Boy #2

[Lights up on Boy. His hair is parted on the side and he wears a silk bow tie. He takes a scroll from his pocket, uncurls it, clears his throat, and ROARS]

IF MODERN LIFE OFFERED THE POSSIBILITY OF SURPRISE, YOU WOULD HAVE UNCOVERED THIS SCROLL IN THE BOWELS OF THE UNIVERSE, UNDERNEATH A SNICKERS BAR AND PAIR OF OLD TENNIS SHOES. YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND THIS LIKE JOSEPH MORMON DID THE GOLDEN PLATES. INSTEAD, I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT LEONA BELL. THESE ARE PIECES OF A SPLINTERED EXISTENCE.

[He continues in softer tones]

Birth or April 8, 1972:
Leona is born to Samuel and Beatrice Bell. She emerges from the womb without a heartbeat. The doctor takes a coffee break, and then runs a blood test. As it turns out, Leona suffers from a heart disease called Amoraphobia. She will be incapable of love. She will fear it. Beatrice holds her diseased child and cries. Samuel curses himself for impregnating his wife.

Age 4:
Leona cries when receiving a hug from her preschool teacher, Mrs. Dapley.

7th Grade:
Leona builds a rocket and decides to take off for Mars. She is holding a blow- torch to the bottom of the rocket in an attempt at take-off when Samuel rushes into the backyard and swears at her. She pouts and runs into the bathroom only to discover that the cramps in her uterus are not caused by fear of black matter but a new menstruation. She will forever link the mystery of outer space with her own womanhood.

11th grade:
At a party, Vincent Smith offers Leona a hit near the pool table. He passes the joint to her and their fingers touch. Leona takes a puff and exhales; the smoke turns an electric green as it shoots from her lips. She tastes like gasoline.

22:
Leona works for a travel agency. She books trips to Oslo and Cancun, Maui and Vancouver. When no one is looking, she runs her fingers over the Andes and thinks of people she would throw off the mountaintop.

31:
Vincent calls the agency and is thrilled to discover Leona’s husky voice on the other end. She meets him at the local Hilton for a drink and some cocktail peanuts. Afterwards, they make love in Room 412 under fluorescent lighting. Vincent fizzes with happiness.

35:
Leona pins her hair up and steps into her wedding dress.

36:
Leona’s period goes missing during a lunar eclipse. She gives birth to a baby boy.

70:
Leona is hailed as an engineering wonder. She is the oldest living survivor of Amoraphobia and makes it into three medical journals. Her husband likes to carry the clippings around in his wallet.

72:
Leona loses her will to live. While her husband and son are out at the baseball game, she digs a grave in the backyard and jumps into in. A willing neighbor covers her in dirt. When Vincent and Jacob return, they hear Leona breathing underground and dig her up. Leona stays in the earth, without moving, for another 20 years.

[Boy looks around the room].

My mother doesn’t need you or me or anybody. She’s flutist and cellist and pianist and conductor. She’s everything and then some. My mother is contained and tidy and lying in the dirt. My mother is a symphony.

Swing Tree

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.." says Mr. Robert Frost. Of late, there has been so little birch swinging. Where is the debauchery? The magic? I've been reading lots of literature and the words on the page are teasing me. Go out and play! they taunt. Do something worth writing about. Instead, there are violet circles under my eyes and clean sheets on my bed. Paperwork is due and the seasons are static, winter never blooming into spring. I was cleaning up the school theatre with my friend Isaac, stacking chairs and talking psychedelic drugs. We were discussing the possibilities of that minute splice of reality [the one we perceive regularly] becoming thicker and more brilliant when the doors of perception opened. Would drugs allow that to happen? Or would those drug-induced revelations be phony? Would it matter if we felt excited? We're thirsty for revolution, revelation, something please something. If life doesn't begin, I'm going to hide, just wrap myself in some blankets and emerge in a month, with glittering wings and a bad case of bedhead. I have to find some birches of my own and swing for a little while. This monotony of dirty clothes and spin cycle and bureaucracy is absolutely no Fun. Youth is for Fun! Capital F. I might be playing into a gross misreading. Maybe I should be spinning on a stationary bike for hours at a time, and reading up on buddhist practice, sitting on a rooftop with bottled water and a lotus blossom in my hair. But we're composed of opposites and piety has to be pitted up against something darker, more electric, more soulful. 21 has to be great.

ZETA

Buffalo Zeta. Isn't that the best name you've ever heard? He's the sexist, sexy, no Spanish speaking protagonist of Revolt of The Cockroach People (just read it). I was thinking about ole Buffalo and fiending to do something, to transpose some of him onto me. I wanted to sharpie a tee-shirt with his name, put his genius onto my skin. He's no hero, don't get me wrong. He is political, apolitical, frustrated, derogatory, slandering, womanizing, and generally low. But the thing about Zeta is that he throws himself into every situation with vague optimistic intention. For Zeta, every day is another mountain to climb. I sound like I'm writing an english essay and that isn't the point. The point is that Zeta has this brash, illiterate desire to carve a place for himself in the world. He wants to do something and he doesn't know what it is but he burns through the days in the hopes of doing Something. He's fine as long as he's moving (think LCD Soundsystem, Tribulations [it's alright/as long as something's happening]). I sympathize with that nameless need to do something, to say something, to the world. My professor, brilliant man that he is, was talking about Zeta's resistance to the Grand Narrative. What? It means that if the Universe is blueprinted by a text or narrative (be it the Bible or Huckleberry Finn), than Zeta refuses to buy into those notions. It's frustrating because at this point in history, most everything has been resisted right? I mean throwing off popular societal notions is old hat, a cliche of its own. Whatever. Zeta doesn't give a fuck and neither do I. He drinks his tequila and generally moves like a buffalo- immortal and impenetrable. His eyes were never described but I imagine black ones, endless and unblinking.

Backstage

I'm writing under a tiny pool of light, from the bowels of Arellano theatre. The thespians are huddled, eating their sushi, discreetly facebook chatting, maybe someone is highlighting backstage, twirling a fake mustache and turning their crumbling page. It's tech week and we're a little loopy. We're over ambitious, under rehearsed, and generally ready to pass out. The previous Snowpocalypse threw the semester into chaos and our professors are playing catch up. We have violet circles under our eyes but we're missing the twilight outside, locked in the theatre with computer chargers and tired fingers. Having said that, it's a good time. Nothing inspires illicit lust or imagination like confined quarters. As of Friday, I'm a free woman and believe me, I will be popping some bottles and sleeping till three. But. We're young and restless and we'll traipse around backstage, knocking into cheap set pieces, and cutting our elbows on sharp edges. And later, when we're enjoying the twilight, we'll laugh about all the times we never saw the sun.

Blush

I just took a garbage bag to Salvation Army. I threw some old clothes in, zipped in the car, and poof, washed my hands of another bagful of stuff. Spring is uncurling and it's time to begin anew. I've always loved the idea of purification: sloughing off dead skin, exfoliating pores, dusting, grooming, shedding the old for the promise of the new. It might be the Virgo in me but I like taking stock, seeing where I'm at, and starting fresh. Spring Break has been complicated with auditions and socializing and trying to get that "down time" in. Somewhere in the last few months, my inner workaholic came alive and ever since, I've been exhausted. Even when I dream, I'm thinking of resting and I wake up with agitated bones and a fat to-do list. It's time to stop, get a little sun, and enjoy my self. And that goes for you too. It's March. Time to put on that seersucker, make a drink, and enjoy the blushing of the trees. You dig?

Disappear

I fell down the rabbit hole tonight. We3 ventured into the world of 3D, glasses tinted and popcorn buttered. Alice In Wonderland was just as gaudy and delightful as I had hoped. Maybe it was the funky shades or maybe it was the sensation of free fall, of letting yourself be swept up in the sublime. (Although let's get real, I'm always ready for that). The movie was over the top amazing: tulle dresses and victorian shoes, white powder and glowing mists, the cheshire cat and the broken tea pots, Johnny Depp's heartbreaking lisp and the feeling of soaring through the air. It was magic. The Queen of Hearts has a special place in my heart. When I was 7 or 8, I was fiending to be Belle for halloween. I wanted her satin ball gown, the one with the scalloped bottom that went down in waves. Anyway, mom and I waited until the last second and the store was sucked dry. The only costume left? The Queen of Hearts. So there I was, with hearts drawn on my cheeks, bad hair, and a fat lil body packed into the card suit. I resented the costume. I wanted to be feminine, hot, debonaire in my ball gown. Instead, I was the cream filling. Having said that, it makes for a telling tale and it marks the beginning of my love for the scorned. The Queen of Hearts is bad. Her heart is undoubtedly shrunken and putrid, like rotten fruit. But. She has a charisma that comes from sticking to her guns and hey, it's admirable. My adventure into 3D was totally satisfying and the drive home with Pete and Mare and Justin Bieber capped it off. I'm waiting for my rabbit hole or maybe I'm falling down it all the time. Reality is crazy, baby, oh oh ohh.

Like It's Your Birthday

Last night I was reunited with some of the people I love best. It was Redmoon's "Lunatique," their 20th birthday celebration. It was the expected madness: an orchestra in rabbit masks, tuba players in skeleton suits, an astronaut shot into space, bumping and grinding in the warehouse, pink martinis, the Redmoon bombastic lifestyle. I was all adrenaline, so psyched to see the people who made last summer the spectacular it was. There are always those faces, those people, the ones who perfectly encapsulate a time in your life and when you see them, it's like a benchmark. They pinpoint your progress. Now, auditions for my own show are approaching- the Redmoon crew were all present when my grant project was just a hazy dream. And so we all traded news (Redmoon performed at the White House for halloween!). I was proud to be like yo, here is my independence, and I can't wait for you to see the fruits of my labor come August. This morning there was another birthday celebration, a brunch for one of my mom's oldest friends, Norine. Norine is amazing: slim as a whip and just as shocking. She has this spirit to her, like she's known from day one what she's about, and she inspires you to pull yourself up. She was so surprised to see me, and pulled me in to sip champagne (oh gawd why) and talk about my life. With Norine, it's genuine. She skips the bullshit and pursues the Real Facts. Benchmarks. Chicago has always felt like my lifeblood. Yes, I've spent my entire life in this city but it's more than that. There's a fluidity to my life here, the people, the friends, the sidewalks. It's in me like no other architecture. I love it more than I can say and I'm always happy to be reminded of who I am, and the people who are constantly pushing me forward. I have things to do and they won't let me forget it. Time to blow out the candles and get rolling, Hip hip hooray.

Music Be

On Sunday, my ipod died. It just threw its little digital hands up and said 'no more! Let me sleep!' So I sighed and went to youtube. Music is present in most every part of my day: showering, cooking, sleeping, studying, walking. And why not? Music be the food of life. Unheard music might be sweet but I'm a junky so please don't deny me. Alex, lovely girl that she is, told me about a website called stereomood.com. The gimmick is that the site has tags and if you click one, a playlist appears. Geniusssss. With one click, thousands of new songs for that lonely afternoon, the cruise down the endless highway, the stolen cocktail. I'll be listening all afternoon as I squeeze some last intellectualism out. Sometimes you need a little help.

Sweat

Writing writing editing editing no sleeping sleeping. As a pleasure beast, this disappoints. I'm hungry and full, mostly exhausted. It's a pet peeve, people who complain of exhaust, but whatever. I'm really tired. The road ahead is filled with to-do lists and coffee cups. Alas. I have to believe that my pleasure principle will shift, that I will awake, soaking in gold, and sweating brilliance. There's no alternative. I'm off to outline a paper. I better end up in lights.

Jeep Cherokee

The sun is blazing and another day of writing begins. I was cooking black beans and rice last night, cradling the phone to my ear, talking to Dookie about my play (summer 2010! August 13-15th!) I was saying that in The Writing Seminars (official title and less official debauch), there's so much competition that I'd be nervous to have students/friends/writers in the audience. "Oh fuck that," she said. "It doesn't matter." Too true, Dookie. I've been a busy bee, writing writing, and I can't wait for this summer. I'll be CEO of my own life with ample budget and bow tie to match. (It should always be that way, right?) I'll be directing, rehearsing, organizing, creating, living my own thoughts and desires. I see a wood-paneled Jeep Cherokee, a cast of scruffy and amazingly brilliant actors, some sandwiches, and hours of brilliance. Wouldn't that be ideal? Well guess what y'all, that's what it shall be. CAN'T WAIT.

Words and Coins

My smart phone thinks it's smarter than I am. When I try to text, it auto-corrects me, as if to say "darling dear, didn't you mean that other adjectivenounverbconjugation?" I'm frustrated by words. Between facebook, texting, and tweeting, everyone is eager to spew themselves every which way. I'm all for expression of self and thought and for outpouring of creative and intelligent language but all this "##^^^$$^^^&$R HECKABABY dFLDLFORERERE LOOK AT ME TWEETING" is like fast-food: easily produced and eventually clogging the heart. Who am I to judge though right? Here I am, blogging to the nameless/shameless interweb in the hopes of pinpointing some eventual truth. I won't deny it. And yes, I have been told that I speak slowly and in a strange cadence, like someone who is constantly stoned or waiting for their next moment of revelation, so I'm not the demographic. But isn't there something to be said for economy and minimalism? Why do we need so much frenetic babble? Words are like currency. If we use them too often, they inflate and lose their grace. I need to be reminded of all that's good and pure. I think I'll go finish Mao II.

Natural Appetites

Lately, I've been ravenous. I've been hungry for everything: sleep and nutrition and reality and a good book and the future. I went to the grocery store and there I stood, mesmerized by the beans and rice in aisle two, until a clerk looked at me with concern. Was I alright? Oh, fine, just fine. I took my apples and cheddar home and fell upon the groceries, delighted. Why the appetite? Hunger is like this: consuming and inconvenient. As we get older, sometimes we fear our appetites will diminish. After all, who can thirst when there is work to be done and paper to be shuffled. When I was in Rome, my hunger diminished. In the land of food, I didn't want food. I was over stimulated and energized but I felt myself full after a bite of pasta or a glass of wine. Now, I'm lusting. I've had fever dreams, jumping out of bed, anxious for water and life to begin. It's irritating but comforting. It's a reminder of my own humanity, of the needs that make me whole. Tonight, the roommates and I baked some chocolate chip cookies and as the wind blew forth, we sat licking the bowl, and talking about the past. The summer is looming, and graduation is lurking, and the apple about to be plucked, and we're stressed. It's a feverish time and we're unprepared but we're hungry. How we feed ourselves is the crucial distinction.

When It Hits

It's late and I should be sleeping but I was listening to music and had this vivid memory. When I was in fifth grade or so, my dad and I went to see U2 at the United Center. It was the Elevation Tour, a spectacle of lights and danger, and we were in the nosebleed section, high above the squalor. The music swelled and I was sort of terrified, afraid of the height and sound. But I was also electrified. I was a young thing but I remember being like holy fuck, I'm alive, and this is nice. I felt like all that interior madness was matched by the fire outside of me, like Bono was singing just for moi, belting out the lyrics with everything he had in his majestic four foot bod. Even now, as I sit here in the dark, I'm filled with some hazy excitement. I have this impulse for new glasses. I'm thinking square, chic, something to make feel all hot and astute. But it's a larger impulse: to see. I want some frames that will focus the night. I'm going to be somewhere, front and center, with nice clean glasses and blazing heart.