Sculpted

I never wrote about my trip to South Haven! Did you know that Michigan is filled with treasures? Dutch farms and raspberry fields and dunes and junkyards and bodies of water? I didn't. It was superb, all bike riding, painting, cake eating, blueberry picking, and mini van driving. We went primarily for Sunset Junque- a renowned antique spot filled with everything on the Lord's green earth. I'm talking leather jackets and space suits and confessionals and rusted tools and all things ripe for eccentric endeavors. Mare is a talented set designer so she helped me gather some pieces for Fever Teeth and we went back to her grandparents' spot to scrape/ clean/ paint my precious new items. We were a little traumatized by the white haired CEO of Sunset Junque (he had a beard like Poseidon and overcharged with zeal) but we quieted our nerves with a blueberry shake and a rock in the hammock. "If you have the time, I highly recommend it."

Bear Claw

I like taking baths so I wrote this scene.

Lights up:
The girl is concealed inside a porcelain bathtub. The bathtub is antique with golden claws and large handles. The girl lies back, sticking her toes inside the faucet at random. Bocelli’s “Time To Say Goodbye” plays softly in the background. The girl addresses her mother and the audience at different points.

GIRL: I love this song, don’t you? Andrea Bocelli is blind and I always like to imagine him with eyes closed, his fingers moving through the air as he orchestrates. I don’t know if he really does that but he should.

MOTHER: What are you doing in there, girl? It’s been an hour.

GIRL: It’s been two, mother! And don’t even think of coming in here.

MOTHER: And what if I did?

GIRL: Just don’t! Can’t a girl get any privacy? This is my place. I can’t be touched here.

MOTHER: You know when I was a girl I bathed with my mother! She would scrub my back; it was so lovely. It was quality time!

GIRL: You grew up in the seventies. It was different then. You had long black hair and breasts to the floor. I’ve seen the photographs. My mother singed her eyelashes off with a hash pipe one summer afternoon in a field of cows. She could hear cars humming on the highway nearby.

MOTHER: I did not! Don’t tell people that!

GIRL: Just don’t come in here!

MOTHER: What do you do in there? You’re awfully mysterious.

GIRL: I don’t do anything. I just think and read and eat the occasional scoop of ice cream.

MOTHER: Can’t I come in? I could wash your toes. I could soap your hair. I could shave your legs.

GIRL: Don’t you have anything better to do?

MOTHER: I just want to be close to you!

GIRL: Jesus Christ. I should never leave this tub. After all, I have everything I need: exfoliants and soaps and magazines and the dreams that tangle in my head. I once brought an entire box of popsicles into this tub and sat for four hours; my lips and tongue were blue. My insides were all pruny, like shriveled fruit. I adored it.

MOTHER: All that cleanliness isn’t good for you! You should go outside and run around in the mud! We could take a boat ride together!

GIRL: You’ll say anything to get me out there with you.

MOTHER: I’m lonely!

GIRL: I can’t be responsible. It sounds selfish but it’s the truth. A girl has to stand on her own two feet. I work hard for the solitary peace of this bathtub. I look forward to it all day. Sometimes I lose focus, falling into daydreams, and when I look up, my boss is staring at me through his thick glasses, quietly slapping a ruler against his hand. “You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t ya? You got numbers to crunch,” he says, the steel heavy in his lined hand. Let me tell you, I’ve got to get out of accounting. I’m good with numbers, with their quiet symmetry and predictability, but I don’t like them. I’d flush them all down the drain if I could. Yes, sir, I would.

MOTHER: What are you mumbling about? Numbers?

GIRL: Go do something domestic, mother! Chop some carrots or water the plants. She’s head of a fortune 500 company but she can’t be bothered to chop up garlic for dinner. I adore her, I want to strangle her. It’s satisfying to experience that duality of emotion. Don’t you think?

MOTHER: Your grandmother is here! She would love to come in!

GRANDMOTHER: Darling, do let me in! I’ll rustle us up some martinis. I’ll braid your hair, sing you a song.

GIRL: No! I’m happy to be by myself. Why is that such a crime?

GRANDMOTHER: It’s not, sweets. I used to bathe with your mother, you know.

GIRL: Yes, I know, I know. That doesn’t make it right.

GRANDMOTHER: We’re family. Your dirt is my dirt and don’t ever forget it.

GIRL: My grandmother is a recovering alcoholic, does that give her credibility? She thinks so.

GRANDMOTHER: I WAS ONCE AN ALCOHOLIC! I’M FINE NOW BUT I UNDERSTAND YOUR DEEPEST SORROW, TRULY I DO! LET ME IN THERE, WE CAN TALK!

GIRL: I’m fine! I just want to read my tabloid. Brad and Angelina are going for baby number thirty-four.

GRANDMOTHER: Christ on a cracker! I need a stiff drink at the thought of it.

GIRL: It’s tough to be a girl, sometimes, but I don’t see another option. Do you?

Bonfire of Vanities

I'm heading to Michigan for blueberries, bonfires, and Fever Teeth set design (sunsetjunk here we come). I'm jazzed! I'll be back in a few days with pertinent insights and fotos.

Popsicle Sticks

I read this article in GQ and the journalist was so fucking great, snarky and poetic, and he mentioned driving a Swedish beater down his college row, awaiting a big mac as hot and rancid as Ice Cube's lyrics. I was in the bath tub, chuckling to myself. Said journalist was remarking upon something pedestrian. We've all been there: stuffed into a janky backseat, seatbelt tight across the chest, salty air whipping through the night, laughter sending the tiny car up and into the night before it races towards the inevitable hamburger at 3 am. It's naughty and it's fun. The glee is in the idiosyncratic detail that makes experience yours and I was happy to see a journalist that delighted in his own chaos and humdrum experience. I'm back in Chicago now, walking down the same pavements I've always walked, and I'm hungry for something spontaneous. But I'm missing it. Right now, as I sit here, kids are humping in the park, senior citizens are digging for gold, rabbits are running, the trees are rotting from inside out, the wind is blowing, the world is turning. I think the point is to see yourself imprinted by every experience, a house of paper/ your words all over me.

Summer Wind

Red lipstick, rotary phones, typewriters, martini glasses, turn tables, black and white photos of my grandfather with slicked hair and high cheekbones, pearls, orchestral melodies. My tastes are of another age. I'm nostalgic for days I never had--> clams casino in 1956, white russians in the boardroom. I'd like a little glamour, a little Frank-Sinatra dappery. Let's sigh our melodies underneath a blue umbrella sky.

Fever Dreams

Mr. J and I partook of a few Honeymoon beers and walked underneath trees that spilled over onto the greasy street below. We said goodnight and I brushed my teeth hastily before getting into bed. Perhaps I should have rinsed the Honeymoon out of my mouth more thoroughly because it seems that the sweet beer coated my teeth and sent my brain waves dancing. I had this incredibly vivid dream. I was imprisoned for a crime I didn't do and promptly assaulted a guard. I booked it out of the prison and I hailed a cab in my regulation garb. I took shelter from the rain in the backseat of an Indian cab. I scrutinized the cabbie, did he know me? The radio crackled and popped in his pleather dash and we sped through the night, only stopping at a convenient store. I went to the airport and got on a plane, headed for anywhere, hoping to escape for all time. I woke up, shivering, with aching arms, so relieved it was only a dream. I felt focused, happy about real life, and all I was accountable for. Perhaps I had this dream because J and I discussed the Himalayas and eating sweet Indian fruit or maybe the fever dream was incurred because I needed to appreciate my carefree days. Either way, you best believe I brushed my teeth thoroughly this morning and decided against stripes.

R+J

Where are you statuaries and exploding hearts and gun holsters and diamonds and beater cars and magic potions? golden crown and moonlit pool, crestfallen wings and helicopter to slice up the night? It's about to rain. Sleep, her body, says. Just sleep. Let the golden mouth come to you there, sleep, but she won't just yet. She isn't ready.

Mrs. Yogato

It's the summer of yes. I've decreed it. June is here and it's time to write and play and swim and read and mingle and email and create create create. In honor of the summer of yes, I played ice hockey with 40 year old men today. I hoisted on my sweaty pads, tied a knot in my bandana, and skidded out onto the ice for an hour of hypertension and hysteria. It was a blast. The summer of yes means yes to all things--> let's get bold. I'm going to finish casting my show, clean out my closet, and slide into downward dog. Call me Mrs. Yogato.

Infant Queen

On Saturday I did the unspeakable: I babysat. It's not that I dislike babies, on the contrary actually. They have great bed head and they sport eccentric rompers. I love babies but babysitting was not in my repetoire. Well, there I was Saturday afternoon with cut off jeans and a mental list of activities: cartoons, basketball, nap time, apples and juice. Oh, was I deceived. Alyssa, the 3 year old, had other plans for me. She is a blond curly haired babe with the will of a Roman emperor. I swear to you, when she was screaming and balling her firsts, resisting "night night" (nap time) I imagined her in a crimson cape and gladiator sandals, about to rule the masses. Who was I to put this little Monarch to bed? She was regal as she attempted to devour her plastic peas and doughnuts. After some cooing and a little "Goodnight Moon" I got her to drink her bottle, and as she sucked it down I couldn't help but smirk, thinking I had coaxed her into drinking the magic potion. I lay her down in her crib, covered her with her blanket, and shut the door, but not all the way. Oh me oh my was that a mistake. I crept down the stairs, hoping to tidy up the dolls Alyssa had terrorized. All of a sudden, I heard a stampede of baby footsteps. Suddenly, baby Alyssa sweetly yelled "hi!" No voice has ever put such fear down my spine. "You were supposed to go night night" I said. "Let's play!" she replied. I was toast. An hour later, she was tuckered out. I stood over the crib watching her; she resisted sleep even as it took over her eyes. I puttered downstairs like a nervous mother. I couldn't watch TV, couldn't eat. I flipped through Sports Illustrated like an imposter and checked on Alyssa's breathing every so often. Finally, the rest of the family returned, including big kids Zach and Olivia. The parents gave me a few tips, and headed out the door. I was relieved to have the older two with me, finally some compatriots! Zach and I played a little one-on-one; he had an excellent flick of the wrist and lay up. Olivia and I preferred to gossip. She sat on the bathroom floor and gave me the dirt on her friends and their love lives, and the nice boys who played "spy" with her during snack time. They helped me put Alyssa to bed; they took turns reading to her and as we left the room, Olivia pulled the door firmly shut. "She can get out of her crib, you know. You have to pull the door shut all the way." I feigned surprise. "Is that so?" and we walked downstairs for a little dessert.

Spines

I tiptoed down the steps and ran my fingers along the spines of books and books, breathing quietly and staring in wonder. I tilted my head and I leaned into the bookshelf, smiling as if embracing a long lost lover. The co-op bookstore will do this to you. It's a secret place, hidden underground at U of C, tucked under the roots of ancient trees. I used to go most every weekend with my parents and I would post up in a plastic chair with a stack of books to page through. I would choose a few and head home, losing myself in narrative for days. I thought I had lost my reading lust but staring at the assortment of titles, I was thirsty again. What's inside? i wondered, reaching for "Arctic Summer" by E.M. Forster. I wanted all of the stories for my own. I wanted to lose myself in the words, forget time, forget troubles, and just breathe in the crystal castles that words make in all of their invisible grace. I want to be invisible too, only regaining color when I've discovered something true.

stamp

Mexican men drinking cantaloupe juice and my cousin and i on the porch swing kicking our legs and wondering how we got this way and lonely summers and bath tubs and peeling skin and your face with eyes closed so sweetly and women in pencil skirts and will i ever look be like that and would i want to and always the dream of mountains and a place i couldn't imagine and the rain ceaseless and the promise of being better and ice cream and a trench coat and men on parole and tacos at 3 am and a secret garden a secret adventure and dirty water and your hands what do they look like and oh when will i know what it's like to really live maybe i do maybe i really do