Eskimo Pie

Life is circuitous, wouldn't you agree? I took a trip to Chicago's Field Museum and stood transfixed in front of all things Eskimo: seal boots, fur coats, netted eye protectors, and the like. Today, as I was riffling through a stack of underpriced books at Village Discount, I found a hard cover edition of Peter Freuchens "Book of the Eskimos." I bought the book for a quarter and brought it home, eager to see how the Eskimos live. The book was charmingly paternalistic ("they wear their hair in a low bun on the back of the head, kept in place with a bit of string or ribbon. It is long, straight, and blue-black, loose strands framing a broad oval face whose eyes seem to brim with savage, unashamed passion") but entertaining nonetheless. I find that passions and interests seem to converge in knots this way; loose threads come together and solidify when you least expect it. I'm excited about this Eskimo account. Is it the idea of igloos? Fur parkas and a life of mysterious ice athletics? I can't say. I do know that the book came from Highwood Public Library. It's long overdue.

You Do You

"One day I am going to grow wings, a chemical reaction, hysterical and useless"- it's one of my favorite lines. I think I'm growing wings, bursting through myself, and stretching into the atmosphere, and I owe it all to the Johns Hopkins University for bestowing their gracious funds upon me. In the last few months, each week has provided secret setbacks, hidden roadblocks. Fuck! I often thought. I have to write a script! I have to find actors! I have to hire a space! And the challenges keep coming but I find myself thrilled and delighted by the prospect of engaging with a full scale theatrical project. I've found my actors and by the grace of God, they love each other and are engaging the script in unexpected ways, imbuing it with energy and comedy that I didn't write. On top of that, so many other friends have brought their gifts to the table (Emily and Anna for costume, Mare for set) and thanks to their creativity and dedication, we are getting shit done and doing it in style. It's Summer of Yes and I'm having a ball. It's still difficult for me to relinquish tasks and delegate but I'm learning to trust the instincts of others, I'm learning about that unusual chemical reaction we call collaboration.

Celebrando

Notes from my notebook// words from my twisted brain bubble:

1. "shall i believe that unsubstantial death is amorous" (romeo and juliet)

2. interactions coming too quickly

3. misshapen tubes, squeeze me out

4. glass of sapphire ice

5. database lipstick candle scissor ouji board mouf of da jabba walkee whachu hiding in that mouth

6. existential exhaust, she says, unwrapping gummy bears

7. the ice cream dreams of ice cream

8. you sneeze absurdly incorrectly

9. the real biography of a fake girl

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.