I have mentioned the thought processes of my writing on more than one occasion. Something catches my eye, I bombard the idea with questions, and I try and write my way out with the answers.
One of the questions that I often ask is: “Can I masturbate to that?”
Don’t act so shocked; you know what my plays are about. Writers throw every kind of passion at an idea that might be worth it. That’s a type of passion. Right? And last night, I had a more specific question:
Is it wrong to masturbate to pictures of dead female GIs in Iraq?
I can’t deny, I love a woman in uniform. And here we have three sisters in uniform, one of them recently deceased. She gave her life serving our country. Should she also serve my le petit mort? How does that honor the dead?
This ties a bit into my disappointment with the plays that spun out of (and will probably continue to spin out of) September 11, 2001. After reading articles such as “Sex in a Time of Terror” and “The Kitschification of September 11”, which highlight the sexual and fetishistic expressions that arose following the attacks, I wanted there to be a theatrical representation of the same ideas. What we got was boring, solemn words and Sigourney Weaver. (To be fair, Omnium Gatherum, which I’ve heard mixed things about, at least acknowledged how ridiculous these solemn words can be.)
For the past few months, I have been considering writing my own play, one that would illustrate a direct sexual fascination with September 11. About someone who only desires the FDNY. Someone who’s made themselves a widow without losing anyone.
This person never fully formed in my head, but she may not have to. Morbid sexuality is just as applicable to 2004 as to 2001. But is it applicable to dead GIs? There’s only one way to find out. I’ll keep asking my questions.
Fun Trivia Fact: Back in 1998, I made out in the movie theatre during Saving Private Ryan. It’s only one step above Jerry Seinfeld on the scale of respectability.