THERE IS ONLY ONE DRAMA. . .

. . . the likes of which is that real, live phenomena within the human being! The production of a well constructed play evokes this phenomena, so that you and I can say, "Ahh! That's good!"

Hey!
That "Ahh! . . . good!" is not up there on the stage! That "Ahh! . . . good!" is within you! Something has been awakened in you!

A well crafted play has all of those elements that are absolutely essential for awakening the drama within, so that. . . you. . . and. . . I. . . will. . . feel. . . rocked!

The first notice I have that something is going right up there on the stage is a feeling (a feeling! not an idea!) in my torso that. . . I. . . am. . . being. . . ROCKED!

Those pleasant, little, pedestrian, drawing room dramas! That's not drama! The awakening of all the attendant feelings and sensations and thoughts that populate the soul of the viewer is only possible with a well made, well crafted, well designed, well staged production, the main ingredient of which is Right!
Right in an absolute sense! None of this mish-mash of half-right & half-wrong! None of this snivelling, "Oh, it's more complicated than that"! None of this, "We'd better do what the paying audience wants. . . Give the customer what it wants. . ."!

There is only one Right! And there is only one Drama! And there is only one Me!

When the Protagonist struggles to do what is right. . . when he tries (just tries, that's all I ask) to do what is right, then does the drama stir inside the hearts of the men and women in the audience. "Yes," they whisper. "Try. . . try to do what is right. . . ."

Then comes the Antagonist, who, with all his cunning, smolders, "I shall destroy you!"

This clash is a terrible, awful thing to behold. A spectacle so searing that I shield my eyes. The words pour from their mouths: Oaths! Vindictives! Vulgar expressions! Lies! Traitorous stumblings! The tears, the gnashing of teeth! They are my tears! My teeth! Yet cling I to hope as my hero climbs yet higher on his assension to the final summit with that damnable, diabolical villian grasping at his ankles to pull him down.

"Climb higher!" I shout, oblivious of those sitting next to me in the audience.

I hear a woman twenty rows back in the upper balcony gasp, "He falls!" The rest of us pick up her terror and choke our breath.

"He falls," I manage to sqeeze out. "My hero falls," as I grasp the armrests of my seat. The audience, as one, strains foreward as if we could catch him, yet knowing that we are in the hands of a master dramatist who will not let us have our way, this evening.

The curtain falls. The end of Act I. Or is it Act II? I don't know! I sit there stunned. I cannot, I will not applaud. I cannot move. I despise this playwrite! I hate him! I. . . have. . . been. . . . . R O C K E D

Do you hear me, Lehman! Infidel that ye are? What are ye writing, now? A play so full of filth and dispicable characters. A play swimming in lusts and greed and slovenly hatred. Is murder and rape, betrayal and snitching, unrequited love, a drunken lout of a father, adultary and lurid seduction, broken promises to a son, a daughter, the best you can throw at my hero! Then do so, and let's have at the last Act! I'll watch you smile, you blaggard you, as you breathe new life into your protagonist, raise him from the depth of his dispair, envelope him in light and storm and then launch him into the light that's brighter than ten-thousand suns, into the music of the spheres playing up, into the Word that no one can or should ever utter here on earth!

You let her down, your mother, that is. You were her hero, you know. Go ahead, I dare you. I will you to be a bold player upon that stage!

Drama! That's for me! That is me!