like any family we had gone through our issues, but had come out of them before, and could again.
But it was not to be, despite encouraging signs. Signs that looking back make me wonder what my place in your life actually was.
Samantha, what exactly did you mean when you repeatedly listed me as “best friend” on your various websites over the years, only to remove the title time and again? Or when you lamented I never came to see you at college? (Only to allow me just one visit once I finally did so?)
Or Alicia, what sort of person did you see me as when you personally invited me to your graduation ceremony, or sent me a birthday card a few years ago which read among other things:
“The truth is, special people don’t often get the recognition they deserve, but that’s not true today…Happy Birthday to one of my very good friends.”
Perhaps all of you still thought you saw me as important. Perhaps you thought you loved me again. Perhaps you were hoping I would become what in your minds was the shiniest version of me…a version I did not embrace. Perhaps you just found me entertaining like a favorite movie that could talk back to you, but like all movies you tire of is put on the shelf when better movies show up.
Perhaps it’s none of these things, or it’s all of them. But a hole remained. A hole that this time I could sense a bit more often, because I had become a bit more cautious, even though I still enjoyed being with all of you.
But there was an inconsistency I couldn’t ignore. A sort of bipolar nature to our relationship after your second return. Sometimes it would feel like it always did, and other times it felt like I was merely a casual acquaintance. What’s the reason for the dichotomy? Surely it can’t all be just my personal perception.
Samantha, perhaps you still considered me perverted, even as during one of my visits you opted to fold and sort your lingerie in front of me while we talked. I don’t consider that a sexual act per se, but certainly one that doesn’t jive with the “You need to be proper and appropriate” sermons I was given when I touched a shoulder or kissed a cheek years before.
Forget underwear, there were plenty of emotionally intimate conversations you instigated with me…when you required them.
Alicia, were you somehow concerned that I would reveal to other people your deep misgivings about your sister’s long-time boyfriend? Misgivings I shared, but which you later acted as though you never had?
Maybe you were all offended because I couldn’t make it to Samantha’s eventual wedding reception, and thought I was being flippant about it. (No Samantha, I neither approve nor disapprove of who you marry. Your love life was not and is not a high priority in my life, and I am not sure why you kept asking me the question when I had to decline the invitation. As though the only reason I could never make it to a wedding reception was out of protest to the wedding. (To which I was not invited.)
Or maybe, (but hopefully not), the final straw was when I wanted my last name pronounced properly.
A simple status line on Facebook was how it started, if you will recall. I mentioned how mindless it is to mispronounce my name, when it is easily sounded out. Samantha, you commented something to the effect of not understanding why everything was a big deal to me, and that my name’s pronunciation wasn’t straight forward. I told you it was a big deal because a name is all we have in the end, and that it was in fact quite straight-forward; you say it how is is spelled. Before long, you were sending me a nasty pre-emptive private message, (in a tone very similar to Dana’s from a few years earlier),
“please don’t email me another one of your long-winded explanations or apologies over this…I’m in no mood.”
Funny how you were in the mood to start the argument in the first place. Funny how you were in the mood to take umbrage over a comment that did not and never had applied to you anyway. Funny how I am the one you often accused of being negative and taking things too seriously, yet you were the one who chose to inject a dark cloud into something that strictly speaking wasn’t even a concern of yours.
It’s also funny how attempts to explain, or reconcile or just bring about peace between two “family” members was so often viewed as a negative to both you and your mother.
What is not so funny yet not so hard to believe is that within two days, you were no longer following me on Facebook, and had indeed erased all pictures and references to me on your page. Years worth. (To be fair, I then did the same, because why keep all that up?) I get the sense it was truly about more than mispronouncing my name, but of course I was never given a chance to find out, or to work to improve the situation, because I was deemed “long winded”.
(I would rather be long-winded in an attempt to apologize, than silent in the face of trouble I’d caused, as has been your means of operation, it would appear.)
By then, to tell you all the truth, I was more annoyed than hurt by what you did and said.
And by “you” I mean all Morses. I know I shouldn’t judge a whole family by how one treated me, and indeed Alicia and Dana continued to follow me on Facebook, technically. But with a family as tight knit and defensive as yours, it becomes difficult after so many years to see you all as separate people. This isn’t unique to you, but it is just as silly with you as any other family; a riff with one of you means a riff with all of you, and I just got tired of fighting an army who claimed one too many times that they loved me.
Not that you individual contributions to the pain weren’t significant. They were.
Almost a year after Samantha gave up on me, Alicia, after one or two more messages, you stopped following me on Facebook as well. Naturally no reason why was given. There never is. I acknowledge you held out a bit longer, but I assume you couldn’t find it in yourself to be friends with someone your sister suddenly despised. Your turning your back was more of a disappointment though, even all the years later, I will admit. That is because I think on some level I always related to, understood, and appreciated you the most out of your entire family. But of course for a time, I thought I loved you all.
Dana, you never stopped following me on Facebook, it’s true. I stopped following you, at last, a few years later. You had only sent me a message once in about two years, and I just felt that in the end you probably were not far behind in unfollowing me, given that all the other Morses had done so. I suppose dropping you from my timeline gave me a small sense of control for a change. For once, in the repeating and (by me) poorly understood clashing between myself and the souls that make up your clan, I was able to decide for myself that something was over, officially.
Even after all of this pain and confusion, I don’t consider you bad people, per se. I do think you’re quite quick on the draw sometimes, and aren’t as honest about you feeling as you should be, with either yourselves or others. Dana and Samantha, you can both be highly defensive, rude, and cutting with your responses to people’s foibles when they affect you, and unwilling to talk things out. Alicia, you can sometimes be too passive in the face of things you probably could stand up against a bit when your family is involved. These traits probably in the end contributed to our split, (albeit it not a split I would have required.)
I would have liked to have had more chances to laugh with all of you. To get to know you all as you entered different stages in your lives. To explain my oddities as opposed to having to defend myself against them so often. I would have liked to have seen where our relationship could have gone without so many short fuses and snap judgements. I think about what could have been sometimes.
But in the end, I’ve accepted your choice to write me off. I frankly think it makes you smaller people than you need to be, but people are going to do what people are going to do, and you’ve decided what you want to be.
Yes, I may be more sensitive than some people, and I have acknowledged, or at least tried to acknowledge the times when that may have gotten the better of me. But I respect myself too much to take total responsibility for our problems. In the end, in spirit, it was you who chose to be rid of me and not the other way around.
I don’t mourn your absence, I have to say. I regret and apologize for whatever pain or offense I may have unintentionally caused any and all of you, but I don’t lose sleep over it anymore. And though I can’t say I love any of you now, and part of me will always be hurt by some of the ways you treated me, I don’t wish any of you ill. I suppose, for a brief moment, I can even thank you for the laughs. A very brief moment.
I’m sure I will sometimes still think of you, albeit casually. Will any of you think of me with anything other than contempt in years to come?
Enjoy your journey, whatever it is you want it to be.
sincerely, Ty Unglebower
This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
Fictional Tour: The Little Dionysus Playhouse
This year I will begin the publishing process for my first novel, Flowers of Dionysus. Whichever version of that undertaking I choose to pursue, I must talk about my novel more often than I have been. I will be doing so on this blog and Twitter throughout the year, starting with a brief tour of the novel’s main setting: The Little Dionysus Playhouse.
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Known to just about everyone in the area merely as the L.D.P., the Little Dionysus Playhouse has been in operation in its current location as a community theatre for over 70 years. (Going dark only for a few years during World War II.) One enters the front of the building via a set of sturdy glass doors.
Inside, flanking the doors, are two large oil paintings. One is of the original donor of the building. The other is of Dionysus, the ancient Greek god of theatre. Both paintings dominate the otherwise small lobby, which also contains the public bathrooms, a small gallery area, and an old-fashioned ticket counter. Off to the right a small staircase that leads upstairs to the tiny office of the LDP’s president. Swinging doors nearby lead into the house of the theatre.
The house is not so little, by theater standards, seating about 250 people in seats divided into three sections by way of two aisles. To the right, as one enters is a small door most people miss. Behind this door, a spiraling metal staircase that leads up to the light and sound rooms as well as the catwalk above the house.
If one walks down the right-hand aisle to the front of the house, one will find another door, just off to the side of the stage steps. Through this door is one of the LDP’s most unique features. (To some, it’s more of a design flaw.) This is The Funnel.
The Funnel is a long hallway, lined with a few shelves for storing tools and other paraphernalia. Its named is derived from the words painted in blue near the top of one of its brick walls. “The Funnel”, it says. The origins and meaning of the graffiti are unknown, but it has been there as long as anyone remembers, and is left undisturbed.
An opening about halfway down the funnel leads to the backstage area. Further down, a door to the boiler room and other such facilities. At the end of the Funnel opposite where we entered on this virtual tour is more modern door. This is the door to the green room.
It’s the envy of many community theaters in the area because of its size; it takes up the most of the building’s entire width. (Having been added to the original building in the early 1970’s to replace the much smaller area damaged by fire.)
In this green room, as in so many green rooms all over the theatre world are old chairs, couches, shelves, a tiny kitchenette with sink and coffee pot. Grey and white tiled floor.
Off to the side is the backdoor of the LDP. It leads outside to an adjacent public parking lot. The vast majority of time, actors and crew enter and exit the premises through this door, as oppose to the front door.
Two tiny doors near the front of the green room lead to the claustrophobic costume “shop”, and the one-room “workshop” such as it is, though much actual set-building is done on stage where there is room.
In the back of the green room is another door, behind which is the extreme back of the entire building. A corridor containing the dressing rooms: the ladies just as you enter, and the men’s at the far end. Both dressing rooms are nondescript.
Like all community theatres, the LDP at times has struggled with funding and a declining interest in theatre as a whole. Still, it remains one of the area’s most popular and beloved sources of theatre and other inexpensive artistic endeavors.
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You’ll be able to follow some of the adventures that happen at the Little Dionysus Playhouse in a series of short stories about it I will publish in the intermediate future, and of course in my upcoming novel, Flowers of Dionysus.
The Open Letter Continuum
Today I’m announcing a project on this blog for 2014. I’m calling it the Open Letter Continuum.
It’s been said that writing a letter to certain people, even if they cannot or will not read it, provides psychological benefits to the writer. This is especially true when the recipient hurt the writer in some way, though sometimes writing to someone one has hurt in the past is equally cathartic, I’d imagine.
I will be doing both. Every third Thursday, (and possibly more often, depending on how I feel), I’ll be posting an open letter to someone from whom I desire some kind of closure, reconciliation, or acknowledgement. Which means in most, (but not all) cases I either no longer have a relationship with the recipient, or never truly did. In some cases, I’ll be writing the letter to a more nebulous concept of people, as opposed to a specific person. There will be questions, thank yous, apologies, explanations, and here and there perhaps a one-way, “hello. I miss you.”
The recipients will remain officially anonymous of course. But I won’t promise that their identities will never be deduced, should certain people happen to read them. This means of course that some of these letters may cause a few shock-waves in my personal life. While I write none of these with the intention of offending anyone, the time has come in my life to deal with certain things in my own way, and allow the chips to fall. The truth is, that is how many of these recipients of these letters have handled me, so in some ways it is to be expected. Not revenge, but possibly karma. Call it what you will, it will be true to my needs first this time.
That being said, if I can’t write a specific letter without it being obvious to the world exactly who it is intended for, I will probably refrain from publishing.
The recipients of these letters come from all walks of my life, and from all time periods. I am deliberately publishing them outside of chronological order. I feel each will stand on its own better if readers aren’t trying to construct a narrative through the letters.
Why make them public? Why not just write these letters privately and destroy them when complete, as most people do when pursuing this exercise?
One reason is, over the years I’ve had to swallow enough of my injuries and worries, and put on a happy face. Or at least a non-expressive face. There is something to be said for shouldering one’s own burdens, and I’ve become, by force, an expert at it. But if sharing on this blog at least a fraction of what it felt like in certain circumstances makes that load any lighter, I’m willing to do so at this point in my life. After all, it should encumber nobody else; one is always free to not read these anonymous letters.
There is a certain accountability in doing this in public, as well. If I kept all of this private, I could easily keep it inside and tell myself, “you know what you’d say, no use in saying it on paper.” Then I receive no benefits at all. Having to compose my feelings here, even though they are directed to specific people means each letter, and hence each attempt at connecting with that part of my past, is tangible. I have to face it full out, or not bother.
Also, though some of these letters will be light-hearted and many of them will be someone dark and/or painful, all of them in some way have shaped who I am to this day. Reading them will provide my readers with a more in depth understanding of some aspects of myself.
None of this is to say that I’ve not dealt with any of the issues I will bring up in the letters. I have, in most cases. So please don’t think as you read these throughout the year that I haven’t let go of anything in my life. I have. But I’ve decided that in the end the potential for good results outweighs the potential for bad in this exercise. Who knows? I may not have let go of some things as much as I think I have.
So join me this year, starting a week from today, in my journey to address the “unaddressable”, to go back and mend at least my part of the past, to look inside myself at what has hurt me, and to see what comes of my perspective on the other side.
This is the Open Letter Continuum, and I’m about to enter it.
Ty Unglebower 