Play Time

Tension mounts as my editor and I make final decisions about layout and design. So many little details required to bring a manuscript into publishing form. What kind of font do I want, and should it be consistent throughout? What do I want the first letter of each new chapter to look like? How about point size? Will my target audience (many of us in bifocals now) be able to comfortably read a 12 point? What about the size of the book? Can it be easily stashed in a bag or purse to be carted about for moments of leisure reading, or stress-reduction reading while waiting in a long line at the bank? Will the cover convey enough to grab the reader’s attention? What about the colors? Do they catch the eye? On and on.

As exciting as all this is, I find it stresses my body. My shoulders inch up toward my earlobes; my breathing is shallow; my hands are clammy. There’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait after each decision. I need a distraction. Ah, I’ve got just the thing. I’ve always wanted to learn to write a 10-minute play—they’re big out here at the moment.

I send an e-mail to my writer’s group list-serve: Anyone have any pointers on how to write a 10-minute play? In a day or two, I’m bombarded with all sorts of wonderful tips and information, resources and leads. Okay, now I’m engaged. Book? What book? For better or worse, here’s my first attempt. Disregard formatting; the translation was lost in the cut/paste process to my blog. Hope you enjoy:


PERSPECTIVE


CHARACTERS
Jen/Blaire (same actor)
Martin/Stanley (same actor)
Beautiful Woman

PLACE
The couple’s kitchen

TIME
Early morning

(MARTIN is dressed in a business suit, briefcase in hand, and is ready to leave for work. JEN wears a tattered housecoat and slippers. She sits at the table. Her hair is in rollers and she holds a mug of coffee.)

JEN: I’m sorry about last night, okay? I’m just not feeling it. (Pause) I’m trying . . .really, I am, but—

MARTIN: (He turns to her.) I know you are. I think it might be time to get professional help.

JEN: Therapy? (Beat.) You think I need to see a therapist? We can’t afford that . . .unless I get a job, that is.

MARTIN: Jen, we’ve talked about this. The last time you tried to work, you fell into a pit of depression.

JEN: I was working at K-Mart, for God’s sake.

MARTIN: We’ll figure something out. (He bends, kisses her on top of her head.) I’ll see you this evening.

(MARTIN exits. JEN blows her nose, wipes at her eyes. JEN extracts a phone book from a nearby table and thumbs through the Yellow Pages. She lifts the receiver on the phone and dials.)

JEN: Hello, my name is Jennifer Walsh, and I’m looking for a part-time position. (Pause) Yes, I have hostess experience. (Pause) A Masters Degree. I studied and lived abroad for several years. (Pause) Currently? (JEN sighs.) I’m a housewife. I’d really like to do something a little more meaningful. (Pause) You are? That’s wonderful. Yes, I’d like very much to come in for an interview. (Pause) Would it be terribly rude of me to ask what this job pays? (Pause) It does? (She flashes a big Victory sign in the air.) Thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow. (Stage goes dark.)

(The next morning, MARTIN and JEN sit at the breakfast table. MARTIN reads the paper. JEN is dressed and her hair is brushed. She quietly eats a bowl of cereal. MARTIN puts down the newspaper and looks at her. JEN averts her eyes.)

MARTIN: I have a meeting I expect will run late tonight. I’ll catch a bite at the office. No need to wait up.

JEN: Okay.

(MARTIN scoots his chair back, grabs his coat and briefcase, kisses JEN on the top of her head and leaves. JEN quickly clears the table and dashes out of the room.)

(Stage goes dark. Next scene is at MARTIN’s office. He’s at his desk, and turns to the audience.)

MARTIN: I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. I swear, she’s just turned into a cold fish in bed. (Pause.) A co-worker of mine suggested I start seeing an escort. He did that when his marriage started to slump, and it helped him through. (Pause) I don’t know . . .I’ve never been unfaithful to Jen. (Pause) Although, he said it didn’t involve sex, just some affection. I mean, is that too much to ask? A little affection and understanding?

(Stage goes dark. The next scene is an upscale parlor. A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN welcomes MARTIN into the room.)

BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Good evening, Stanley. I’m so glad you’re here.

(BEAUTIFUL WOMAN leads STANLEY to a plush couch and hands him a glass of champagne. She takes his credit card. Soft music plays in the background.)

BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Blaire right out.

(BEAUTIFUL WOMAN exits from a door behind MARTIN.)

(Moments later, JEN, dressed to the nines, wearing evening make-up, and a fancy coiffed wig, enters, approaches MARTIN from behind,slides her hands sensually down his neck and over his shoulders,nuzzles the back of his head.)

JEN: (Whispers seductively.) Good evening, Stanley. My name is Blaire, and I look forward to spending the evening with you.

(MARTIN turns to face her and recognizes JEN immediately. Both face the audience in a moment of shock. Turning toward each other, neither registers recognition on their face.)

(BLAIRE slithers around in front of STANLEY, sits on his lap, and gazes lovingly into his eyes.)

BLAIRE: Tell me something about yourself, Stanley.

STANLEY: I know it sounds like a cliché, but I don’t think my wife understands me. I don’t feel like she finds me attractive anymore.

BLAIRE: (Strokes STANLEY’S cheek as he speaks.) A handsome, well-built man as yourself? What’s not to find attractive? (BLAIRE leans back and makes a slow, visual assessment of STANLEY.) You’re obviously a man of means and good taste. Why, any woman would find you desirable, Stanley.

STANLEY: The only woman I really care about is my wife, and she no longer wants to make love with me. (STANLEY looks suddenly abashed.) Oh, no offense. I mean, you’re absolutely beautiful—stunning, in fact.

BLAIRE: We women are temperamental creatures, Stanley. We need to feel valued and appreciated, for more than just our abilities to manage a household, or put food on the table.

STANLEY: Oh, I do appreciate her. She’s brilliant—much more educated than I am, really. She’s a great conversationalist. And funny—we used to laugh so hard over the smallest things. (STANLEY looks away, lost in thought for a moment.) She’s detail oriented, excellent with money management, can multi-task like nobody’s business, and she’s beautiful.

BLAIRE: She sounds rather amazing.

STANLEY: She is rather amazing, now that I think about it.

BLAIRE: Have you told her that lately? (BLAIRE now straddles STANLEY and moves suggestively closer.)

STANLEY: (STANLEY runs his hands slowly up her sides and over BLAIRE’S breasts, and draws her even closer.) No, but I will. I promise, I will. (They kiss.)

(Stage goes dark. Next scene is in the couple’s kitchen the next morning. MARTIN is in robe and slippers, and JEN is in a sexy robe and slippers. Her hair is brushed. They hold hands over the breakfast table, gaze into each others eyes.)

MARTIN: Last night was wonderful, sweetheart. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed making love to you.

JEN: It was, wasn’t it? I’ve missed you too. I don’t know what changed. All of a sudden, whatever was blocking me seemed to just drift away.

(They smile, lean over the table to kiss. They sit back down to finish their coffee.)

The End

Some Thoughts on Bicycling

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. When my physician asked me how much exercise I get a day, I said I usually bicycle or walk daily, for twenty minutes to half an hour. For a “senior” that doesn’t sound so bad. Then again, my friends are out on the tennis courts, or whacking balls on the golf course, or long-distance bike riding, or hiking up mountains . . .

So let me explain myself. I do actually prefer biking over driving when I can. No gas to buy, no pesky parking places to look for, and I can navigate through traffic quickly on bike. It takes longer to get somewhere, yes—actually, it takes MUCH longer the way I do it.

I bike much like I walk. And I meander, or lollygag, more than walk. So in twenty minutes or half an hour, though it seems like a good commitment to physical exercise, I don’t really get all that far, and I doubt if my heart rate would reflect “aerobic.” BUT . . .

Let me tell you about the sensual joys of moving slowly through the world—particularly at night when the drier, warmer smells of day are done, and evening moisture awakens subtle aromas. As much as I dread winter, when it’s dark before I even leave work, I’ve found that I treasure those slow night rides home on my bike.

In the evening, the settling-in smells carry on the moist night air—a roast in someone’s oven activates my salivary glands; the green smell of wood shavings from a neighbor’s remodel project reminds me of the houses my grandpa used to build when I was a child; the boughs of a cedar tree I pass under are reminiscent of my grandmothers hope chest at the end of her bed; the smell of burning logs in a fireplace is a quintessential expression of hearth and home coziness. The earth takes on a mushroomy aroma at night, and the scent of fog as it moves inland reminds me of cooked rice.

Also, in the evening you can see cars coming a whole lot easier. And the stars—oh my; on bike it’s like riding under a sparkling canopy. One evening I was so mesmerized by all the twinkling, I risked a prolonged look at the night sky and whammed right into a dark blue recycling bin left sitting a couple feet from the curb. Lesson learned—now I stop to star gaze.

The scents of day have their own imprint as I lazily ride the distance between work and home. In the morning, I catch a whiff of bacon as I pass by a neighbor’s home. There’s a collective smell of “traffic” during the commute hours. Dryer sheets scent the air from someone doing an early load of laundry. Narcissus, reminiscent of kindergarten paste, wafts up from the borders of the sidewalk.

Then there’s the sheer joy of being on my bike, a fifty-eight year old Schwinn that I got when I was seven. At that time, the bicycle weighed more than I did. Somehow, it survived decades of cousins learning to ride, and returned to me via my parent’s shed when I was an adult.

Originally mint green and lavender, it has undergone a couple of repaints—including Pepto Bismo-pink—and is currently a lovely sea-green. There’s a synergy that happens when I climb onto the seat now (how did I ever reach the pedals when my legs were child-length?). I become a slightly zany old woman chuckling with delight at having her old friend back in her life, and at the same time, I am that innocent child given her first taste of freedom that only a bicycle can provide. Ah, the memories we’ve shared.

There’s something good to be said about relics—the human and the mechanical kind. We’re living pieces of history moving through the world. I’ve been stopped many times at the grocery, or the laundromat, or just on a street corner by adults who with a smile of reminiscence say, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid,” or teenagers who muse, “Wow, they don’t make those anymore, do they?”

No gears, no fancy hand brakes. Just life at a slower, easier pace, the way it was meant to be lived.

Only Child

I’m beginning to see the value in having been an only child for the first five years of my life. I learned how to entertain myself.

I’m no longer an only child, but as an adult, although I live by myself, I’m never lonely. If I’m bored, or have extra time on my hands, I pull out my box of collage materials (discreetly ripped from magazines at the laundromat, or waiting rooms, or used calendars, or old greeting cards—there’s no end, really, to the sources of art).

I’d just finished trimming into a neat rectangle a piece of Victoriana from a magazine, all in shades of pink and peach, with roses, antique teapot and cups, lace—you know, real girly stuff.

I remembered a friend who used to refer to herself as a “bull in a china shop,” due to her ample size and questionable coordination.

A grin spread across my face as I dug deeper into the box and extracted just the right clipping—a little brown mouse in a crash helmet—and glued it to the background of delicate breakables. That was good for several minutes of chuckles. Actually, it still makes me smile, and it’s days later.

Keepin’ Those Plates in the Air

It’s January already, and I’m feeling the pressure of writing a new blog entry when my mind is in a zillion different places. A friend sent this picture of the beautiful area we live in here in California. It reminds me of Part 2 of my novel, Best Laid Plans(see Nov. 10, 2011 post), that I’ll be publishing this year—the setting is on two acres of unproductive vineyard land. Imagine you’re on another hill in front of this picture looking down. Great location for a recovery house for female ex-felons, right? How could a bunch of creepy things happen in such a beautiful place? Stay tuned.

So, that’s one excuse for not attending to the blog more regularly—I’m waiting for the edits on Part 2, and working with a cover artist to capture just the right imagery for a cozy mystery that doesn’t want to take itself too very seriously. We’re awfully, awfully close.

Excuse No. 2 is pulling together a band to perform my metaphysical blues piece, Start Where You Are Today, which will be performed in concert March 17. It’s thrilling to hear a bunch of notes I’ve put on a page, along with some lyrics underneath, transform themselves into a real song with the help of some amazingly talented musicians. I get all kid-in-candy-shop excited listening to them grapple with chord progressions and rhythm shifts.

And then, there’s learning new music for choir, staying in touch with friends and family, spending time with the greatest little grandtwins in the world. . .oh, yeah, and work—we can’t forget work.

One day soon, I’ll get back on track. Until then, please follow whatever creative inspiration speaks to you. I can’t think of a better use of time.

Second Bloom

It’s December, the month I sit down with my current calendar and transfer notes, birthdays, reminders onto the pages of the new year’s calendar. The space heater is on, the steam rises from a cup of ginger tea that sits next to a warmed-up biscuit on an antique plate from my grandmother—the one with tiny pink roses circling the edge. The sky is blue, and deceptively sunny. No warmth reaches the ground.

I’m on July, 2012 now, and in careful lettering with my special blue-ink pen, I write “Wisteria, 2nd bloom,” on the calendar page. I smile in anticipation as I mark this reminder that summer will come again, regardless of the weather at the moment. I feel excitement knowing that next July I will inhale the scent of these beautiful clusters of fragrant purple blossoms that will drip from the greenery overhead, just outside my window.

I have two azalea plants. One blooms in the spring, big, bright, beautiful red blossoms. This I’ve marked in May. The other, with smaller, perfect pink petals, blooms mid-September. Why? I haven’t a clue. I planted them the same time in celebration of a novella I had just published, Waltzing With the Azaleas. The flowers continue to bloom—the book has stopped selling. Such is life.

The days, months, years go so much faster now than once they did. Babies are born, friends and family die, the cycle of life spins along as it did before I arrived, and as it will after I’m gone. I’ve buried both parents, an event I spent the better part of a lifetime dreading. From the vantage point of being old(er) myself now, it wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. There’s an order to life, and death is part of it.

The leaves have mostly all dropped like deflated parachutes from the trees that border my cottage. With sadness, I remember a story about someone waiting to die until the last leaf falls from the tree. I can’t remember how it ends, but the poignancy stays with me—I keep thinking that someone glued the last leaf, but the person died anyway. Some things are unavoidable, despite our best attempts at controlling circumstances.

And, as the leaves drop, turn brown, and become mulch, the new pale green buds on my lilac bush dare to raise their heads in careless optimism. As the last of my basil blackens in the early morning frost, the primary colors of the primrose defiantly beam their radiance up at me from their terra cotta pots, undaunted by the winter wind and rain, or the expectations of the season.

At The Whim of the Muses

Some writer friends and I were talking about what drives us to write. We agreed that for whatever reason, we cannot not write, but the motivations were varied. For one writer, there are definite stories she wants to tell. Crafting the storyline, inter-weaving the plots is ultimately satisfying for her. For another, he wishes to create an income doing something he loves—something he’s proud of. He searches for stories that have not been told, many times the behind the scene stories of a headline news article.

We agreed that there were probably as many reasons to write, as writers. “And you?” they ask me.

It seems that I am at the whim of the muses. I write stories out of the universal consciousness as the characters call to me. For one of my novellas, I was shown a mental picture of a small boy standing in front of a mirror, drizzling strands of Christmas tinsel over his head to make him a beautiful woman. He needed me to help him through a sex change later in his life. Before that, the word reincarnation wrapped itself around my brain and wouldn’t let go until I finished a book about an unrequited lesbian love affair in the1700s, England. In a short story, a woman with multiple personalities needed a hand it getting out of an abusive relationship, and begged me to write her an escape route. In a collection of short stories, the theme of returning home kept emerging. In one of those, a young girl from the bayou hitchhiked across country to “find herself” in San Francisco so she could return home to take over the business she was to inherit. Without that quest, she would have lived a quietly miserable life, trapped in a go-nowhere existence. In another, a young Miwok girl beckoned me with mental picture of herself and her younger brother picking blueberries in a field. The girl is stolen and raised in another tribe, and fights for her life to return to her people. It amazed me how many versions of returning home there actually were when I began listening to the characters.

There appears to be no rhyme or reason to what I write—I just show up when I’m called.

Creative Manifestation

There was a time in my life when I was faced with quitting a particularly physical job for the sake of my pregnancy. Everything about my life was about to change with the birth of my daughter, so it seemed like a good time to re-evaluate the space into which I was bringing this new life-form. In hindsight, I think of this as my hedonist period.

It started with bag balm. For those of you who’ve been pregnant, you know the relief this can bring to stretching skin. For those of you who haven’t, imagine cow udders massaged in a balm that would relieve the pressure and swelling of constant milk production and extraction. Yeow. Bag balm spawned the desire for other body pleasure/necessity products: soothing oils, lotions, gentle soaps, herbal toothpaste, scented shampoo. . .

One of my favorite spots on earth was the Berkeley Body Shop. I had moved up from Berkeley a couple years earlier, and when homesick for the chaos of city living (at that time, we were living on the side of a mountain, miles from anything, next to a burbling creek, surrounded by trees), I’d drive a couple hours south and spend the day in my old Berkeley haunts. The Body Shop was a place that met the needs of all my senses (yes, there were even edible massage oils). I used to dream of having a life surrounded by this sort of luxury, as I would pay for one bar of exquisite smelling hand-milled soap, or one carefully chosen bottle of scented lotion.

Pregnancy for me was a hugely inspired, creatively filled endeavor. When I quit my job, I decided to open my own retail business, selling all those scrumptious products I was driving to Berkeley to buy, one at a time. I’ve always been a learn-by-doing sorta gal, so with the help of my then-husband, I launched into a mad information gathering quest, learned how to do business proposals, a fictitious business statement, advertising, how to deal with wholesalers, keep records, price and display products.

We were putting the final coat of stain on the double Dutch shop door the day before I went into labor. Three days after my daughter was born, we opened up shop. My daughter had a special place on top of the counter, and a small quiet room for uninterrupted naps as needed. We were surrounded by luxury. In good weather, the top doors were open, allowing scents to waft seductively onto the street. New Age music welcomed people into the shop. Incense, music, scented soap, thirty different fragrances in bulk that could be used to scent lotions, shampoos, massage oils, shaving lotions, bubble bath, individual essential oils, jewelry, East Indian clothing, baskets, gift packages, lip balms, natural make up, hair brushes, foot massage products, Reflexology charts—virtually everything to soothe or stimulate the senses—could be found in this little haven of hedonism.

It became a hub, a center, a gathering point for like-minded people, breaking the isolation that often comes with new motherhood. Local artists displayed their work. It became an information distribution center for events in the community. It became a drop-in, safe and welcoming haven for patients from the nearby state hospital who were on day pass. It became “that place where the baby is growing up.” By the time my daughter was two, I was known about town as, “the Scent Shoppe baby’s mother.”

Fast forward a few decades. I sold the shop when my daughter was five, and returned to the university to finish my education. My life reinvented itself, as life does, although I didn’t lose touch completely with the word of scents. I went through a period of fascination with medicinal essential oils for healing. I’m partial to using Frankincense for removing skin tags. You want to know what you’re doing before you try this, or you’ll damage your skin. Geranium oil is good for those pesky fungal conditions and antibacterial needs. My favorite is an oil (blend) that reportedly was used back in the days of the Black Plague to boost the immune system.

Life moved on, and I got distracted with a host of other interests. I gave away my collection of oils and books on healing.

Recently, a friend passed along a recipe for foaming hand soap using essential oils, and I found myself returning to this old passion, the desire to bring a little luxury into my life. If you’re feeling particularly hedonistic and adventurous, here’s what you’ll need:

A foaming pump bottle. The only place I could find these where you didn’t have to order in lots of 1,000 was BottlesandFoamers.com on-line. They’re very reasonable—a little over a dollar each. Into this bottle, fill ½ your container with Dr. Bronner’s unscented liquid soap (most health stores carry this, some in bulk); ¼ your container with filtered water, and 1/8 your container with an oil of your choice (jojoba, olive, almond, etc.). Add your favorite essential oil—a few drops or more, your choice. Shake gently to blend. The pump will do the rest. It creates a luxurious, scented, foaming soap worthy of anyone on your Christmas gift list. Or, perhaps, just for yourself.