Madrina

Today I wanted to call Malik.

I haven't wanted to contact him this whole year...this whole year and some. I just know that we shouldn't talk yet. But today... today I was overwhelmed with the need to call him. When I got broken into a couple of weeks ago, I had a passing wave of this similar feeling but then with all the amazing support pouring in from everywhere, from my friends- it went away. But today, when I opened that door, the wave became a tsunami and I'm still trying to sort it out. Sort myself out. Maybe it's about closing loops and ending chapters or something.

I was lying in bed. Twittering. Facebooking. (so silly) And the doorbell rang. I'm in leggings, mismatching robe, fury slippers. I put my rat's nest hair up in a pony tail. I open the door and it's two young black men. One about 6 feet tall, the other one wearing a doo-rag. Both very young. Very young. I'm confused. I say, "I think you want the upstairs apartment?" But the tall one with the big smile says, "It's me, Godmother. It's Martisse." My mouth was a big Chicago pothole. I couldn't close it. Even when I let them in and started nervously talking I couldn't default my mouth to a close. Last time I saw this person...he was a kid. Like a kid!

Martisse and Lynelle were two little kids that used to live down the street from me when Malik and I lived together. They would come say hello after school every day and we'd give them candy or whatever. Talk to them. Ask them about school. Malik might have helped them with their math homework a time or two. One day, I came home to Malik and his friend Brandon sitting on the sofa, Bull's game on, pizza on the floor... and Martisse asleep on our other couch under the covers. "Why is there a child in our house this late at night?" "He needed somewhere to be," Malik answered. Martisse's mom had been taken away or something like that, I dont' really remember the story but Martisse had no where to go. He was 7. And now he was here at my door, 14 or so, over 6 foot tall and all I could do was think of Malik. We had so many conversations about Martisse and Lynelle and what we could do. What we should do. What we shouldn't do. How to help.

"Godmother" said Martisse. Godmother?

Pothole mouth.

"I told my friend I'd been wanting to visit my Godmother and so we walked here from Humbolt Park to see you." It was 9am in the morning. It was a strange and unexpected visit. But it was welcomed. His friend was very nice. I gave him Oscar Wao. He said he liked reading so I had Martisse get it from my car. Mentioned that he'd read Mango Street last. I smiled. I said, "You like Mango Street? You're going to be my dates to a special thing in October, OK?" We talked. Caught up. I kept saying, "Martisse, you're so big. You were this small last I saw you. You're so big." My pothole stating the obvious. I just wasn't prepared this morning. Not for this grown Martisse. Not for the tick of time that has passed between what was Malik and I to just me. Now it's just me. And Martisse's 6 feet are a measure of that.

I said, "Put my number in your phone. My email too. Call me if you need anything. Anything, you hear?" We hugged and I let them out and as he's leaving he goes to his friend, "I told you my Godmother was cool."

I want to cry.

Part of the conversation

I can't define my work. Lately I've been asked to define it on panels, during interviews, at introductions with important people or thinkers and I always fall short. How can one see inside like that? It feels strange to be asked to define myself. I can describe my interests sure, but doesn't definition come from others looking at your work? How can you be expected to describe "it"? To explain your process? That requires you to be thoroughly self aware, and I don't think I can be that way about my work. Half the time, I don't understand how it comes about.

My house got broken into this past week. They left a ramshackle mess of closet and drawers and cabinet content everywhere. My whole life in a messy art display splattered throughout my apartment. They left some creepy clues too, clues that I wont pay attention to. I won't. I have a new roommate because of this, and W should be moving back in August. Hopefully. After his Shakespeare gig. So I'll be fine. We're putting in a new security system, the landlord changed the locks, is putting bars... It's going to be a fortress here. I'll be fine.

But the hurdle made me stop and think. I literally locked myself in my back room for a few days and did a lot of thinking. And when I became tired of thinking about my safety and intruders and violation of space and all that, my thoughts wandered about to other things: My family; my car; my money; my debts; my Work. And the thoughts lingered there- but it's easier to linger there. And so I came up with some things...

I want to be part of the conversation.

Heck, sometimes I even want to start the conversation, or come smack in the middle and make things messy, but I never want to end it. I don't want to conclude anything. I don't have that conceit, to know how something ends, or to have the solution to anything.

That's what I came up with during my little trip inside.

Also, I realized I'm doing nothing new. Not in form or tone or theme. I'm not inventing or reinventing the wheel or anything like that. And that's OK. I mean it, that's OK. I'm not good with structure. I'm not an innovator of style. I'm not even saying anything new. And that's OK. It has to be OK. And I wont feel the pressure of people expecting me to define my gender and nationality and ethnicity and class in my work. I'll just be part of the conversation. Through the myopia of my two eyes. I only have two astigmatic eyes.

But they're just fine for the conversation.

I think I'm way in over my head

I think I bit off more than I could chewthis season. I think I got my hand in too many pots and pans. My agent at Mark at Bret Adams told me in the spring that rewrites get productions and I think I know what he means now. I had never given rewrites the attention they deserve, but I see what he means now. Rewrites are hard. And you know what's hard? Being in the show you're codirecting and producing, while you're still trying to do rewrites. I feel a little bit like Sybil with all the personalities. I don't think I thought things through before embarking on this little adventure. It's going to be alright though. I know it. The Lunaticas are so patient an amazing; I wouldn't be able to do it without them. It's also hard that this part I'm playing wasn't written for me, but for another lovely Lunatica who couldn't do it after all.

Anyway, now I'm just complaining aren't I? I need to go learn lines.

I itch!

I'm itchy.


And I think I know why.

Most people that know me know I'm superstitious and interested in the esoteric. Well, this afternoon I took a spiritual bath. (It sounds fancier than it is; all this spiritual bath really is is me washing down with salt before I take my normal shower, then I put some honey all over myself after the shower. It's basically a shower with salt. And honey.) Mi Señora told me to do this para "alejar envidias y atraer la buena fortuna." So I did it. I do almost everything she tells me to do. Even if it involves me going to the country to look for a crossroads of trains tracks to spit to the West five times. (Don't go do that. I just made that one up) What I mean is that I am a good pupil. I mean, a good patient. Client. Como se diga. And this spiritual bath seemed harmless enough. Until I figured out that honey makes me itch. See, the thing is that I'm not supposed to towel dry; I am to walk around until the honey water dries. And the more it dries, the itchier I get. My cheeks are flushed and hot now and I'm stinging everywhere. The bee's revenge!

Am I having an allergic reaction? I hope this wasn't some genetically altered McHoney I just used that's going to make me get welts or something.

So I type this as I wait for the honey to dry. I'm supposed to be finishing the last draft of "Jarred (A Hoodoo Comedy"), which opens on Halloween with Teatro Luna (my lovely theatre company), but all I can think about is my itchy skin.

Maybe if I run around the apartment to speed the air-drying process, I'll be able to get stared on these rewrites.


Ok, I'm going to go try that.