"Sorrowful and great is the artist's destiny."

This observation by Franz Liszt, the 19th century composer, came to mind as I sat quite alone in a darkened theater on September 15. The Bowen McCauley Dance company, having made its way from Arlington, Virginia to Indianapolis to keep its engagement at the Park Tudor School, was allowing me to sit in on a run-through rehearsal.

Later, across the city, I was part of a capacity audience at the Pike [High School] Performing Arts Center, attending the scheduled Swing Dance, America concert backed by George Gee's Jump, Jive and Wailers swing band. Over two dozen artists had motored from New York City to Indianapolis for the opening of Pike's fifth anniversary season.

The evening before, I had driven to Dayton, OH to attend the Human Race Theatre's production of Over the River and Through the Woods by Joe DiPietro.

The evening before that, I was in attendance at the Harrison Centre for the Arts in Indianapolis, directing my new play, People of the Turtle, in production with the Indiana American Indian Theatre Company.

It's a typical work schedule for me as a free-lance arts critic and playwright. Yet, it was surreal—and still is—as I go through the motions of being who I am—a working artist in the hinterland, away from the buzz and rush of New York City. It's not usual for me to attend interdenominational services to pray for the well-being of families suddenly stricken with unfathomable pain and loss.

The phone rings continuously with people checking if I've heard from a mutual acquaintance or reporting on the status of friends who had reason to be in "that" area of The City on September 11. Others call to vent feelings of anger and frustration; to ask if I have figured out "how such a thing can happen in this country"; to seek reassurance that we can go about our business in some semblance of safety; to help them figure out what to say to their children who want to know what buildings in Indianapolis will be blown up.

Gas prices, food prices suddenly soar. It makes me angry. I seek solace and wisdom in Brecht's Mother Courage. Why should I expect people to be any kinder now than before?

We ask "how" this could happen when we should be asking, "Why have we come so far that it had to happen?" In a nation where most of us have gotten in the habit of keeping up with current events via the late night shows, live coverage of catastrophe isn't what we're into. There isn't anyone barbing his way through the thicket of incomprehensibility.

I ask myself, over and over: What more should I, as a playwright, have done to bring attention to a powder keg waiting to ignite? I had done a play based on the ancient story of Sarah and Hagar. Part of a city-wide "Spirit and Place Festival" several years ago, the play was a way to bring together people of all faiths to talk about their ancestral animosities toward each other—to begin to build communication. The hints of frustration alerted me to problems beyond the confines of Indianapolis. But no one elsewhere was interested in a play that bares the cleavage between descendants of the same father and very differing mothers who, in the play, recognize calamity is imminent and beg for respectful peace between off-spring of their sons. Why does no one want to present a play that touches on ways to bring about peace? Why do producers prefer shoot 'em ups and shout 'em downs?

My son, the classicist, directs me to Aristophanes. To get attention, now as then, must one go beyond civil intercourse to the ribald: Lampoon the leaders; do not try to override their oversights with intellect.

And so, when I'm asked, "What are we going to do about this horrible mess?" I have to decide—Do I keep the gentle voice of a Fred Rogers, or do I take a page from Aristophanes?

Do I show the quiet, courageous acts I've witnessed during these days of trial, the steadfastness to carry on, to reach out and be caring? Do I pull, from memory, my own loss of security at the moment of Pearl Harbor and provide a context for a contemporary kindergartner? Do I continue to highlight my themes of respecting—not merely tolerating—diversity; of replacing history-as-usual with ethnohistory to show how the majority needs to see themselves as others see them so that policies and practices can undergo revision?

As an artist, it's no longer business as usual. I need to confront the situation and my way of working to bring not only healing but reassurance. If the work of an artist is to show the way—reveal what is hidden, propel people to meaningful action—the voice may need to be projected differently.