I’m having visions of a drama … with no time to write it.
President Elect Barack Obama is the backdrop, working diligently to write America’s best-ever Inaugural speech. He is not center stage, but above the foray, suspended on a platform, writing late into the night.
There’s a white line down the center of the stage. On the left, white people come to a desk and write their own speeches about Obama and the Inaugural spectacle that’s coming. Of course they think out loud, and we are voyeurs into their thoughts and feelings.
On the right of center stage, we have blacks also expressing the most intimate thoughts of their hearts and minds, as the Inauguration approaches.
The actors read to us … for hours and hours and hours. Perhaps the play goes on all weekend, but hopefully not years. At some point, even the writers understand that the words have become redundant and rather empty-headed.
We must give peace a chance.
In my play, there is a high drama moment.
Is it Obama’s Inaugural speech? I’m not feeling that part. There are other options for the necessary dramatic combustion moment … and they would kill me.
We are watching a national catharsis … up close and personal … . and it’s not Tina Fey “live from New York; on Saturday night”.
The audience becomes restless and emotional. My play is working.
The stage hands respond, giving brushes to everyone in the audience, because the line actually runs down the stage, into the theater seats, out the front door onto West 44th Street, over to Eight Avenue, up to Harlem, across the Washington Bridge, onto Route 80, west to Scranton, then Denver, and finally into the Pacific.
Latinos, Asians, Europeans … they all keep quiet, or pick up a brush. This really isn’t their play, sorry.
I don’t know the end yet of my drama. I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.