She gives me holy hell when I trim Elvis’ whiskers. That’s how
they fit through things. Potatoes for breakfast & whatever else she
feels like eating, skinny, you’re falling away to a ton, ha ha, I total
the bike, Dr. Litvak cleans the pebbles from my knee, stitches the
skin closed over the bone, holy Mary mother of god, we’re Jewish
but that’s what we say, that’s what the Garibaldis say, holy Mary,
Jayne’s essay, “The Dramaturgy of Audience: Jayne Benjulian goes to the Theater as a Civilian,” appears at HowlRound:
The last time I wrote for HowlRound, in October 2011, I was director of new play development at a theater. Since then, I have turned to the work of solitary writing. I have been in a kind of self-imposed exile learning again to write poetry, earning an MFA and assembling a manuscript of poems. Recently, after lunch with a mentor, I found myself in Philadelphia with nothing to do and no one to call. I bought a ticket to the Wilma Theater—and I emphasize that I paid for a theater ticket. I was too shy and too reluctant to call in favors for an industry ticket. And then, it dawned on me that I was presented with a gift: I might go to the theater as a civilian and see what it was like …[Keep Reading]…
Alumni Geoff Kronik’s (fiction, ’12) piece appears in the 2012 “Howlympics” column at HowlRound: A Journal of the Theater Commons.
My Olympic History
It was 1968, and in the underoxygenated heights of Mexico City, sprinters rocketed, marathoners gasped, Bob Beamon soared, and Fosbury flopped. At six years old, watching my first Olympics on my parents’ black-and-white televison, I was as captivated by athletics as I was ignorant of political gestures like the famous black power salute. I was also ignorant of the Games’ quadrennial calendar: my father traumatized me with news of a mandatory wait until 1972, which seemed as distant to me as 1984 did in Orwell’s time.
When the Munich games finally arrived, ignorance of political action was no longer possible. I saw the grainy death-mask photo that has become the face of that Olympiad, and I heard Jim McKay’s elegiac reporting that so contrasts with the shrillness of news today. 1972’s ten-year-old was less assaulted by media than today’s kids are, and I thus had a better chance of intact innocence, but I understood something of timeless horror had occurred. And yet, at an impressionable age, I did not conflate the Games with evil...[Keep Reading]…