I Was Shot In The Wrist When

All That Stuff About My Father And My Childhood Is Interesting Up To A Certain Point, But I Kind Of Capsized With The Family Drama A Long Time Ago. Now I Want To Get Away From That. Not That I Won't Return To It, But A Certain Element Has Been Exhausted, And It Feels Like Why Regurgitate All This Stuff?

When You Consider All The Writers Who Never Even Had A Machine. Who Would Have Given An Eyeball For A Good Typewriter. Any Typewriter. All The Ones Who Wrote On A Matchbook Covers. Paper Bags. Toilet Paper. Who Had Their Writing Destroyed By Their Jailers. Who Persisted Beyond All Odds.

Words Are Tools Of Imagery In Motion.

The California I Knew, Old Rancho California, Is Gone. It Just Doesn't Exist, Except Maybe In Little Pockets. I Lived On The Edge Of The Mojave Desert, An Area That Used To Be Farm Country. There Were All These Fresh-produce Stands With Avocados And Date Palms. You Could Get A Dozen Artichokes For A Buck Or Something. Totally Wiped Out Now.

I've Come To Feel That If I Can't Make Something Happen In Under An Hour And A Half, It's Not Going To Happen In A Compelling Way In A Three-hour Play.