Otherwise

Last night I finished reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. My response to the following passages from her wonderful book is, “Amen” and “Amen”:

There are moments when I am writing when I think that if other people knew how good I felt right now, they’d burn me at the stake for feeling so good, so full, so much intense pleasure. I pay through the nose for these moments, of course, with lots of torture and self loathing and tedium, but when I am done for the day, I have something to show for it.

Don’t underestimate the gift of finding a place in the writing world: if you really work at describing creatively on paper the truth as you understand it, as you have experienced it, with the people or material who are in you, who are asking that you help them get written, you will come to a secret feeling of honor…No matter what happens in terms of fame and fortune, dedication to writing is a marching-step forward for where you were before, when you didn’t care about reaching out to the world, when you weren’t hoping to contribute, when you were just standing there doing some job into which you had fallen…Even if only the people in your writing group read your memoirs or stories or novel, even if you only wrote your story so that one day your children would know what life was like when you were a child and you knew the name of every dog in town – still, to have written your version is an honorable thing to have done…if you are writing the clearest, truest words you can find and doing the best you can to understand and communicate, this will shine on paper like its own little lighthouse. Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.

“So why does our writing matter, again?” they ask.
Because of the spirit, I say. Because of the heart. Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul.

(Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott)

Every cell of my body
shouts-screams-dances forth with
the wild goodness
of God
abandon myself to
joy,
celebrate Him

Because he’s seen me all along,
smiled at me,
laughed
his great tumbling laughter
spilt overflowing into my life,
my body,
in spite
of sometimes feeling – being – invisible

This moment in time is a
single
drop of
water
after drought of miserable parch

Now on
every drop of water
an
ocean’s tide
creates

People in the future
will remember this single drop of water
started the earth’s quench

And me – tongue stuck out
like a child waits for a snowflake
water droplet
ocean of relief
on my own
parched
tongue

God’s first name is pure and separate
his mercy
sound
of
breath
folding
in and out
of lungs
constant, sure
(easy to ignore)

God flexes divine muscles
the earth ripples

Dictators clutch at their kingdoms
like greedy children with favoured toys
stumble,
their kingdom toy
slips out of grasp
empty-handed
they bray

Rich ones
gather cash towards chest
bear-hug wealth
as though
cash
was a
warm blooded daughter
to hold,
but
cash,
like a rebellious daughter
leaves arms

But the forgotten-invisible-scorned

Aboriginal lady with bulging beer belly
an empty laundry basket
cries from cold,
finds
the basket full
clothes warm with the scent of God

Panhandler squeegee man
an empty pan, dried up squeegee,
finds
a pan full
a pocketful
God’s everflowing
pennies

Teenage boy big ears, hairlip, too loud accented voice
peers sidestep him in hallway, fail to acknowledge
as chatter gossip chatter,
finds
he’s
God’s most anticipated guest
at
God’s
party

Divorcee’s chest aches
needles
of
a thousand bitter, pointed
words, looks
dreams vacation from pain,
finds
herself in God’s tropical hammock
warm breeze of his spirit
divine mai-tai
in hand

but the pastor
rich voice
recites every verse
by memory
theological king
an armory of words
to smite
the unrighteous
does not
find
the cavern of his heart
does not
look
the cavern of his need
just
words
words
words

For God drives his car
My Jesus pedals his bicycle
The Holy Spirit rides the rails
to
the run-down-shack
hearts
of the ignored-invisible-forgotten
and step through
splintered
doorways
into
our
lives

Just like God promised he would:
he saw everything
and he never forgot us.

I know a man who doesn’t believe in time
He says it is a social construct

So he
wakes when he wants to
sleeps when he wants to
eats
breathes
labours
when he wants to

Late for work
loses his job
Late for church
leaves his wife

to brush the children’s unruly red hair
feed them their oatmeal – hot –
nag them to put on their Sunday-best-hand-me-downs
wash their faces clean of oatmeal – hardened -
rush them, breathless, into their rusted, hiccuping, barely working van
drive them to church

where she sits with her four children
alone
until
he
shows up

He likes to sleep in
he shrugs
His children pale and thin,
rubber boots stuffed with extra socks and scraps of material

Time is just a social construct,
he says,
yawning,
stretching,
smiling.

The “lull” in the production schedule of TSGW didn’t turn out to be much of a break. My grandmother unexpectedly passed away two weeks ago, and James and I flew to Ontario to be there for the funeral arrangements and the funeral. Along with my Great-Aunt Elizabeth and mother, I gave a eulogy to my grandmother. She was an amazing lady; full of life, love, faith and courage. Among all the words I have ever written, the sentences I wrote for my grandmother, to express divine thanks for being who she was and for leaving us with a legacy of love, were some of the most meaningful to me.

So now I am back in Vancouver, separated from family once again, staring at my lengthy “to do” list for TSGW. It hardly seems to matter when I feel the great loss of my Grandma. (And to be honest, I could very easily do without all this blasted publicity and production work.)

There is still joy, however, when I rehearse or write: I’m a child at the beach, red plastic shovel in hand, mud sticks to my limbs, and the heat of the sun, centre of the physical universe, is a warm hand on my bare back, the wind an old, familiar dog that scampers across sand. And I dig. I dig because it’s delightful. And maybe I cry a little while I dig. But it still feels right.

If you’re not in the theatre business, you’re probably asking yourself, “what the heck is a dramaturg?” A dramaturg can be many things; an editor, researcher, encouraging critic, and even director. My dramaturg, Kathy Parsons, is a story guide and structure analyst. She looks at the overall journey of my characters, their needs and wants, and works to strengthen character and plot. She will often draw out existing but weak plot points and suggest that I make them clearer.

For instance, a few weeks ago, Kathy spread before me several pages of graphs and charts. Basically, the charts and Kathy’s analysis showed that one of my character’s journeys was not clear. Questions were asked, such as: “What does — really want?”, “What does — overcome?” and “How does — grow or change?”. The character’s story was very muddled; was it about becoming independent from her mother or about dealing with the disappearance of a dream or about the journey from blaming others to seeing herself as responsible? I walked away from the dramaturgy session overwhelmed with questions, my mind churning with possible answers.

Part of my artistic process is actually not thinking about my work. It seems that while I go for a walk, converse with ESL students, hang out with friends and spend time with James, my sub-conscious turns gears. Suddenly, at some point during Easter weekend, I knew what Ava’s story was. (The solution seemed to drop down from the sky like a gift strewn from an ally plane during war-time. It really did seem to “thud” as it hit the ground of my mind.) I quickly jotted down the essence of the journey, which wasn’t any of the possibilities I’d previously thought of listed above, and went back to enjoying my Easter weekend. Monday morning, I began to write, aware of what mistakes my character had to make, what she wanted and needed, and where her journey had to go.

If Kathy had never charted my writing and honestly shown me that my character’s journey was unclear, the story would have stayed muddy. It would have been produced and performed, and people would have walked out of the theatre wondering, “What the heck was that one girl’s story all about?”. Now, there is a strong, tangible, and beautiful tale for this character; one that captured my heart, and will hopefully enthrall yours.

Kathy does more than simply save my play from peril. She also finds books for me to conduct my research, guides my eye to key images and elements within the play, provides feedback about any changes that I make, and encourages the best in my play.

So, thank you Kathy. You rock!

Whew! It’s been a long time since I last wrote. I am now a produced playwright. Two of my one acts went up last week – BROKEN THINGS and NORMAL. It was a lot of work. Some 14 hour days, only taking one day a week off for two months, and last week I stupidly didn’t even take Sunday off and paid for it by feeling on the edge of burn-out. God designed Sabbath for a good reason!

I think the plays went very well. The acting was open and honest, the directing of BROKEN THINGS was visionary and aesthetically pleasing (I directed NORMAL, so I can’t comment on the directing of that piece!), the lighting was effective. And a good number of people were touched. Some friends told me two days later that they were “haunted” by BROKEN THINGS. One woman told me that she felt like she held her breath through the entire show. For me, the fact that it may have been a faulty script and that my own directing may not have been the strongest, doesn’t outweigh that most people seemed genuinely affected by the two plays somehow. James really encouraged me by saying that people in the audience got to excercise compassion during the two plays, and were given the chance to vicariously experience a situation they may have been unaware of.

Was it worth two months of not having a life? I would say yes. Next time I produce two plays – in March – I won’t direct one, do all the media/publicity and work at re-writes at the same time. I think my husband would appreciate that….

He: baby fat black, speckled nose.
Dark twilight eyes, unquarried granite
Infant separate
Up and down the wood he slides,flippers slip
Waves spill plump body, milk from upset glass

He clings, but restless ocean
Knows no tenderness
like breast of mother

Rot shelf lumber chosen bode
But sea is cranky, rushes towards young smooth skin and fur
Exhausted, moving weary through water
Desperate barks from wet abdomen
Where is mother? Where…where….?

I turn, peach pit throat
Will myself unknowing
of this;
typical ocean story

veins coursing red, languid
kite in wind, loosely flapping
wind sudden, spins vicious, backhanded
snap!
trees bend in on selves, bowing prostrate
blood in veins, ribbons of warmth
sharpen, tighten
taut pointed icicles
hooked, reeled

Inside chest
a clamp,
wills itself unfisted
dreams
of space,
flop and flip
return to salt water
a kite flapping loosely
in wind