...Is The Talk On A Cereal Box

When I came across this picture on Palahniuk & Chocolate blog I immediately knew it was true. I printed it out and put it up on my wall above my desk. It's nicely positioned right next to my favorite quote by Von Allan: Suck Less.

A couple of weeks ago - and for several days afterward - I foolishly entertained conversations in philosophy. What I am - is of the Edie Brickell school of philosophy... "is the talk on a cereal box. Religion is the smile on a dog."

I don't like kicking around subtle differences between existentialism and absurdism. Or picking apart whether life is in service to or a journey toward. Or I hold a linear or circular view of the universe, or am outer-world or inner-world dependent. And finally do I live in self-dedication to the goal or self-liberation from the false "Me"?

Okay. What. Ever.

I believe in two philosophical tenants: good manners, and taking turns.

Holding the door open for someone. Saying please and thank you. Asking the person behind the counter how her day is going. When we can choose between snarky and supportive, why don't we always choose the latter? Why would I ever walk through a door and not look to see if someone was following right behind me? Why would I not ask the young man in the parking garage ticket booth how his day is going? Having said that, I fail at this every day. Even with my own family. And my friends. I forget. Or quite frankly just don't feel like it because I'm too self-absorbed in my self-loathing to be bothered with you. Which is exactly when I need to hand someone a napkin.

For me taking turns looks like tether ball on the playground. Remember tether ball? I used to be the neighborhood champion. Well, not really. Actually, my next door neighbor Kathy was the reigning queen for the years we had a pole in my backyard - but she was three years older than me and taller and... well, just better. In any event, remember at school when there was a line and the loser rotated out so the next kid could play the winner? And it was great because if you were winning you could play all recess, right?

But then there was that one kid. Remember that one kid who lost and said, "no wait, she carried the ball, so I want another turn." And again. And again. That one kid. Then the bell rang and everybody was a little bit angry. When it was time to share the glue with that kid, nobody wanted to, and we were less inclined to share with each other because what if there wasn't enough to go around? We'd run out of time for our turn on the playground, so what if the glue runs out and we don't have enough? Then at lunch, we took extra tater tots. We had to make sure we got our share, and who cares if the girl at the end of the line, who really did win at tether ball, got her tater tots?

The sense of paucity that seems to settle over our lives like ash from a tremendous fire is gray and thick and makes it hard to breathe. And when we can't breathe who wants to waste air on pleasantries? We might run out of air, or time, or money. Or patience. Have you ever watched people in line when someone starts to write a check for his purchase? You would have thought he pulled out coins. Have you seen the faces and heard the sighs in the people in that line? I have. I felt so sorry for the immigrant woman with her young child trying to make sense out of her U.S. dollars and coins that day in Target.

If you don't like my words: good manners and taking turns. Perhaps Von's words might be just the perfect fit for your life. Suck. Less.

Buttons

I wrote this piece in May of 2008, and it never found a home. This morning I pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer and noticed a loose button on my daughter’s shorts. I thought, I better sew this back on before it gets lost. I set the shorts aside and suddenly remembered this bit of writing. It’s a conflation of memory and a chunk of one of the “firsts” after a loss. I think it’s true. But memory and grief and regret often weave their own distinct narrative. A wish for something different.

BUTTONS

Sewing all the buttons.

I’ve sewn dozens of buttons back onto shirtsleeves, sweaters, and even doll clothes. And of course there is the inevitable “Mom, the button fell off again!”

One such call to arms came from my daughter last night, “Mom, the button fell off my shorts.” So I said, “put them on my desk. I’ll get to it later.” Then the wailing started, “But Mooom, I want to wear them tomorrow. I’m going with so-and-so to such-and-such a place after school. Mom, I need these shorts. Please Mom… are you even listening to me, Mom?” For god’s sake, how could I not be listening?

So I sat down in my office to sew this button back onto my daughter’s favorite pair of shorts. I started to cry. The more I tried to control myself, the more tears rolled down my cheeks. I tried to wipe my face and of course smeared make-up on my daughter’s shorts. Great. Now I had to wash them too. I grabbed a Kleenex to wipe my nose and cheeks.

I thought, “What is your story?” I was so irritated with myself. I wanted to get this done quickly so I could get back to my writing, but I could not pull myself together. More tears. More make-up running down my face… and suddenly it occurred to me what was happening.

We have lived with my parents for the last eight years – ever since my daughter was four years old. She was born in San Diego. As she approached school age, and since most of my family was still in Phoenix, we decided to move back to the desert. I know what you’re thinking – visit… and suck up the school situation like the rest of us in the state of California! Yeah, we know.

There was another reason we wanted to come back to Phoenix. My mother had been suffering with Multiple Sclerosis for nearly 30 years, and we wanted to be closer to her. When the opportunity to live with them came along, we just couldn’t pass it up. So, here we are with no ocean, no marine layer, and no freeway system. But at least it hits nearly 120 degrees every year, so we have that to look forward to!

Last night, while I sat there holding the needle and thread, the tears started to make sense to me. Since we moved back, my mother did all the mending. Mom sewed all the buttons. I lost my mother nine months ago. Not from complications related to MS, but because she was consumed by cancer. Mom lived two weeks from diagnosis to death.

Sobbing, I realized that though I miss my mom every day, and I can still smell her perfume, and hear her laugh, I need to let her go. I needed to sew this button for my daughter, tears and all, and let my heart… and my mom… rest. Now it’s my turn… to sew all the buttons.

The Littlish Princess

I haven’t posted to this blog in a number of weeks. People ask me about it, and the only thing I can think of is that I haven’t felt inspired. This week, I’ve had pieces of the same conversation with three friends, and now I'm ready to write. About The Littlish Princess.

She goes by many names, this teenage-toddler, more than a dozen come to mind. She is wise and whimsical; cranky and content. A mystery I once held in my two hands. Some years ago. Fourteen. Next week.

My close friend, Maribeth, and I have known each other since our two oldest children were in preschool together. Last Friday we ordered our morning drinks in the coffee shop where we meet every week. I told her that since Christmas – since I started filling out high school applications, setting up interviews, and letting my daughter stay up as late as she wants on the weekends – that I noticed something new in my girl. I see the push-pull between where she is and where she’s going. And I marvel at the beauty of this stage.

Then there's Chuck. We have carried many secrets and pails of water for each other. We've been friends for 38 years - since the first time I wore a tutu. All right. Knock it off. I was seven. Yes, he has pictures and refuses to turn them over. His oldest daughter is already a freshman. We talked about her social structure and the culture of her high school as opposed to other schools. How social systems can only be understood within the context of their culture. He was confused. I told him that it was so obvious – because my daughter had explained it all to me only weeks earlier.

On Thursday my girl was home sick. A fever brewing. Brad and our son were out that night, and I was attending a rehearsal of my show going up in two weeks. I worried. She was sick and alone. We texted. I wished I was with her. Some dumb stuff happened and then rehearsal was over. The show is a piece that my friend Sterling and I are putting up together. I commented to him later that night how hard it was to be away from her while she was sick.

Some weeks ago, in his blog, Sterling posted “Poem for My Son” written by his dear friend, Nadine Thornhill. The piece is beautiful, vibrant, and true. I remembered my kids as toddlers, but, it wasn’t until I considered the verse cast in the light of their teenage bodies and souls and minds that I cried. When I read the last line, I said out loud, “And he always will be.” I suspect that Nadine’s verse has permanently woven its way threw my maternal narrative. I am certain it lit a candle on my daughter’s birthday cake.

There is something so stunning about the last semester of 8^th grade. They are arms and legs and hair. They are questions and fears and dreams. They are adventurous and clingy and rebellious. They are.

I told Sterling last Friday morning about a great moment that I’d had with my daughter a few days earlier. I said it was “the best moment of the week. So far.” I've wandered around over the last few days thinking about the “Top 5” best moments with my daughter this week, and here they are:

1) Lying together in my bed, under the covers, for an hour talking all things girlie.

2) Driving to her rehearsal, singing to the cast album of “title of show”, and when I looked over at her, I suddenly saw her as a 24 year-old woman. Lovely and a little unnerving.

3) On the way home from rehearsal when my daughter showed me the bejeweled headband that her dearest friend and cast member had given her. A crown for the “Littlish Princess”.

4) “Look! A hummingbird!”

5) Curling up under my arm after midnight and asking if she could go to sleep right there – “like I used to”.

Sure. We break something in each other every day. We tear down and rebuild. We persevere. And no matter where she sleeps, she is my littlish princess.

Nadine’s poem captures my feelings so well:

“You were always you / And for too short a time / You were also / All mine.”

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night - Ottawa to Phoenix: Part Three

The headline could have read: Tangelico and A Cube With A View take the world by storm! But Dave Charest had a different idea: “Let's call it, Mare may…or may…not make it through this interview!” he quipped during his interview with Sterling and me. We talked with him via Skype on Thursday, January 21st. Before we started taping I warned Dave that I might lose power during our conversation because Phoenix was in the middle of a violent storm. In fact two tornadoes touched down within the city limits. Crazy! Sterling and Dave had great fun with this notion. They assured me that in the event of any catastrophe, they would carry on without me even though I wouldn’t be able to defend myself – in my memory of course.

Sterling and I shared the story of how we came to work together by noting our early encounters on Twittter. Dave witnessed, what I refer to as “the sealing of our doom”. On no particular weekday morning, I posted the first two lines of Jumpin’ Jack Flash and within minutes, Sterling added the next two lines. Dave said, “I saw that and I thought, isn’t that cute?”

We talked with Dave about the amazing access Twitter, and all social media, affords artists and the opportunities for collaboration. Sterling remarked that maybe two, for sure five, years ago our production would have been categorically impossible. Because of social media, the historical production process is finally flattening and widening to include opportunities previously unreachable to artists all over the world.

We had a hilarious conversation. I give Dave a lot of credit - it's hard to wrangle Sterling and me. A bit like herding cats. Dave was a gracious and thoughtful host. Thanks so much, Dave! Give a listen on Fuzzbucket. Here are examples of the feedback I've heard already: "I learned a lot about Twitter. Now I get it." "It was fun hearing how you guys wrote the plays." "This is so cool! Is anyone else doing this?" You can follow the three of us on Twitter at: @DaveCharest, @MareBiddle, and @SterlingLynch.

For the record, Sterling is right about one thing: if we met at a cocktail party we would’ve had a big fight and never spoken again. It will be a hoot to meet in person for the first time at out premiere in Phoenix. Sterling will be in town for the closing performance on February 27th.

And finally, I'd like to say that in writing this post, and looking back over all of the ground we covered, I think my favorite part was when we talked about how brilliant I am. Nice.


Production photos courtesy of Michael Markowsky, Phoenix, AZ 2010

What Do Ottawa and Phoenix Have in Common: Just a Couple of Playwrights

On occasion I have blogged about the working relationship Canadian playwright Sterling Lynch and I have forged. Social media rules! I found my way onto Twitter in March, 2009. I searched for theatres and artists to follow. Sterling was among the first playwrights. But he was in Canada, so would it even be worth it to follow him? I mean, we weren’t going to have anything in common, but I followed him anyway. Given my sharp wit, astute intellect, and promise as a successful playwright, he followed back. I’m sure Sterling would agree. As predicted, we have nothing in common. Oddly enough we seem to work together quite well.

After a few months, we waded through each others' work. When I came across Tangelico two lines of dialogue begged for attention. I immediately thought of Brandon Wiley at Space 55 Theatre Ensemble here in Phoenix. (I’ll share those lines in another post.) I sent Brandon a text. Then the script. Then I waited. Brandon took the project to the Space 55 artistic director, Shawna Franks.

Brandon called me a week later. “We need another one-act to put up with Tangelico to make a full evening. Can you find something?” I paused. “Nothing will make any sense. Wait let me think. Yep, I got nothing,” A. Very. Long. Pause. “Hey! Why don’t you write one?” He trumpeted. I asked Sterling to call me. It was our first phone call, and I was about to ask him if I could basically steal his play. Well, not really, but sort of. He of course razzed me incessantly. I’m sure Sterling would agree. So. With much trepidation. I wrote A Cube With A View. A true one-act companion play to Tangelico.

Working on a companion play is a unique writing experience. I wanted A Cube With A View to stand on its own, but also depend on the primary piece. As I embarked on this challenge, I was completely calm, serene even… I’m sure Sterling would agree.

How did my play come together? Stay tuned for the nuts and bolts of building a companion play…