Hey, gang. I’ve been run clean off my feet for a few weeks, so I can’t write for very long; but not writing at all, for the 17th time in a row, seemed like a poor call to me. “This is a poor call,” I said to myself, and also “Stop being a weiner.”
Today I compared the noise my brain’s been making, of late, to the sound a box of paper clips makes when shaken:
[As low as $6.79 a pack when you buy five or more]
Chief among the foot-running-off-of was the ten-minute play festival I just finished up on Sunday night. This is my third summer of writing a play for this particular festival; however, I did not perform in my other plays, and that is another kettle of sea turtles or whatever. Writers can show up to a few rehearsals, stick their oar in hither and yon–“What are you doing? Don’t do that”–and then sashay into opening night whistling Dixie!
PLAYWRIGHT: Just say my lines, you lot!
[Adjusts clasp on ruby necklace]*
Performing is a different matter altogether; it is a haul, if a beloved haul, and I had forgot. On Saturday night, onstage and seated beneath a low table, for our second show of the evening, my neck bent double, and all of this because I had chosen to write a character who was a talking psychic vase, and more–that I had volunteered to play this role myself; let us simply say that the whole matter ceased to resemble a “lark” and began to resemble a “fork in the eye”.
The rest of the time, though, it was SUPER fun!
*These are jokes
I had tremendous bunches of things I wanted to jabber about–whole lists–but that is for next week. For this week, I say good night.
Did you know that the color of a valuable ruby is called “pigeon blood-red”? What is THAT? I don’t understand ANYTHING.
PIGEONS EVERYWHERE: You and me both, sister.
I said this: would you give me back my hope
if I suffered hard enough, if I tried.
That hip-swinging hallelujah of hope,
that hip-hip-hooray we were talking about,
raying outward from the hip or the heart,
holistic, holy–those were all high things–
hyper-radical and hyper-real,
that gospel of helix and radiance.
Hail me, hail me, here I am alive,
falling from the lips of the lioness,
lambent and loved, gamboling like a lamb,
having gambled all my griefs and lost them.
Game of the gods, gamine of the cards,
inhaler of hashish and helium.
Here was the hub of the halo again,
the hub or nub of the halo or heart,
and the trope of turning to say hello;
we always said it “helio-hello”.
Hello to the little girl and lambkin,
garrulous, hilarious, all grown up,
nibbling on nothing and feeling okay,
and sweetly holding hands with the harpist,
turning toward the sun, turning toward the sound
–my warp of the world, my harp of the heart–
sounding like myself, as I always sound,
snappy and stylish and too sonorous,
a little savage and a little sweet.