Mike Daisey’s new monologue piece is 24 hours long. Not 24 minutes, not an hour and 24 minutes, not 2.4 hours — 24 hours. I would like to see that (so long as there are bathroom breaks — for my sake and for his).

Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s in Portland, OR ( that seems easily overcome, with a plane ticket). But, also, I’ve got tickets for a different show, one that is conveniently located closer than Portland, OR. In fact, it’s right here in my town of Burbank, CA. But what is it about September 17th anyway? That’s when Daisey’s piece is, but it’s also when my friends the Burglars of Hamm are putting on their new show for — you guessed it — one night only. Where were these other events before  I landed these other tickets? Or is it that the very act of booking something somehow ensures that other opportunities crop up for that very same date?

By the way, I’m on Mike Daisey’s email list. Here’s what he had to say about why one would want to do a 24-hour-long show. I admire his pluck.

Hello All,

We’ve been quiet this summer, preparing for the largest show of our lives. This is the culmination of years of work, and the fulfillment of an insane dream. ALL THE HOURS IN THE DAY is a 24 hour monologue which I will perform for the first time next month as the finale of the T:BA Festival in Portland.

Answers to a few FAQs: Yes, this is real. No, it is not a stunt. Yes, it really is 24 hours long. No, I am not kidding.

When people learn the show will be a full day in length, they often express shock and incredulity. Some, in the context of an arts festival, experience a feeling of loss…they exclaim, “But how can I watch a twenty-four hour show!” in a surprised tone, almost pleading, a tone that speaks of collecting and owning and coveting. Because we have been trained to possess the art we see.

I saw Star Wars at a movie theater as a child–it was the first indelible mark a work of art made inside me. I can still remember Luke staring out at the double sunset, and when I remember it, I see it now as a prism–I remember seeing it as a child, I remember seeing it again and again on laserdisc, betamax, VHS, late night screenings in college, pirated DVDs, back in the theaters scarred by Lucas’ digital fuckery, in hi-def, via bittorrent. I have just now gone to the net and watched that scene again…it is always at my fingertips. There is a version where the keyboard cat plays Luke off the screen. There is a version where someone has dubbed in terrible dance music. There is every version we can imagine.

What we long for is the version lost to us–the original story, the story that is larger than ourselves. The way a movie stops playing at the theater, and can only be resurrected by retelling until it is finally our own. A story so large that we struggle to contain it, and in that struggle remember that the point of this exercise, this theater, was to create a charged circumstance where we come together to create a community, a ritual that cracks open the boundaries of our life and lets the light in from outside. That sense of wonder. That awe. Two suns turning red against the fall of night.

If you are reading this, I can not know you. But I know you live on this earth, and have spent several thousand days doing so. None of us knows how many days we will have, how the hours are marked for each of us, what that merciless terminator line swinging from day into night holds in its hands. What could one day mean for any of us? What could we learn together if we cracked that door?

Scheherazade told her stories for the same reason we all do–to save her life.

Please join us for what I hope will be a remarkable day.

Be seeing you,

md

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This entry was posted on Sunday, September 4th, 2011 at 12:57 pm and is filed under Theatre. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.