Okay, before we get started, an update. The dandelion wine bubbles away yet. Saturday could possibly be the day I will drain the flotsam, strain it and then seal it away in some somewhat clean jars. I cleaned out the pickle jar– it’s gallon-sized– for my wine endeavors. Grandpa!! I made some wine! My first sip is for you.
I have almost sixty pages written on a NEW PLAY. Ugh a bug in a elitist rug! Whee and whoopee and yippee skippee. What’s worse is how much I’m enjoying writing it. I should be dredging the burned French fry remains of my toxic soul and instead I’m skimming the airs around me as lightly as some lead-footed butterfly, giggling to myself, giggling foully to myself. O woe is me, O Israel, I am giggling. I was working on the Tales of Beastface Bay and kinda smacked up against a rock wall with a Christmas-ish tale. I’d written enough about that imaginary coastal region for a bad novel, anyway, hello!
I don’t know what the Honest Women could be classified as. It took a decidedly weird turn at the end of Act One. I wrote a rather conventional and staid little Act One ending, with no idea where this play is ‘going’. It has no BIG TRAJECTORY that will WIN IT PRIZES. But then again, people argue that Waiting for Godot...and right there I start screaming and throwing things, like a monkey with a crack baby on its back. Am I comparing myself to Beckett?? Oh the horror!! Is my arrogance at composing conversation infecting me like a French pox?? [I hope not. Shudder. French pox.] What it does have is FEMALE CHARACTERS. Lots of em. Heaps o’gals. So many gals! It’s an all-gal salad with all-gal dressing. I feel you pulling away, gentle raindrops.
What that has to do with my whimpering that Beckett’s plays resemble still life escapes me at the moment. [I just felt a disturbance in the force as Beckett fans got a throbbing headache because someone somewhere DOESN’T LIKE BECKETT. Excuse me, I have to backtrack and assure them, yes, Beckett was a fine playwright, it’s okay now, shhh, relax. Shhh. It’s okay. Godot’s not coming today, yes, it’s brilliant. Let mama make you some lemonade.] Oh!! Yeah. Because my play just tap dances instead of drudges through Swan Lake like a good little trouper. Um. It’s one of those splatter paintings instead of a landscape with every leaf painted on the patient willow trees. Better?
Yeah, so it will never get produced, probably. I did keep the bad words to a sickening minimum and I make fun of feminism, hell, and liberals. Sometimes all in one sentence. I also make fun of anti-feminists, heaven and conservatives! No one is sacred, no one is safe. A woman makes out with a suitcase. That’s how Act Two starts. My brain is still waiting for me to thank it, probably with a gift card to Yankee Candle.
Because is there a better-smelling store?? If I get to go anywhere after death, I’m hoping whatever deity adopts me lets me sniff candles in the afterlife candle stores or whatever’s out there. Maybe fill my worship hut with Midsummer’s Night, my favorite. I’ll sing all the hymns, in tune, if my worship hut smells like dark summer skies. I’ll just put that out into the universe. I’ll let you know how it works out, of course.
Play! The play is the thing. I’ve been writing rather kitchen sink plays lately– you know, stark gritty reality, ABC linear blah blurgh blah. Now, granted, this play is a bit linear, but it does bulge alarmingly into other territories. I feel so arty! I feel artistic and special! I’m breaking barriers and exploring NEW FORMS and talking about THE ISSUES OF THE DAY AND THE TERRORS THAT INFUSE THE VERY PLANET. Wow, don’t you now want to sit through my play?? Who doesn’t want a bunch of gals screeching about rights for three hours while barely moving and wearing high heels to show they don’t hate men? [Just kidding!]
I really am taking the toxic [everything seems toxic right now. The entire world seems sick from a case of Toxic Shock Syndrome because the collective tampon got left in a bit too long. Eeeh, gross, she said tampon. That’s right, rabbit, I sure did.] sludge of talk, slurs, slings and arrows and forcing them to trot across my pages like good little ponies. If ponies were made of words, of course. They’re not, I checked. Oooh…I saw this short video today [stop, it does not contain cats or a racist rant from some half-drunk Wal-Mart shopper] on horses. Apparently, they’re treated better than 98% of the humans on this planet. They have their own barn and live ‘free’. As they’re not racing over the high desert hard pan as skinny as rails, well, they’re pampered lap dogs in actuality. Anyhoo!!
The horses, shock o shock, were shown FARTING AND SNORING. I know!! Horses fart and snore?? Yeah, there really wasn’t a giant revelation here. It was just these incredibly spoiled and shiny horses snoozing and letting out long, gurgling anus belches. It was funny and soothing. After hearing all day that the Tangerine Vader thought he had invented the phrase ‘prime the pump’ and that it had fired Comey over how Clinton had been treated…I needed some horse anus belches.
Which is probably why this play seems eager to leap almost whole from my fevered writhing brain.
If you’re a writer [isn’t everyone a fucking writer these days?? Everyone on the entire planet has one of these blog thingies. Hashtag WeAreAllBloggers] then you know those times when the words just gush. Maybe you don’t.
Maybe you’re one of those writers that writes five pages every day, no more, no less, like a writing machine. Those sorts of writers fill me with a whiny sort of “Mmm, okay, whatever, dude. I just found an entire season of Wonderfalls on youtube. I’m watching that instead of working on my Victorian era time traveling steampunk YA dino-human romance flash fiction attempt for this contest I found over on Craigslist.”
My brain seems stuck on overdrive. Which is a bit scary. As a crash is coming and it seems harder and harder to recover from those crashes. Enough of those serious thoughts! I wrote a post-American Empire feminist scream against the dying of the light! Wheee. Well, it’s mostly written. I plan to celebrate the Fin [see Beckett, bwha ha ha] of the Honest Women with a giant tumbler of, hopefully, drinkable and won’t send me to the ER, homemade dandelion wine. Viva la playwright!
Oh…an excerpt? Should I? Dare I? I dare, I dare! From my latest writing project, the HONEST WOMEN. This is first draft fun, my gentle readers!!
That is great advice for followers and sheep. And merpers. Merp merp.
[ Silence. She goes to the table, takes up a magazine.]
I think we should try being honest. Women are never honest. We can’t be. Not even when we’re alone. It’s not safe.
Safe? You’re worried about safe? Now?? They did something to the virgin and they dragged off the rebel. Stop being precious and concentrate on the here and now. We’ve got problems to solve!
I think you should play along, Ulva. Or the Garbage Hags can come get you, too. Doesn’t it seem nicer with that trash dragged out of here, Manda? Why don’t you go into a monologue about the virtues of taking the trash out. Boom! And talk about the good ole days where no one cussed and no one did drugs. Where everyone went to church and loved the flag and ate pie. Make it a good one. Make it a barn burner. Make people burst into tears and send checks to politicians to make America great again.