second play weekend

There had been Friday meetings set, but they were cancelled last minute. I suddenly felt determined to go to Six Flags. So I did. Got there just after open. Rode my favorite loop first, then the big dusty coaster (front row), the pirate ship, the revolution, answered emails, did some drafting at a picnic table over a free Diet Coke, even rolled calls about the festival poster near Bugs Bunnyland. Took a spin on the carousel before heading home around 2. A lot can happen with free parking and four hours. I texted Puhg while I was there, what was with the urgency. He suggested, could be some kind of anxiety purge. “The body keeps the score,” he added. Perhaps my guts have been so metaphorically rattled lately they long to be physically rattled.

I was an email freak the rest of the afternoon. Drove over to the west side around 6:45 to catch the play. The gals did just great. I didn’t stick around long after, had to process in the night. Puhg woke up when I walked in, confused but smiling.

Saw the show twice Saturday. The matinee talkback elicited tears but two prominent artists snubbed me in the evening. TM was inexplicably also in the audience and no one knew why, though he did laugh at my most brutal joke. I decided to take pride in how I handled these strangenesses instead of worrying too much. Had a bad expensive salad grr, walked aimlessly near the beach.

Sunday there was a very long discussion about how to organize the day which ended quickly when my aunt agreed to lunch. Had to dab up my face and fit but soon we were on the sunny patio with free garlic bread. I’d walked past the night before, at sunset, thinking, “now this is a place I’d like to go one day.” The cheesy Italian flag and angled roof. Our server advised me to read more Nietzsche. Tax Ant said that would never happen in the north woods. I’d gotten a headache on the way over, and I swear the spicy tomato ravioli cured it.

We took it nice and easy to the theatre, sniffing flowers each block. It was a packed house, which always feels so good for goodbye. I couldn’t help but peep from my back corner—did so and so laugh at that? Ah so and so set her head against so and so’s shoulder there. Oh good so and so’s dad chuckled. Puhg accuses me of loving to lean back and observe what I’ve sown. (And fine it's true!)

The cast did even better than their best. The talkback was incredibly special. Friends were there—ER for fun, AZ for research, BM as a fellow playwright, my manager, the original gaffer!, and more. I had a true giggle when we called JS in to be acknowledged for his amazing set, and he slurred he was already drinking in the lobby. He held up a little homemade frose for emphasis.

The lobby was such a scene. A girl bawled for a long time and a mom said thank you. A guy told me about gang violence in his high school, a couple about their church being targeted, two fellas joked, RB and my aunt hugged, photos, packing up for the party. Not based in science, but there was a release that happened—when I invoked my grandmother in front of the step-and-repeat.

Puhg and I went over to celebrate with the crew and even some cute parents and at the very end I showed the two muffins the photo of us I took a year and a half earlier. I’d said, “I have a feeling this is going to work out.” We re-created the image, looking about the same on the outside, though all three of us were much much different on the inside.

laughing til our ribs get tough / but that will never be enough

Intersection of Upset and Grateful

"If I express my dislike for something, it is usually because the other 99% is perfect," my sister explains to me. We're talking about negativity. How I think it's a complete bummer and how she thinks it's a mere expression--and certainly not to be taken personally. (I know that too, but I still do it.)

Road trip gummies.

Would the world move on without the perfectionists bringing storm clouds to the silver sidewalks? Could the perfectionists quietly toil instead? Are things as they are perfect, or at least as perfect as we should be entitled to? I worry a life of constant critiquing doesn't leave much space for gratitude--which is the number one potion.

Ah, so, these are the times one must escape to the north woods. These are the days a knotted tummy and work email are not options. There are barrels of bulls eyes in the candy shop, a near-empty movie theatre, the late night chats, finding a toad, setting off a firework in the driveway, and the glittering flowage. The bags of carrot chips, the humongous muskie, a rope swing, and a new book--just cracked.

Fish fry.

Brownie sundaes for dinner.

Pontooning.

I could make you satisfied in everything you do/
All your secret wishes could right now be coming true.

Wisdom of Friends

Advice I have received re: my blog post on Monday about my compulsion to fix ish.

-If you're trying to make things happen, it's because you believe YOUR way is best, and, well, it just might not be. To think so usually means you're just very fearful of how things will turn out if you don't have complete control. Obvs, fear is not good.

-Be aware of the expectations you have for yourself and others. This will help minimize how much you are trying to control. What's really important? And why? Be in charge of a few things. Let the rest fall into place.

-It is important to enjoy life NOW instead of believing we must live a certain way to get to an eventual  future we can enjoy.

-Being happy is worth chucking previously-designed plans under a canoe.

-Ultimately where you're headed is good, and you're not responsible for making everything perfect in the meantime. Problems aren't even problems when seen in the correct light.

I saw tail lights last night in a dream about my old life.

Parents' Stuff

"If your house were on fire, what five things would you save?" I asked my dad.

"Well, the cat," he said. "Whatever computer had most of my files on it..." He paused, "I mean it would depend on what I could take. I wouldn't have time--"
"No, time is a non-issue. You just get five things."
"Well, I would just take whatever I could--"
"No, that's not...it doesn't matter. A fireman will get any five things you want."
He clinked his spoon around. My aunt shuffled in the kitchen, closing the bag of pretzels.
"I would save [her boyfriend], the dogs--How many is that?"
"Let's say it counts as one."
"Then...my computer. Non-digital photos..."
My dad re-piped in, "Old photos, yes."
"And?" I asked him. He shrugged.
My aunt narrowed her eyes around the living room. "Okay, maybe a lamp?" Then, definitively, "I guess I would save three things if my house were on fire."

And yet. We sit in a house of things.

Back in the day.

My dad and aunt have been spending the weekend sorting through their parents' things. Every night, Char takes to his bed like its magnetized to his back. So many boxes. Tables fill of things, empty, shift.

Tonight the garage was officially closed. The siblings had conquered the junk/treasures. I have a new can opener and sheets. Tax Ant exhaled big and prodded at Char: "You promise Lucy right now you're never going to put her through this." My dad said, "I promise," but he looked at his hands and smirked.

He knows. He knows the box he heaved today is one I will heave someday.

Wisconsin in June

Typing in the guest bedroom with the concrete floors, fluffy blankets.
Basement, corner of the house. Middle of the woods.
It's been cool here, windy. Wildflowers--hot orange, little purple kisses.
Out running in sunshine, but it feels crowded. Trees brilliant--
but they hang over me, casting shadows, hiding the lake.
A toothless man in a van pulls up next to me.
I usually do not stop for this type of thing, but in America's
Dairyland...He tells me there's a bear ahead, so I 180.
I look up to find a dragonfly halo.

In town I remember sitting on the bench at the marketplace.
The old time candy shop. I wish I could bottle the smell.
It hasn't changed since I was four. The barrels of Bullseyes,
taffy baskets, cashew brittle on wax paper. Jars of gummy sharks.

Late sun on the porch. Two big ol' dogs.
My dad eats a sandwich quietly across from me.

Sandusky & Kiddie Creeps

Well, well, well Sandusky has be sentenced. Heard the official news from Maf and Tax Ant when we went to Yogurtland Tuesday. We all reflected on the Penn State man, the one who claimed innocence until the very end. How could he do that? I think I know. I think he thought he was--either delusionally or on some technical self-made plane.

That's the thing about secrets we keep to ourselves--they almost don't truly exist. The societal lines versus an imagined moral world blur. Secrets are poison. Morality, sensitivity, community are based on honesty, communication, discussion.

Don't get me wrong--I obviously don't support pedophilia. But, the problem is no one does. It should never be condoned, but we need to support our local pedophiles. Sid has this bit in his stand-up (paraphrasing) like, "There are unsung heroes out there who are...incredible people, more heroic than 9/11 firefighters...and those are the pedophiles who don't do anything about it." Then, of course, the punchline is, "Would you please stand and be recognized?"

But, he's right. I can't imagine how difficult and taxing and awful it would be to want something so much and know the rest of the world thought it was disgusting. I have trouble enough not eating the entire tupperware of cookies Maf gives me in one sitting...and everyone can understand that. Over my pumpkin froyo, Maf explained working in a hospital once for a man who castrated himself because he was a pedophile, and he was afraid one day the temptation would be too strong.

I don't know what kind of issues or cerebral malfuction one has to have to be into kids, but it's a disease, and I'll tell you what--chastising those who've been caught as the scum of the earth is not supporting the teenager out there already fighting the scary urges he has developed. That teenager is growing up in a world that tells him, "You tell anyone this and you will be a monster." How is he going to get help? He's not. He's going to bottle up his problem until he absolutely can't handle it anymore, and he is going to abuse a kid he thinks is a safe bet, and the kid will be so messed up and detached from the situation, he might never tell anybody. And that teen now adult will think, "I did it, and I didn't get caught, and, so I think it's going to be okay." And his secret moral compass will re-align.

Basically everyone in America is happy Sandusky is going behind bars, and most of us are making jokes at his expense--it's easy--pedophiles are one of the only factions of people that no one gets offended at being the butt of jokes. (Ha. Butt. See?) But, let us take a moment of gratitude that we have not been born with or developed a terrible desire in our hearts. That we get to stand from the sidelines and judge. And we should take a moment to love these "sickos" in the world--these sickos who have undergone much more struggle than any of us, much more pain and sadness than I will probably ever feel, much more abandonment by society in a time of secret need. Let us be those listening ears, let us love.