PLAYWRIGHTS HORIZONS
Perspective

I never know why I write a certain play – I just know it becomes time to write one. When that happens, when something inside me starts murmuring "c'mon, c'mon," I open a file folder on my laptop and label it "New Play" or "Do This" or "Notes" or sometimes a title announces itself to me and that's why I know it's time to get to work. This time I labeled the folder "The Drunken City."

I was reading The Complete Idiot's Guide to Hinduism – according to it, the Hindus believe the whole world is alive and breathing, even the stones and the air, and I could understand that – because when I walk through New York City I can feel the city itself throwing me around, pushing and pulling at me, making me look at things I would never notice. And I see how the city pushes tourists over to Times Square where it captures them and hypnotizes them with lights and noise and dizzies them with dreams, and gobbles them up. And I live near Ninth Ave in Hell's Kitchen where at night the lights sparkle and the cabs zoom by and the bars are full and the sidewalks are packed with people, laughing and flirting and tipsy and shouting. And the city feels drunk.

There's a dramatic truism that when a character in a play is drunk he or she will be the truth-teller. So I thought – "Hey, why not write a play where everyone is drunk – that way truth'll be flying everywhich everywhere." And then I thought, "Plus it'll be funny because drunk girls are funny and I'm gonna write about some girls in the city." And "Plus there can be dancing because drunk people like to dance." "Plus some of it could be sad because when people get drunk, lots of times they end up sad." But mostly I thought "If everyone is drunk, and the world is drunk, who knows what'll happen and that's usually a good start."

And: one day I realized that I lie all the time. So many of my opinions, that I speak strongly, are borrowed, or elaborated from small resentments; something is "no good" because a friend or a teacher said so, or because it bored me once and from that I've grown an opinion. If I were ever to tell the truth, I'd have to admit much of what I say comes from a momentary passion (now passed) and I should take it back. "No, I lied" – I should say – just so you would know and so I could get closer to myself, the true self that sits somewhere behind the walls and gates and barriers my fear and vanity are always building up around it.

Behind this dishonesty waits the shocking thought: "I've been alone all this time." What I thought was love was really solitary – an idle chat with some other fellow I thought I loved – all because I have never been careful enough with the truth. Have I ever really talked to anyone else?

I keep hoping to learn how to tell the truth. That is why I write plays. There are those beautiful moments, when we are all together, because some voice has talked to us all, and we have all heard it, and we have been drawn into a true conversation. Art can do that, create a joyful voice that more than one can hear and respond to. "I hear that" – I whisper – "So do I" – says another – and suddenly we are all together. Feels very worthwhile to search for those moments.

Oh and one more thing: I love the story of Beatrice and Benedict from Much Ado About Nothing. Two seemingly ill-matched (or perhaps too well-matched) lovers are surprised to discover each other as their friends careen around them, yelling and fighting. There is a sweet satisfaction to their story that I recognize as a gay guy – while the rest of the world is living out its important dramas – I watch my friends quietly falling in love and standing next to each other.

- Adam Bock
January 2008