No Excuses

The teeth can say nothing without the tongue...
Because your tongue is mine! Mine! MINE!

These are the closing lyrics to Violenza Domestica, by Mr Bungle, the 1980's experimental band from Eureka, California.  Some people seem to have taken said lyrics literally.

I am one of those people.

Would you like to be one of those people, too?  Would you like to be like me, to do everything I do?  If you're reading this blog, I can only assume you are intelligent enough to answer, "yes." 

Fair enough, but you're going to have some difficulty following in my footsteps, because for the next 72 hours, they will be choreographed.  If you haven't been at rehearsal, you're not going to know where to step.^   I know, I know.  You didn't know about rehearsals.  You weren't cast in this show.  You don't live in this city.  All standard excuses, but I'm not accepting them.  Because I could be making excuses, too.

I'm not a dancer.  My hips don't work.  I had never heard of Mr Bungle.

So let's both quit with the bullshit and just show up this Tuesday at Martyr's, all right?  I'll be there at 6:30, but the dancin' doesn't begin until 8.

"But I don't even know anything about this show . . ."

No.  If you are the first to click on the first link in this entry, you will win a FREE BEHIND THE SCENES SNEAK PREVIEW of the show.

"But I didn't get a personal invite to the show . . ." 

No.  If you are the first to click on this link, you will get your very own invite to the show!

"But I don't have any money."

No.  If you are the first to contact me, you will win a free ticket to the event.  And you will

Dance with me
I want to be your partner. 
Can't you see?

But I won't sing.  I'll leave that to Mr Bungle.*

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^ First is the entrance looking all sexy-like (11 counts).  Then, there's the back-and-forth head thing  (5 counts).  Then there's the pose for 2 counts, followed by the middle couple spinning, followed by our spin.  Then, we tango (kind of) in every direction.  Then . . . You know what?  Just come Tuesday and try to follow along. 

* "But I've never heard of Mr Bungle . . ."

Fifty Tints of Beaver (Chapter Two)

Fifty Tints of Beaver

Chapter Two

Part One

I had seen the postman from a distance, but I’d never known his name.  We’d never had reason to come in contact.  We’d never been close enough to feel the energy of each other, to let each other’s silent pheromones speak in their evolutionary code.  Now I’m staring at him through the door frame.  It’s drizzling, and his soft sky blue uniform clings to his legs.  He has a nice figure.  I can tell that he walks his route.  Neither rain nor sleet nor . . . How does that go?  I can’t think straight right now.  His arms, tanned from the weather, drive down to his wrists, which confidently grasp a brown box.  He’s holding his package, and he’s about to give it to me.  His package is about to become my package. 

“Mrs Forester?”

I snap out of my daze.  “Ms,” I stammer.  “Ms Forester.”  I swear I see a glimmer in his eye. 

“Could you sign here?”  His bold step forward with an electronic pen and pad contradicts his politeness.  There’s a rawness to this man, the same rawness I saw in Arabelline when she devoured her tuna.  He masks it, but I can see through.  I take my own bold step forward, out into the rain. 

“I  . . . I didn’t know the postal service was using these,” I manage to say.  He laughs.  “FedEx doesn’t have it all,” he says.  “Only for special packages, though.  You know.”  I don’t know, but I want to hear more.  God, he may as well be winking at me.

“I don’t even remember what I ordered,” I tell him.  I ordered baking supplies.  This package is full of assorted creams.  That’s why I have to sign for it.  It’s one of those special refrigerated deals.

“It’s one of those special refrigerated deals,” he says.

 “I was just thinking that,” I say back.  We stand for a minute.  My lips tremble.  He laughs.  He’s nervous.  I’m making him nervous.  Aren’t I? 

“Well,” he says. 

“Florence,” I chime in, extending my hand.

“Florence Forester?” he asks.

“My maiden name is O’Neil.  I just haven’t gone back to it.  Yet.”  He nods. “Legal stuff.  You get that.” Is he younger than me?  I can’t tell.  He keeps himself in such good shape.  Should I tell him more?   “Well,” he says again.  “Have a good day.”  He walks away.  I ogle, now completely shameless.  I want to call back to him, but instead I watch him disappear down the useless suburban street.   

I close the door and fall back against it with a sigh.  Oh my God.  What is happening to me?  I feel like a school girl.  I’m so . . . Oh my God.  I’m so wet.  I kick off my shoes, soaked with the drizzle.  I should have invited him in.  Better, I should have let him take me there on the porch.  No one was out on the street.  Even if they were.  Even if they saw us.  Even if they watched him ravage me in my front yard, if they witnessed us, covered in mud and grass, rolling in the unmowed lawn, tearing away uniform and oversized sweatpants alike.  So what?  So what if they observed every minute of his dark brown fingers weaving in between my pale white ones while he pressed against me, crushing my pleasantly helpless body between man of stone and earth so soft?  So what if the neighbors strolled past the imprints each day after our communion?  The marks our bodies left would form a moat of passion.   I would order cream every day inside my virgin castle, and every day I would pray for rain.  And every day my knight would return to take me again.  Beaver Lane would envy us. 

I scold myself for my fantasies.  Bad girl.  You didn’t even get his name. 

Humilidad

Empezaba èsta entrada en español.

It took me almost twenty minutes to write that sentence, and I still can't remember which alt-# combination it takes to make an ì.  I mean an ñ.  There it is.^

Back in August, I auditioñed for the eñsemble of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Bliñd, the longest ruññing show in Chicago.  The aftermath is well documented. 

I commented in an email:

"So there it is."

This past week, Barrel of Monkeys held annual auditions.  As they were only auditioning for Spanish speakers, minorities, and musiciañs, I did not participate.  Twenty-two local performers were cast.  Clearly, none of them are me. 

A friend commented in email:

"Maybe the universe is telling you to zig instead of zag."  

This past weekend, I spent 6 hours in Spanish conversation classes* classified as "intermediate."  I frequently had to ask the instructor to repeat himself.  I couldn't pronounce or remember the word "vegetariano."  I couldn't say such basic things as "never mind" and "either."

I commented under my breath:

Ay, Dios mio.  

Last year, a friend commented about a piece I'd written:

"Cleverness is great, but I think sometimes it's easy to use cleverness to cover up truth."  

Last month, a friend wrote into a performance piece:

"I believe being an actor means showing honesty and vulnerability on stage."

I said to myself:

"Maybe I am done with this."

I thought to myself:

"Scary." 

. . . 


Yesterday, I agreed to perform in the November installment of TV Reruns at Mary's Attic.

Yesterday, I began writing for a two-person performance in the winter.

Yesterday, I booked a performance with my esteemed colleagues "Tea, Jake, and Dave" for tomorrow night.  At 8 pm, I will be improvising a 10 minute solo piece at The Atlantic.  I haven't done that for at least four years.

Yesterday, I signed up for a December Spanish class considered "Advanced."

I'm saying to myself:

"What the hell am I doing?  Haven't I learned anything from my failure?'

Me estoy preguntando:

"¿De què tengo miedo?"

And I got that upside down question mark right on the first try.  Like this:

½

Oops.

Vulnerability, indeed.

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^ I now know what the NUM LOCK key on my keyboard is for. 

* Yes, I know.  The wonderful secrets about me just keep on coming as you peel away the e-layers!