Reading of play on 4/22 Taking a few weeks off

We are doing a reading of Amour Americain on Sunday, April 22 so I have to keep my mind on that and not new work. Will return to the steady drip, drip, drip of Reinhard on the 23 unless I realize I have to completely rewrite the monster AA.

Late At Night with a Touch of Brandy

Sue is, in no one’s wildest dreams, a prize.

There is no balm or cream that can disguise,

The tiny wrinkles that surround my eyes.

Alas, no bounce will ever lift my boobs;

Eggs do not traverse fallopian tubes;

And K-Y must provide all needed lubes.

My shape now most resembles a fat duck,

And I move not like Jagger, but like a truck.

This verse is the sole place I’ll see a “fuck”.

Alas, all I can now give you is brains,

And a laugh or two as my rhyming strains,

As I strive to turn lead into refrains.

Yet, I know I still have things to offer,

Even though the boys don’t want to boff her:

She still has a few coins in her coffer.

A Sonnet From Amour Americaine

A part I am of all the stars and heavens,

And like the Eagle, I am pure as light.

My true heart is broken into sevens

One for every Ocean, blue and white.

Amusing now that Death is my dear friend.

Never far…waiting to fulfill his task.

I will be joyful to see journey’s end.

And drop away this sinful being’s mask.

I’ve seen too much of hunger and of want

Folks with no blanket sleeping on the ground

Desperate as animals on the hunt.

Praying that Jesus’s mercy is found.

Yet, I’m content living among those fools.

Who are, in Heaven’s eyes, the precious jewels.

The New Opening To 'Amour Americaine'

Bit distracted by the upcoming reading of the big play. So, to put something on the blog, here is the new opening to the play.

SIRIANA

Once upon a time, a female writer met a male artist and was dazzled by his amazing talent and beautiful hands. Alas, he told her that he could never love her because she was “too short.” With no choice but to accept this, she left him and returned to her home. But one night at one a.m., she sat straight up in her bed and spoke one word…”Cyrano!” Believe it or not, there had never been a female “Cyrano de Bergerac”, because it’s rude to call a woman “ugly”…but you can call her “crippled.”

(A cane is tossed on stage. She catches it.)

SIRIANA

She can have Multiple Sclerosis and be six inches too short. And thus, I was born…Siriana D. Bergmann…Professor of English Literature at New York University. Now, how do you adapt the rest of the roles, you may ask? Well, let Le Bret still be my best friend, but make him a lady called “The Brit”. Ragueneau, the French boulanger is now Raganno, the Italian baker. Ligniere has been redubbed Lee Genet. The Count De Guiche can be equally evil as Ceci Guisse. Montfleury has become Maria Flowers and the handsome Christian De Neuvillette, Cyrano’s rival, is now the beautiful Chrissie Newsome, the little bitch who steals my man. And then, there’s the biggest challenge…a male equivalent of Cyrano’s secret love…Roxane….

(Light up stage right on Roxy, painting on an easel.)

SIRIANA

Oblivious to all but art and beauty; he knows that he, too, is beautiful. Women inspire him both on the canvas and in the bed. Setting the play in 1996 not only removes it from the distractions of computers and cell phones but puts the scenario in an age where one can be careless and superficial…and identified by a graffiti tag. Take the name, Robert Xavier Yeager and voila! The hip and dazzling moniker: “Roxy.” So begins our play, with a salute to the master, Monsieur Rostand.

It’s time to exchange facts with sweet fiction,

Let all hopeless realities just die.

Make the heartaches into actors’ diction

And jump into bed with her pretty lie.

All will live and none will face demise.

We’ll show it more poetic than it was.

We will attempt to make mere Fools seem wise,

Victims of Fate, not of the mind’s mad buzz.

As for her, the ink stained Lady Playwright,

She vows to show her heart so pathetic,

Her brain blinded over the senses’ light.

And her eyes dazzled by the romantic.

Her one hope is to make some drama free.

And be half as skillful an artist as he.

Sonnet XXXXVII Living a Daily Life

There is a list of things to do in here,

And it’s time for me to play the grown up.

I am so not yet a grownup, I fear,

Don’t have the independence thing sewn up.

Not one of my daydreams has dirty dishes,

Or a ten-foot pile of clean clothes to hang.

So much for gay Cinderella wishes,

Of a handsome Prince who just wants to bang.

I fear that we are stuck with reality,

And all the crap and piss and stink of it.

The bills and daily beastiality,

Aging and ill until a grave we fit.

We moan about the price it costs to live,

Until we consider the alternative.

Essay Time, Part III...Easing Out of Womanhood and Into Humanity

Androgyny is a term derived from the Greek words ανήρ, stem ανδρ- (anér, andr-, meaning man) and γυνή (gyné, meaning woman), referring to the combination of masculine and feminine characteristics. I gather that I don’t understand exactly what female clothing and grooming mean to a male, specifically an American male. The idea of seduction; of purposely doing everything to gain the attention of a man has always been alien to me. In the 1960’s we all wore jeans and ponchos and had our hair tied back in colorful bands of cloth and we had a Hell of a lot of sex and it was all pretty damned good. We expected our men to know what they were doing. And then The Big Chill hit and we became consumers with the advertisers telling us what we want. Sex Kittens started moving in and taking the men away from liberated women and they didn’t mind wasting money on makeup and lace and dressing to please. They only wanted to please the men. I have often been called a Lesbian because I continue to dress in the comfortable and sexless. All I can say is “I wish.” What I am is androgynous: A straight woman who wants to dress as easily as a man. No makeup. No high heels or tight bodices. I don’t judge anyone else as long as they’re not being used or abused by a man. Most of the women in Montclair travel the middle ground. Montclair women are well groomed and comfortable, with a minimum of makeup and deeply committed to the sweater set. Jersey ain’t all “The Jersey Shore” or “The Real Housewives”. We are Montclair. We have mansions and consciences. What I like about my car is not her color but that she has Rack and Pinion steering…racing steering. I like that I have control of my money and no one is complaining about my cooking or housecleaning. My face is too wide to be beautiful and my body is acquiring a middleaged duck shape that can’t quite pull off the leather bustier these days. Relationships can’t be about sex any more because Multiple Sclerosis isn’t sexy. And things like brains and courage are great in Facebook postings, but they don’t get you any wolf whistles on the street. My big challenge right now is accepting this and learning to be alone. It’s difficult, but it’s easier than walking in spike heels.

Letting Jack Go

Letting Jack Go

Sometimes you have to choose

And give yourself the blues

Only one could live today

So watch him drift away

Cling to the memories

Of Love on rolling seas

Here I am, back on shore

Alone just like before

But smarter than I was

Knowing what fortune does

We are one even when

We choose to lay with men

Morning comes, off we go

To prove all that we know

Not a wife nor mother

Unique, like no other

Inspiration intact

Know the one simple fact

He wanted you to live

And that’s all he could give

And one more thing is true

All that you have is you