People Don’t Need Words, They Need a Sense of Purpose

As I listen to the woman upstairs, who has been unemployed for fifteen months spend yet another 12 hour day scrubbing and rearranging her apartment, I pause to think of what our purpose on Earth is. The woman upstairs stomps firmly and endlessly back and forth from  7 a.m. until 9 p.m. every day, 7 days a week, around 355 days a year, completely scrubbing and rearranging every object she owns. And then doing it again the next day, not unlike what I do writing this blog. When I had that legendary “I’m only doing this till the play sells” job for 23 years, I at least knew I had to be there to make sure 2,300 newspapers got their comics. Now, about 88 percent of every function at my old job has been automated. Both I and the lady upstairs are on Disability. And we have 24 hours a day to fill. She is 10 years younger than me, but I’ll wager neither one of us will find a husband, and if we do...what will be so damned special about our days? Shopping at A&P? Having someone to talk  with about “Jeopardy”? The lady upstairs never has one visitor...so perhaps someone to comment on the sparkling kitchen floor? With no money for necessities, are the Arts going to be that important to anyone? Were I teaching, maybe...but what is the point of teaching if there are no jobs to apply the knowledge to? The idea behind a society is that there will be something for every person to do, but sometimes, there is nothing. At least I have an income. How frightening it must be to have a house and children when the unemployment runs out. Unless you seriously want to see the streets packed with starving and dying people...you must think about what you can do about it...or what the computers can do.

OK, the Snow is Melting. What’s My Excuse Now?

Walking into the Library this morning, with both my brain and the Earth thawing out; I realized that I have not read enough of these books. I am too restless to sit quietly and read. I like the action of a stage, a theater, a keyboard. I’ve barely read anything beyond a newspaper since college. And the recordings! My God! The Library has miles and miles of every kind of music  and what do I know? I get rap.  I adore Lady Gaga, but I am able sing along with Jerome Kern. Can’t help lovin’ dat man. I have heard Georg Solti conduct and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau sing lieder. But I am proudest of having heard Janis Joplin and Liza Minnelli sing live. Janis gave a bit too much. You knew she was doomed, but you were thrilled to be able to witness the Thorn Bird burn like white phosphorus.

Too many people want to perform or write. Am I so good as to be the one to deprive them of their chance? I have to be so good that the audience doesn’t think they could do better. They applaud because they know only I can reach THAT level. And if I cannot reach THAT level, and leave them thinking they could do better, I have failed. I really should start reading all these God-damned books because I know that they are better than me and can make me a better writer. I should invest in a stereo and start listening to that music because they can improve my musical feel. We are part of a community. Part of an era. It is not just about us and our Art, but about the whole damned mess that makes up American creativity in the 21st Century.  I have to stop thinking about being produced and to concentrate on joining the community. To do any less is to fail miserably and I’m racing closer and closer to that point.

And I don’t have the excuse of Winter much longer.

For Lara Logan. I Have Always Adored You, My Warrior Queen

nI’m still in disbelief over what happened to Lara Logan of CBS last week. I’m not sure we know of any other newswoman being gang raped and beaten as she was in Cairo last Friday. And knowing her, she will be back with all she can give us sooner than we think. From my play, “The Thirteenth Step”. Anya is a Bosnian refuge.

ANYA
I met Satan in Srebenica. It was wearing a uniform. Every soldier in our house that night was wearing Satan’s face. Your Sainted Mother knew my pain and helped me to realize that to waste time and energy on revenge means that these people win. I will remember, but I will not let them control my life. Riza, like me, was also held captive and tortured by a Monster, and we became like mother and daughter. Only, I was not as pure of heart. I could not...I did not save my baby from that terrible night. There is no way I could have love for that baby. I could not...I could not.

It’s good that your family has returned to Arizona. I am comfortable with the Navajo. They know what it is to have strangers tear their home apart. To take all you have.

Your mother made it her mission to help women who had been raped. I would not be able to speak with a woman who had not been...initiated into our horrible Sisterhood. So many nights, the dreams would come and I would scream and your mother, this beautiful, golden-haired Icon, would come to my room and hold me till I could sleep again. No words were needed. She knew what the soldiers had done.

My country is a nest of vipers waiting fifty years for the Russians to leave, so that they could openly claim their “superiority.” The night they came to my village, they killed my father and brother. My mother and sister were taken to other rooms. For me....

I despise you, Sebastian! You want to die! You put poison in his body and for what? Were you violated in every way by a dozen men? Beaten and burned for sport while the screams of your dying mother and sister rang in your ears? Did you have to beg the doctors to rip the child from his body that Nature so carelessly created in such a night?

Your amazing Momma...my Heart. She says to me, “You did nothing wrong. Live your life like other women. Marry and have children and enjoy the touch of a man. You did nothing wrong.” I tried to hate Jesse as the rapist’s son, but we speak of how we both feel strange in our bodies. The guilt we feel for being chose to survive. I tell him of the deaths of my family. He tells me of having to identify the bodies of his wife and son. So horribly burned that they could not open the coffins.

You were not there, Sebastian, and you were not there when Riza and Red died in the crash and Jesse had to give the Sermon at their funeral. It was hard to watch him standing up there with the tears pouring down. The coffins were open and she lay there so peaceful and beautiful. I wanted to join her and close the lid and never leave. So much did I love her.

Without her, the United States was going to send me back to that Hell...so Jesse married me. For two months after we marry, I sleep in another room. Then, one night, I have the nightmares and he comes to my bed to hold me and I permit him to stay. For another week, Jesse holds me in his arms every night...only holds me till I am ready.

And then, the night comes that he comes to the bed and I am naked and he joins me in the bed...naked. So many kisses. So many gentle touches. I started to Love him. And then, he whispers in my ear, “Soft Lily. Gentle Dove” and touches me  so lightly...so gently.... The man was no longer Satan...he was Love. My Jesse. My Heart. We made our baby that night. She was created inside our Love.

Words, Words, Words, I'm so Sick of Words

That's from "My Fair Lady", which Shaw would have hated for its "happy" ending. Liza and the Professor would have had a marvelous friendship, which Shaw knew. Freddy would have be an adequate husband, tagging along during the verbal sparring. Sex and domesticity would have ruined the friendship. What had happened by the mid-fifties that we could only believe in that as the happy ending...or was it America and Broadway? Getting back to my point, I'm feeling a bit of a burnout with words. Too much misunderstanding and machination. I want the gesture, the color, the light. I want to hear boots marching across the boards and hear a rattle of a thunder board. The best line of dialogue in any movie was in "Pitch Black". The line was "Not for me!" Perfectus in contextus. The Female Space Navigator had said her job, as a soldier, was to give her life for others. When the alien almost had Riddick, the criminal in his grasp, she stepped in between them and the Alien ate her and Riddick yells "Not for me!" and suddenly sees the light and becomes a hero instead of a villain. Three tiny words. That's the art of script writing. In my film script for "Redemption", the little boy says to his Stepfather, "My real father had to die." The Stepfather, being a policeman, hears the words "had to" jump out. Because there is nothing as powerful as small words. "To be or not to be..." That IS the question.

I am fascinated by Acting, Directing, Producing, Screenplays

I am not a fresh 22 year old college graduate. I'm supposed to be thinking of wrapping things up, but I can't stop playing with new things like acting and poetry and volunteering to direct and reminiscing about producing and looking excitedly at my horrid attempts at film writing. What is this? I still wish I could feel more comfortable and excited by people, but in a Schmooze situation today, I decided I was too tired to risk a Schmooze with new Theater people. I would not leave a good impression. And I'm wondering, if I fail in the theater, will I avoid bitterness? What is the point of being in the Arts if one is left with bitterness? Or do I just say that because I have an income and savings and can take the time and leisure to do this? I could and probably will fail at these new interests and that's all right. I am starting to remember the pleasure principal of creation. Yes, having money helps, but I would like recognition. Even Shakespeare didn't know he was Shakespeare while he was alive and what a bummer! Can I be the Grandma Moses of theater. No. I am just not that adorable. I can be a real pain in the ass and as we go into the more political "Bulldog",  I plan to.  To paraphrase a line from "Rent:", today is the only day we have.

Feed a Kid on Valentine’s Day...March for Peace or Justice

Enough. Enough with my moods and emotions and complaints. I have enough to eat and a roof over my head. I pay too much for health insurance, but I have health insurance. My plays are being read in churches and by folks on line. So what if I don’t have a Valentine? I spent forty years married or dating and never got one. I think it’s time that the single folks of the world try to do something for somebody who needs more than a red paper heart. Maybe raise money for heart research. Maybe make sure there are desks and books and food in Uganda. I’ve wasted too much time and energy on Love and Romance. I have no children of my own, but there are plenty of them out there and the great thing about charity is you don’t have to LIVE with the %$#%@ kids...just help their parents make Life better for them. I’m just saying, single guys and single ladies...put a lid on it. All feeling bad will accomplish is feeling bad. Take that energy and organize a march. Drive a senior to the doctor. Let’s make February 14 a Day of Love...Love for the whole screwed up, greedy, noisy, smelly Human Race. You might meet someone. I’m just saying

The New One Act Comedy for Estrogenius Contest Begins

(Her Again is seated in a lounger, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a glass of whiskey. She cannot sit up straight and looks like she has had a long and eventful life. She has a cigarette in the other hand.)

HER AGAIN
I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, no! It’s Her Again. Writing some damned bullshit about love and romance and men and women. Yeah, well, I no longer believe in Ghosts or Heaven. So, to me, Heathcliff is now just a pain in the ass! Of course, you couldn’t have Catherine, you feral moron! Just shut up and enjoy the money you earned in the slave trade. Remember to take a shower every other week and maybe you won’t feel so fucking brooding.

I’ll show you brooding.

Ladies, we got two possible endings to our stories...happily ever after or left in their dust. Either way, we should make a lot of noise. Keep our wits about us and our noses to the grindstone. Buy a vibrator...it won’t drink all your booze.