Feathers in the Wind

In the old country in a tiny village there was a Gossip. Was the baker fighting with his wife? Was the Blacksmith's daughter expecting? The stable boy was riding too quickly again. Whether it was true or untrue did not matter to the Gossip. She didn't know why she spilled (or spun) so many secrets. She didn't even know she loved doing it. She just did it as a natural function like blinking. The townsfolk were frustrated by Gossip's tattles and fibs. Their grievances eventually reached the local philosopher. The LP lived in a humble shack on the highest hilltop. After the egg human delivered a basket to LP one day, LP asked her to send for Gossip. "Tell her to bring a down pillow," LP added. The egg human did as she was told. The following morning Gossip arrived at LP's shack holding a fancy down pillow from Crate & Barrel. LP took the pillow, smothered Gossip to death, kicked her body off the hilltop, and that night slept with more comfortable bedding.

Girls Need More Secrets

After two weeks devising work with young women attending summer camp in Maine in 2017, I have some new thoughts on girlhood. The 4th and 5th graders fought to the death for single solo lines and the high schoolers refused to perform. I want to know what happens to girls in middle school. I want to know why one girl started most scenes with "I should have listened to my mother. I hate you." I want to know if she thought that was funny, or if it's all she could think of. I want to know if that's still a joke in her mediasphere or if her family is old school and watches black and white TV. Or if her mother really should have listened to her mother. I want to know why the 2nd graders wanted to do all their own original choreography and the 9th graders wanted to be set like china for dinner.

I want to know what it is about a secret, whispered between two teens, that makes even me want to know the juice. And I want to always remember what it feels like to be the third girl they beckon in and the fourth girl they don't.

Smidge and I were in a corner of the gym before Poms practice vowing to tell each other our crushes. We each spoke a boy's name (same boy) and screamlaughed, intoxicated in our good taste. We skipped around the three-point line singing The Sound of Music. It didn't matter we were in "competition." We weren't. We were in 8th grade. When "going out" didn't mean going anywhere. It was how we showed our loyalty and our love, these private passings.

It had been this way a long time. I didn't fully trust my best friend because she would never admit to loving her obvious affection-target. She was my favorite person, but I watched her carefully. In fourth grade someone said she didn't have any crushes. "But you have to," we pressed. "But I don't," she insisted. I can't remember if I really didn't believe her or if I just didn't want to, but we pushed until she practically yelled, "OKAY FINE IF I HAVE TO, I LIKE ____ HAMPSTER!" There was a boy in our class named _____ Hampson. In her total distress she had misspoke.

Later, once we had boyfriends, the new secrets were about us. Who said what about who to who and who retold. We ate our own tails in gossip and serious nods. I see a past of closed mouths and deep deep treasures of family darkness. I see wives of important men with tight lips. I see a future where a lack of bragging saves our butts. Where female generals refuse to disclose and never lose. But to prepare, first, girls need better secrets.

Getting Paid to Make Things Up

Summer is ending. Cobra was here--an excuse to go to the Art Institute twice in one week. She's en route to a Fulbright and I'm wondering how many people notice I'm trying to pull off gym shorts as fashion. Yesterday afternoon I closed the bedroom door on me, UnReal on Lifetime, and some Oreos. This is August dinner.

I walk longer distances because why not. At rehearsal I say unabashedly, "I'd rather gossip than plan anything." Is the whole reason for doing art the dishing in-between? Eh. Or I go to Kam's studio to gab. Or it is nearing midnight but Tulsa is on the street with his green backpack. He comes over for water in huge plastic cups.

At Cirque de Soleil, our one planned date, Bisque and I see my old castmate. We split a cab home to the Northside. Bisque tells me Wrigley Field is important, and I say "Do not even." because Southside pride is strong. My shoulders are very brown, I notice, when I run in the sports bra only. Fish tummy. A Jar looks good, better than usual. Trimmed and hip. He is so vigorous with life and opinions I think about being a polarizing person and how truly wonderful it could be. I finished my screenplay. This draft anyway, and the things I dislike must come to an end soon.

Paychecks for improv!

The Mechanics of Hearsay

Today I was "on-book" the a run through of my most recent play. The cast and director have been working on this piece as I made revisions, cut, chopped, for the past couple months. It's finally time to perform the thing, and the ladies were off-book today (meaning memorized). Usually an assistant stage manager is "on book" (meaning, reads along in the script waiting for an actor to yell "line"). We don't have an SM. Let alone an ASM, so I offered to do the job. It's weird being an on-book playwright. Each recitation of the correct line sounds progressively more condescending. "I made this, and you are wrecking it." I, of course, do not care at all. (What's that you hear in the distance? Is it "Pomp and Circumstance?")

What's really interesting about watching the play from the page is how close but not quite actors can get to the words. "You've been freezing me out" becomes "You've been shutting me out." Dropped "well"s here, added, "okay"s there. One girl mixed up "please don't give up on me" with "please don't give me up." That's actually a pretty sizable swap.

I think of how many times i relate what someone said to me--be it kind or sharp--and how often I actually remember word for word what was said. And perhaps scarier, how often I think I do.