Kirk Lynn
I started writing plays while an undergrad, and professor Frank Whigham suggested I apply to Shakespeare at Winedale, more as a crash course in theatre than a study of Shakespeare. I went to be “interviewed” by Doc, but instead of asking me questions Doc just said, “Tell me about yourself,” then sat there, silent as a stone. I spoke for a while and then paused. Nothing from Doc. Not a “thanks for your time,” not an invitation to continue. I spoke some more, paused. Same thing. I got angry and thought, “Fuck it. I’ll see how much this guy can handle.” I started telling Doc about every book I’d ever read, every drink I’d ever drunk, every rap album that moved me. But, of course, Doc won the battle. I finally ran out of babble. Who was I kidding? This guy can listen to kids perform Pericles. My best banter can’t even approach that level of logorrhea. I left his office, fumed off to my next class, then stomped my sandals back to Dr. Whigham to ask, “Why did you recommend that asshole?” Dr. Whigham told me that Doc had just come by to ask the same thing. When Doc is on, his Zen is superb.
I was accepted to Shakespeare at Winedale and learned more than literature through performance or the basics of theatre production. I played the ghost of Hamlet’s father to Lana Lesley’s Hamlet and Madge Darlington’s Horatio. I discovered that there is a kind of person that I can work with, drink with, argue with, and never feel anything less than love for. Theatre is a particular fetish for long hours which offer nothing more than long odds on no better prize than obscurity. It is a ludicrous proposal that Shakespeare either can or should be performed by kids in a hick town in Texas at the height of the summer’s battering heat. The spirit of that proposal lives on in the Rude Mechs’ hope that the American avant-garde theatre can and should have home in Austin, Texas. – Kirk Lynn; ’93
This article appears in July 23 • 2004.