and the lights down on main street
don't shine like they used to...

... long distance

I remember I used to spend long nights

sprawled on the floor 

with my feet propped up against the wall,

or pacing on the balcony

talking on the phone with you.

we talked about sex,

politics, history, and memories.

We always talked about grand ideas

and we would always end

in a sort of limbo,

the way two people are

when they want to be together

but find themselves

on opposite sides

of the country.

But my favorite part

of every conversation,

the most intimate moment

when I truly felt

as if they miles between us had closed

and we were curled up

on the couch together talking,

was when you would pause,

always in the middle of a sentence,

and I would hear a faint little slurp

before you continued,

because for some reason

during that sentence,

you needed a sip

of wine or bourbon or coffee

and simply couldn’t go on without it.

... a play in ten minutes

Last night my roommate and I decided to go out to dinner because the reggae playing upstairs was deafening. We were all ready to go, and he remembered that he had bread in the oven (only he could forget that). So we had ten minutes until we could leave. I decided to write a play. (I should mention that I had been drinking) He gave me these items as inspiration: a design magazine, baking banana bread, and a blouse you never get to wear. Here's what I wrote, unedited:

JANELLE (36)- never gets to wear this blouse. she’s baking.

CARMICHAEL (38)- her husband. he’s reading a design magazine. he’s gay, and Janelle doesn’t know it.

CARMICHAEL- Ugh. Stripes are so out.

JANELLE- Are they? I thought stripes were always in. For spring.

CARMICHAEL - Nothing is ever always in.

            (a tiny roll of his eyes)

JANELLE - But you know, like, nautical. For spring. It’s timeless. I thought/

CARMICHAEL - Design isn’t that simple.

JANELLE -I guess nothing is.

CARMICHAEL - What’s that supposed to mean.

JANELLE - Nothing..

CARMICHAEL - Really though, what were you referring to?

JANELLE - I just. Whatever. Forget I said anything. Do you like my blouse?

CARMICHAEL- It’s very. Red.

JANELLE - I bought this, literally, two years ago, and I have never worn it.

CARMICHAEL - Seems a shame.

JANELLE – Well, that’s why I’m wearing it now.

CARMICHAEL - It’s very nice.

JANELLE - Nice?

CARMICHAEL - Yes. I like the neckline. It’s very. Flattering on you.

JANELLE - DO I need flattering?

CARMICHAEL - No, I said it was nice.

JANELLE - Thanks.

CARMICHAEL - What is it that you’re baking?

JANELLE - Banana bread!

CARMICHAEL - Why?

JANELLE - I had. We had bananas that had gone bad.

CARMICHAEL - I didn’t think you liked banana bread.

JANELLE - I don’t. I put chocolate chips it it.

CARMICHAEL - Oh thanks.

JANELLE -You know I watch out for you.

CARMICHAEL - Yes, you do.

JANELLE - And I hope that means something to you.

CARMICHAEL - Of course it does. And I watch out for you.

JANELLE - In different ways I guess.

CARMICHAEL- We’re different people.

JANELLE - Always have been.

            (long pause)
CARMICHAEL - Like, for example, I’m going to tell you that it’s probably for the best that you haven’t worn that blouse yet.

JANELLE - Really?!

CARMICHAEL - Yeah.

JANELLE - Wow.

CARMICHAEL - I love you.

JANELLE - I love you, too.

            (blackout. end of play.)

 

. . . writing every day

I have a new goal, which I am very excited about. So, I’m a writer, right? And when people find out, one of the most common things that people ask is, “Do you write every day?” I always scrunch up my face and make some bumbling reply about how I don’t have time and how the time between writing sessions actually helps me just as much as my actual writing sessions. The time helps my ideas to coalesce. Or some shit.

About six weeks ago I was invited to join a playwriting workshop. I jumped at the chance since I’ve been living in this the theatrical center of the world for nearly six months and have probably written a total of ten pages. I had had a new play kicking around in my head for a while, so I decided this would be a great time to dive in and actually write the thing. Yay!

So fast forward to last Thursday night. I have 60 pages of a new play that terrifies me in its honesty. One of the members of my group, Quincy, is a fairly accomplished playwright (much more so than I am, anyway). He is a real writer. He has no other job besides writing. How cool is that? The play he is working on in this workshop is whimsical and beautiful and poetic and weird and absolutely entertaining. We were discussing process, and our humble leader posed the question: “Quincy, do you write every day?”  He goes “yup.” For how long? “Three hours.” THREE HOURS. And our workshop leader says he usually spends about two. Or in the summers (he’s a professor) sometimes twice a day, but only two hours at a time. THAT’S FOUR HOURS IN ONE DAY.

I was also thinking about a long discussion a good friend and artistic colleague and I had about becoming an expert. They did a bunch of studies on people who are certifiable experts at things. First chair violinists. Pulitzer Prize winning writers. Prima Ballerinas. And what they had in common wasn’t natural talent or starting at age two-and-a-half, or a crazy intense drive to make it or anything as mystical and unpredictable as that. It was simply that they had spent about 10,000 hours on whatever it is they had perfected.

I write in long spurts. I blame it on the fact that I probably have ADD. That I can’t focus, and I can’t focus, and then I hyper focus. I also procrastinate, and therefore find myself power-writing and power-editing for a deadline. I’m a binge writer. And despite this, I eventually am able to put together dialogue and ideas in a believable and interesting way, and create plays that people find compelling and discussion-worthy. Which is pretty amazing, if you think about it. Especially considering that some people write three hours a day. Then I began to calculate how many days at the rate I’m going it would take to be an expert, and how many it would for Quincy. Though I suppose he’s way past the ten year mark. And  I realized I’ll  probably be dead before I reach ten thousand hours.

So I decided. I have moved across this great country to pursue a writing career. I say it all the time and I’ve been saying it for almost exactly a year. But, now that I’m here, what I actually do is work long-ass ugly hours in a long-ass ugly dress and ugly shoes. I get on the subway before the sun comes up and I get back on it after it has gone down. I avoid doing the dishes and I annoy my boyfriend with my whining and my fatigue. I lament having left my friends and family behind. I go to readings and plays and talk about all the reasons why this play or that scene is shit. I am incredulous as to how so and so got his or her shit play produced and I can’t even get mine read. (I also, for the record, revere the great plays I see and enjoy the new friends I’ve made and the new knowledge I’ve gained, but that isn’t my point.) My point is that the least I can do having moved here as a writer, is to fucking write! How can I ever expect to have any fulfillment as an artist much less success without really committing to this?? I cannot! So my new goal is simple. Write Every Day. Write something. Sit in front of my computer and stare at a scene. Muse. Edit! Write a scene that will never end up in the play. Write a poem. I’m starting small: one hour a day. Even if I don’t accomplish anything in that amount of time. In the words of Quincy, “the muse likes to see you in the chair.”

So here goes. Some days it may be impossible. But I would rather fail at this than make excuses about why I never had any success as a writer. Wish me luck! 

. . . being a grownup.

I finally understand the tragedy of Sunday night. I'm nearly 30 years old, and I've never had a "grownup" job. I've always worked irregular hours, so weekends don't have the same meaning to me that they do to other people. It took working in a restaurant in New York City for me to have a regular schedule. Weird, right?

Truthfully, the schedule isn't really regular. There's actually nothing really regular about this restaurant. More on that at a future date. Up until this week, I have had to be at work at 6:30am for the breakfast shift (this week I get to to in at 7:15, woo!). At first I was just working the breakfast shift which, naturally, ends at around noon. Now, I'm working breakfast and lunch which goes from 7:15am to 4:30 or 5:30. So long crazy busy days running in circles. But again, this is my most "regular" schedule.

In any case, it's Sunday night, and I don't think I could be any grumpier. I had a lovely weekend. I had a casual play reading yesterday in my living room which led to a great discussion and some significant changes to the script. I finished and submitted my application to the Playwright's certificate program at Juilliard. Today I saw a matinee of Once on Broadway. I ate well. I slept a lot.  I rested. My feet are just beginning to stop aching. What I really want to do is stay up late watching movies and baking Christmas cookies. But no. I have to be thinking seriously about getting into bed soon. I need to make sure my bag is ready so that I can roll out of bed and get on the train by 6:25. I need to shower and dry my hair so I don't scare the clientele at the restaurant tomorrow. I should look over my flash cards since I'm certain I've forgotten half of the menu since the test I took two weeks ago. Wait, Berkshire Pork Belly is on the menu?? And this week is going to be crazy, since Christmas is coming so soon.

I guess I'm also a little home sick as well, especially since I won't be home for Christmas this year for the first time ever. I miss my sister's house. Her pancakes and her FIVE animals. Doing laundry in the basement-- even if I'm a little afraid of it. What? The basement is scary! Haven't you ever seen Home Alone?? I miss my car. I miss my family. I miss Aixois and all the wonderful people who work there and drink coffee there that I got so used to. Couldn't begin to list them, because there are so many. I miss going to work at 10:30am (or 10:37-- let's be honest). I miss the after work glass of wine. I miss cruising down 71 listening to whatever music I want. I miss knowing exactly where I am and how to get where I'm going. I miss my Kansas City.

So I'm going to make mint tea, listen to Damien Rice radio on Pandora (as I'm wont to do when I'm feeling sorry for myself) and try to be thankful for all the many good things I do have. And I'm going to remember to bring my ipod with me tomorrow for the train. And maybe I'll promise myself a latte and some play drafting at the little bookstore on Crosby after work...

. . . landing (in madrid).

twice or three or four times removed from home now:
I guess I've lost count.
I miss the relative comfort of new york city
its persistent noise and confusion
in a language I understand.
the smoke and the grease--
those east village hipsters.

here, it's beautiful.
the buildings, the dogs, the fountains, the sky,
the people are breathtaking.
walking statues.
all of this city is a fashion show.
if only Michael Kors were here to judge it
more creatively than I ever could.
so many people, but I am here
alone with my thoughts,
discomfort, mosquito bites, indecision,
and all the world feels big and old and uncertain,
heavy and awkward as if I am exploring it
in a set of someone else's stiff, too-large clothes
waking up in their bed,
the smell unfamiliar and the sheets the wrong texture.
at the restaurant, somehow I end up with
six assorted mini sandwiches for lunch
anchovies and eggplant,
and a beer.

my phone still thinks it's in queens. I have no watch.
It is morning but I have not slept.
I am walking and I am wearing black.
it is noisy and bright but
I fall asleep
no, sleep takes me by force,
in the grass by the row boats at the park,
and Spanish words fall to the ground around me.
If only I could pick them up and make sense of them.
put them in the right order and demand
that they speak plainly to me.
I dream of tornados and floods and someone chasing me
I need to save someone, but I don't know how
so I just stand there, trying to scream.

my clothes are damp when I awake
unsure how much time has passed
and the people sitting cross-legged or lounging around me
have changed entirely.
It is still bright.
The sprinklers come on,
and I realize I'm wearing the same thing I was
the last time that happened.
at the art museum. do you remember?
My third cortado of the day
provides a false sense of alertness.
I wander, stumble-- that was a step--
trying to take it all in.
so much beauty,
I don't know where I should go
or what to eat, or how I should even find out.
I won't have anyone to kiss at sunset.

All I can say is please, thank you, coffee, hot,
and I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry, I am.

So I walk. and I write. and I drink.
And I reach for your hand.
I wish you were here to point me in the right direction
to hold me up on the train
face to face
your arm strong across the middle of my back.
I wish you were here to find ways
to make me blush when nobody is looking
to tell me it will be ok.
I climb the green and white tiled staircase
and walk out onto the terrace.
they are protesting down below,
and I want to join them.
soar down to hold a banner and march march march,
disappear into the crowd
fly down for a cause, for an afternoon
fly down, or not. just fly. just go.
where will I land? will I land?

I press Damien Rice into my ears
and begin to breathe.
to think about which dogs and babies
I'd most like to have
big and Spanish, respectively.
or maybe reversed.
I imagine being a mom in a city like this one.
too pale, and too American
but I push a dark-haired baby in a stylish tram.
she coos in Spanish,
and I have learned to chatter in Spanish
with someone tall and handsome
saying much much more than lo siento.

. . . a private booking

a lapdance, I believe,

is a pretty straightforward thing.

sure, you may be thinking,

a lapdance is the sort of thing

that I could describe without much trouble

or better yet quickly identify,

if I were to see one in progress.

maybe you could even

demonstrate-- or perform 
a lapdance

given the right circumstances.

maybe you even have

in the past. 
maybe multiple times. 

it’s really none of my business.

I can’t say whether any dance

I’ve performed in the past--

and I’ve performed a great many--

could really qualify as

a lapdance and then again,

it’s really none of your business.

but it may be the case for you,

as it was for me,

that when a prospective employer referred to one

in the context of

a job description

for twenty dollars every three and a half minutes

you, wine glass in hand,

wouldn’t know exactly

what a lapdance might entail.

faced with the prospect of earning
one thousand dollars per night,
you may have asked questions, like I did

about hand placement, musical genre, payment,

wardrobe, expectations gleaned from semantics,

gender roles and female objectification

and a litany of other things.

regardless of the answers,

you may have found yourself back again

the following evening,

as I did,

in the red lit dive bar near Times Square

greasy kitchen moonlighting as dressing room

sixty-seven girls, sixty-seven fat purses,

lipstick tubes, hairspray cloud, garter belts, false eyelashes,

sixty-seven tiny dresses,

ass cheeks, wads of twenty dollar bills, perfume,

shaved legs, lace and bows,

tall tall strappy heels, up the stairs,

rihanna beats, devil horns, drinks you have to earn,

crowded bar, sixty-seven girls,

at midnight there’s pizza, which isn’t half bad, 

and the tiny dresses come off.
lingerie, thongs, curled hair, conversations,
music pulsing from above,
an enchanting erotic environment beckons.

personally, I was more interested

in the assorted crowd of

seemingly decent, down-to-earth men

wearing button-down shirts

crowded around clutching beers

waiting to be approached.

Ed the math teacher who wrote a children’s book
too scary for children,

Duncan the handsome scruffy South African

who said that this

was the most real experience

he’d ever had with a woman

(at a place like this).

I could have stayed downstairs

until 4am as scheduled

bemoaning the differences between

what the clients

and the hosts

were told about the event,

telling everyone my name was Natasha,

declining politely when anyone asked me

to dance,

discussing my relationship status,
my greatest aspirations,

and why I moved to new york.

but, when I wandered up the stairs

warm with gin and tonic

to wait in line for the bathroom

in my five inch heels

and the longest dress in the building

grazing my thighs,

I felt a little voyeuristic

peering through the black sheers

to the dance zone.
at long last: the main event.
low red couches. dim light. men sitting back,
hands on knees. looking. soaking up.
tiny dresses and lingerie too gone missing.

and suddenly there was no longer any confusion

in my mind whatsoever

as to the definition of

a lapdance.