What is the Purpose…?

What is the Purpose…?

by | Nov 18, 2024 | Writing

What is the Purpose…?

What is the purpose of keeping a dead battery?

It’s a reminder that you need to buy new batteries. It’s a reminder that you don’t have a working carbon monoxide detector. It’s a reminder that you could die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and when people find you, they’ll say, “If only she had replaced the battery.” It’s a reminder that you ignore important things. It’s a reminder that you haven’t cleaned your desk since last week. It’s a reminder that you should see if they have rechargeable 9-volt batteries. It’s a reminder that you could see if the detector works when the battery isn’t in it. It’s a reminder of why you didn’t already try that. It’s a reminder that you should do your to-do list again.

Dead batteries left on your desk are a great way to remind yourself to replace the battery.

It’s true. If you threw it away or rather, recycled it, you would forget all about it. You know that saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” But then it just becomes part of the desk, so it’s best to move it around every once in a while.  I’ll start my to-do list again.

To-do lists help me stay on top of tasks.

That’s great. How long have you been doing that?

Oh, I haven’t started…well, I started a while ago, but then got busy and forgot to keep doing it.

So, are you starting/using it again?

Yes. Okay. You don’t have to judge me.

I’m not judging you.

Yes, you are. I can tell by the way you’re writing and that sideways glance you make. That is your judging look.

“Judging look?” You say that like there are others.

Oh yeah, you have lots of looks. Your judgy look is look number 23.

What is the point of a literal crisis?

I don’t think there’s a point. It’s a result. The point is that obviously, the person is having a very hard time. The point is that maybe you should have checked in with them already. A literal crisis is when a person always…lives in crisis mode, and they literally have a crisis. The point is that this is not a “thing” crisis. It’s an actual crisis. The point is somebody needs some help, and this is our clue to get out of our own heads and jump into action.

A literal crisis helps you feel like everything is peachy keen compared to a literal crisis.

It helps you break down so you aren’t hiding it all anymore. You might not agree, though, because some people might really clam up. You never can tell with literal crises. I suppose it all depends on the who, what, where, when, and how. You know, sometimes they’re a good clearing of things, and sometimes it means you’ve hit rock bottom.

What is the point of a rebound trampoline?

What is the point? Well, I’m sure there has been a segment about it somewhere. I imagine Richard Simmons had a rebound trampoline workout. Everything Richard Simmons does has a point. My doctor said to get exercise whenever I can. Rebounding is supposed to reset you…get it? Rebound…reset. We’re doing it again. The point is if you bought one, you should use it.

Rebound trampolines are a great way to get exercise.

They’re convenient if you leave it in the kitchen, so when you go past it, you can just jump on it for 30 seconds or something. It’s much better than anything else because you can do it barefoot, in a dress, in your pajamas. You don’t have to turn anything on. You can…you can’t say that about anything else, can you? No way.

Why do you have a rebound trampoline in your kitchen?

It’s great exercise. I was just reading about it. It can actually help change your mood. I needed to get one after my literal crisis. It was awful. I mean, it was my daily. I don’t really even know what happened, except I stopped writing my to-do list, and I fell so behind on my tasks that I forgot to eat, clean, pay bills, shower, do yard work, and check on my family. I never knew a to-do list was such an important thing for me. I mean, sometimes you don’t realize until you hit rock bottom. But the to-do list literally kept me from having a literal crisis. You know, it may have also been a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. Yeah, I was in the hospital. They said it was a good thing I went outside when I collapsed. So, the first thing I’m putting on that to-do list is buying a new 9-volt battery for my detector. It’s a silent killer, they say. I know this firsthand…well, not literally, because I didn’t die. I survived. But I think that lack of oxygen kind of sent me into a crisis…a literal one. Yeah, the literal one. Oh, it was awful. It’s a good thing I went outside because I felt guilty. I don’t think my neighbor knew what to do. And why do people call the police when someone’s having a crisis? It’s stupid, really. They don’t have the training and education for it. Unless you’re lucky. But I wasn’t lucky that day. Well, I’m never really lucky unless you count all the days I didn’t have carbon monoxide poisoning or a literal crisis. Yeah, I guess those are lucky days. And if I look at it from that perspective, then I guess I’m the luckiest person alive. And that’s why I have a rebound trampoline in my kitchen: You have to live life by the moment, take it day by day, and jump for joy, literally.

Before the Lights Go Out

Before the Lights Go Out

by | Nov 17, 2024 | Writing

Before the Lights Go Out

The kitchen has trash and recycling strewn all over the floor. Watch your step; there’s glass. You were rageful and in despair. I’m here now. Oh, your Black Dog mug, your favorite, and the Fiestaware? I suppose it’ll break if it’s thrown. The dishes and glasses are haphazard in the dishwasher, but you’ve smashed some glass, so you can’t run the cycle.

I open the basement door and see the laundry basket turned on its side, pouring out your dirty laundry. Shhh, It’s our secret. You sit, I’ll clean, but I’ll make you tea first—Chamomile with local raw honey. I go to the papers and squat down, but my knees ache, so I rest them on the tile floor. Cushioned flooring would be nice but tacky and impractical. You also questioned my ideas.

I start to pick up the papers, bills past due, test results with dirty words written in black permanent marker, and junk mail cluttering up the recycling, like a virus taking over. The broom in the closet.

Soon we are drinking our tea in the comfort of your living room, on your teal blue couch. I remember the story. It was a fight in the store. In the end, you won; in the end, you will win, even if it wasn’t your plan. The tea is nice; its warmth soothes us. You lean back, resting your cup on your lap with one hand, and you laugh, so I laugh. The laughter spills your tea, and then you cry, so I cry. We put our tea on the coffee table and breathe and breathe and breathe. 

You got a promotion at work; the money will help, but you only want to climb to the top of your tower and let down your hair. You realize you’ve been wearing it too tight and wonder if that’s where it started. I’m not sure I follow you. 

“Keeping up appearances,” you say. And not being true to yourself. You were ready to check out, but not from everything you care about. Those things will stay with you forever, even if pockets full of memories are sewn into your clothes. 

The air is warm outside, although the leaves are gone for the season. We climb on the roof; you balance at the top, stating, “I wish I could fly. I would fly away from here.”  You reach your arms out, ready.

I cautiously walk over and guide you off the roof. Here we are, grounded again.

You must take care of everything before it’s too late. Where are the subscriptions? You’ll need to cancel or share a list. What are the bills? What, you don’t want to pay bills anymore? I understand, but the lights must stay on. This is your starting point: keeping the lights on. 

What do we need to know so that they’ll shine bright even when you’ve left the room? I know you’ve always learned to conserve energy, and you thought you had. But carbon footprints can be evasive, but they’re always there.

Where are your papers? Let’s look through them. Oh, the pictures, the cards, and the journal entries. Let’s leave them for last. You reach for your wedding photo, tracing the happy couple with your pinky finger. The future was yours, and you weathered it, you did. You’re strong or stubborn or both.

You laughed when you found a note from a friend who always said he wanted to cuddle, and you always knew you weren’t the cuddling type. You like to toss around the bed. You always had punch-your-lights-out energy, but you tenderly turned off the lights in your children’s rooms.

You’re reading your journal; it’s OK to cry.

Don’t forget to put all the important papers in one place and do you really need 80 pairs of shoes? Will you ever wear this dress again? Then you told me where you were, how you felt, and why you wore it, and I knew we needed to keep it. You’re not sure minimalism has ever been your style, even in the dark, when the lights go out.

You wondered if you ignored it, it would go away. That’s silly; it was there before you knew it. No. We just adapt, change course, and amend. You stood up and reached up to the ceiling onto your tiptoes, stretching as much as you possibly could. Stretching is good, but the doctor said stretching won’t reset things.

Why you, why not me? I’m hurt, but I know you’re scared. You wanted to wear tutus and pink lipstick and dance around town when you’re 95; you’re wearing your light blue Converse and still flaunting your attitude.

It is what it is. What can we change?

Do your children have passports? Ireland is beautiful in spring. Let’s see what they say; we’ll get you there by plane or cloud, and they’ll never leave your sight.

You ask for an apple; you turn it over in your hand. This light pink fruit kisses your lips as you bite into its flesh. You’ve always been hungry. Satisfaction was always a dangling carrot away. 

The doctors ran tests; you never knew you’d wish for something else horrible, but every test that came back negative made you cry. You couldn’t unsee that note in the portal. You always thought you were the shrinking violet, the one behind the scenes, but you’re making everyone stand up and notice now. They’re telling you this is serious, this is complicated. So you visualize another outcome, floating in the air like a balloon until they grab the string and pull you back to the ground.

You spent so long not living, and now you can’t live enough.

Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

by | Nov 15, 2024 | Writing

Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

It’s hard to know when it started. Subtle changes can be hard to notice. Looking back, maybe it was when you started coughing when taking sips of water or all of a sudden couldn’t open a bottle. You’ve always been sprightly, capable of almost anything your petite stature could take on: New York, San Francisco, London. You threw yourself into the whirlpool of life, one adventure at a time. 

You didn’t realize you were on a new adventure. That day last July, when suddenly, your hands weren’t working. You couldn’t turn the key in your car. Your electric toothbrush refused to turn off. It must have been faulty. Not you. Opening milk bottles became impossible. Tearing open a letter? Forget it. 

There must be a reason, you thought. Your intuition told you not to ignore it.

“It could be an impinged nerve or Parsonage-Turner syndrome. Let’s order an MRI and an EMG,” the mediocre doctor said. You looked at him, sizing him up—calm, efficient, entitled. Not the type you’d marry—such uptightness. The kind who leaves work at 5:00 p.m. sharp, gets home, takes off his shoes on a leather bench, and switches to his indoor slippers that have never set foot in the great outdoors. No adventure for those cozy foot coverings. Then he goes to the wine cabinet, pours himself a glass, and listens to calming, classical music. Everything with him is efficient.

The MRI was unremarkable. You began to suspect this was all in your head. Your EMG was unexpectedly painful, with electric zaps on your elbows making you wince. It won’t show anything, you thought. 

You couldn’t believe when the doctor mentioned you had “diffuse findings” and pointed out those little twitches: fasciculations, she said. It would take you weeks to spell it correctly, let alone remember its name. She flicked your middle finger, and your thumb did a little dance.

“That’s a Hoffman sign. Your thumb shouldn’t move,” the doctor said. She was warm and friendly, with long, straight, auburn hair put up in a twist. “You need a referral to a neuromuscular doctor. You have issues everywhere, which suggests this is something coming from your brain or spinal cord.”

You always thought your brain was odd, perhaps tap-dancing aliens with typewriters, but you never expected this. When people used to say to you, It’s all in your head, you took that as a mental problem—not a brain problem.

“This could be a sign of a motor neuron disease, but I don’t know how your EDS or autoimmunity factors in,” she said. She told you she’d submit the referral and work on her report. You had a knot in your stomach, and your mind started to race, but the devil on your shoulder said, Be positive.

The following week, you twiddled your thumbs, you bit your lip, you ate coffee ice cream, and convinced yourself it must be something else. Mind over matter. Then the report came. It was pretty meaningless to you, but Chat GPT told you it looked pretty okay.

“Well, I can’t wait to see the specialist and get to the bottom of this,” you said. You always thought something was underlying but assumed it was depression or ADHD.

You were nervous heading into the follow-up with the mediocre doctor who left at 5:00 on the dot. “My geneticist says it’s EDS,” you told him, but he dismissed it. You and the mediocre doctor engaged in friendly conversation, but he seemed clueless, like he didn’t know anything beyond what he learned in medical school.

You felt at ease despite knowing that not just anyone gets a referral to a neuromuscular specialist. You hit the big time now.

“If you can’t get in with the top-notch specialist in the next month or so, I can ask my office mate if she can pull some strings at the local yokel hospital, her husband works there, but I can’t make any promises.” He smiled in his jovial, mediocre way. You noticed his shirt was iron-pressed flat without a crease. You could never get an iron to work that well. Must be the settings, you suggested. 

You had the biggest eye roll inside your brain, smiling back at the mediocre doctor with the well-pressed shirt.

“Well, since this is out of my area of expertise, I see no reason to see you again,” he said, his thin lips producing a crooked smile. His eyes must have been brown, but you couldn’t recall, and you didn’t care. “I’ll turn you back to your PCP, and she can coordinate with you.” And just like that, the visit was over. You didn’t learn anything new. It felt like time wasted, like surfing the web. 

You left the office, and he returned to his shared office, where he didn’t mention the referral to his officemate. He efficiently dictated his note without checking for typos and errors and moved on to room 27 for the next patient he’d provide mediocre care to, with his crooked smile, possibly brown eyes, and perfectly pressed shirt.

You headed back home and asked me to open the pickles. You were craving salt. You carried on with your day, hoping to get in with a specialist soon to get some answers. Some have waiting lists of 18 months. What the hell is going on with the medical field? 15-minute appointments. Time to go. Next.

Then your phone lit up—a new letter from the mediocre doctor. You logged into the portal and began to read his note. You notice the grammatical errors and have to look up certain terms. Then—you screamed. “No!” 

You screamed so loud the neighbors complained. Don’t mind them—you deserved that scream. You weren’t sure what to say out loud, so in your mind, you shot missiles: I’m going to die. I can’t live in my house. My kids, my husband—who will run things? You tried to picture yourself in a different light, but the only light cast was from the mediocre doctor—who, in brown loafers, appeared on your computer screen—and you processed this news alone. You cried; buckets and rivers. You screamed like a colicky baby, or a red fox, or a sonic device. You threw things. The way you did when you were a child having a tantrum because nobody would listen to you. I understand; your pain is real.

How could this be? This was never in my stars. Why did it land here? Maybe a meteor destroyed your star. I’m sorry for the leftovers. This new star is dirty. You questioned your mistakes: Too many drugs drowning out your teenagedom? Thyroid meds failing, causing your TSH to hit 354? Maybe it was your negative attitude, but you insisted you were a realist. 

“If it’s not genetic, then it must be something I did myself,” you said as your face tightened and twisted, as quiet tears streamed down your face. But you can’t think that way. That’s demonstrative, and it won’t do you any good, but you insist it must have been something you did. I held you tight; you needed that.

To be continued…

Zoe’s Throne

Zoe’s Throne

by | Nov 12, 2024 | Writing

Zoe’s Throne

Zoe sat quietly by the side of the road, she sat upon her throne—a rock large enough to be that throne. It was larger than a chair, but not as big as a mountain. 

The rock had been there for generations, but only there for Zoe. The throne was her best secret, one of many, we’ll come to find out. She wouldn’t tell you about the time she crawled under the road or the time she kissed Billy Joe on the cheek because he made her laugh. That was a rare, spontaneous moment; usually, she planned things more carefully.

She first found the throne while hiding from her older brother. It had a sort of seat carved by time on itself. It was not soft, as you would imagine with a rock. She spoke to it, listening for its story. 

She guessed its story began long before humans, maybe even before the dinosaurs. Rocks came first, after all. Rocks come in all shapes and sizes, just like people, and they evolve, too, over time, yet always keeping their personality from their inception. 

Zoe thought it was silly that people didn’t see how similar rocks and humans were. Or maybe they did, and she just hadn’t learned it in school yet. “Stupid school,” she told her rock. “They never teach the interesting stuff.” Zoe saved her best thoughts for her rock instead. That’s why she always stopped at her throne, lost in the woods for all to find—but only Zoe did, because others were too busy to notice.

Zoe didn’t mind keeping the rock to herself, a place to meditate in the quiet woods when the noises became too loud. She slept on the floor at home. She likes hard surfaces, yet she is not hard herself, but rather, she is gentle and kind. Kind, like the time she sang to a bird that landed on her throne. Every spring, she waited for the bird, but one year it didn’t return. She shouted her song, “Three Little Birds Upon My Doorstep,” hoping it would hear, but the bird never came. The throne and Zoe sat there crying together. After that, Zoe brought her sketchbook and sketched whatever she saw, like the bear she never finished drawing. We aren’t sure if that’s where the story ended.

Zoe shared her stories with her throne: a princess who saved herself, a dinosaur who only slept on Sundays, a frog who wore goggles because he hated getting water in his eyes. She offered snacks to the rock. It was passive, receptive, and reserved, yet it listened in a way only a throne sharing the DNA of a little girl could. Sometimes, Zoe yelled, “Why won’t you listen to me? You never listen!” But all the throne did was listen. She threw pebbles at it when she got mad, and the rock stood silent, accepting.

Zoe wondered if she could ever be as wise as her throne, feeling sorry for herself. 

She sat beside it, dejected. She wondered if she could ever have a best friend like her throne.“But you don’t even have a name, do you?” she whispered. The throne, as per usual, didn’t reply.

“If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll name you myself. You’re…you’re…you’re… stupid. No, I’m sorry. That was mean. You didn’t deserve that. I’m the stupid one.” She slapped herself in the face. “I want to call you…” She paused, a frown creeping over her face as she noticed the fresh spray-painted letters: Kilroy was here.

“Kilroy? Who’s Kilroy? Do you have other visitors? Aren’t you loyal to me?” she demanded. “Fine. I’ll call you Traitor!” And she crossed her arms across her body and pouted.

Then she looked at her rock with sympathy, “Oh, you didn’t invite Kilroy.”

 “Oh, I shouldn’t have gotten jealous. I’ve known you for years and yet don’t know anything about you…your name. Why won’t you tell me your name?” She admired its soft shades of gray and how the sunlight danced on its surface, speckled through the trees. She rubbed her hand across its surface.

Zoe turned to look at her throne, “I know! I’ll call you Dusty.”

Dusty sat there pondering its new name as a breeze swirled leaves around them, brushing dust into Zoe’s eye.

“Oh, you don’t like the name? How about Felicia?” She giggled as a downpour began, soaking them both. They laughed together, Zoe and her rock. She leaned down, gave it a kiss, and said, “See you tomorrow, Amon, the hidden one.” And Zoe skipped away.

An Evening with Phineas ACT I, Scene One

An Evening with Phineas ACT I, Scene One

by | Nov 10, 2024 | Playwriting

An Evening with Phineas ACT I, Scene One

Act I, Scene One

AT RISE: PIERCE and PAULA, a married couple, are sitting in their living room. PAULA is holding a planner and writing in it, while PIERCE is on his smartphone playing a game.

Living room has a couch and chair, coffee table, a liquor cabinet, shelves with family pictures, magazines and books on the table.  A door to “outside” where people will enter and exit from. Stage Right will be the exit to the outside, Stage Left will be the exit to the other room. Kitchen needs a fridge, cabinets, it has a rectangular table, a desk with a computer.

PIERCE

Honey, I got “Genius” again on Spelling Bee. Boy, I must be a genius. That’s what the game tells me (sarcastic; laughs).

PAULA

(Facetiously) Oh, sure you are. A real genius.

PIERCE

Let’s go in the bedroom and screw.

PAULA

What? The kids are in the other room.

PIERCE

Boring! Come on, Paula, you are so dull. It’s the same thing every day.

PAULA

Speaking of that, can you take the garbage out?

PIERCE

(Stands up) What the hell, Paula? I just asked you to have sex with me, and you want me to take out the garbage? If that isn’t a metaphor for our marriage.

PAULA

Pierce, watch your language. The kids will hear you. And I’m sorry. I guess that was thoughtless of me.

PIERCE

That’s an understatement. Jesus, Paula. Something’s got to give. I mean, we’ve been together for twenty years. It’s turned into the same shit routine day after day. 

PAULA

(Annoyed) Pierce, what can I say? I work, take care of the kids, pay bills, and clean. I’m kind of tired, don’t you think?

PIERCE takes her in his arms; lovingly, PAULA leans into him.

PIERCE

I know, Paula. You need a break. I want to take you away from all of this.

PAULA

I can’t go anywhere right now, you know that. The taxes are due next week.

PIERCE

Paula! For God’s sake. Humor me a little. How about I pour you a drink (Walks to the cabinet)? Come on, just a little; it will help you relax. (Beat) Ha! We should get trashed like the old days. Remember that? We stayed up all night—

PAULA

I know, I know, no need to say it. Give me a break, Pierce, we aren’t 25 anymore. We have obligations; we have children!

PIERCE

And we aren’t 100, either. Come on, live wild.

Looking into her eyes, holding her hands.

Like you used to be. (Beat) You’re so dull these days.

PAULA

I know, I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out right now. Once I finish these damn taxes, I’ll feel more like myself, I promise.

PIERCE

But there’s always something. You need to let go of some of that worry. The tasks aren’t going anywhere; they’ll still be here tomorrow. You can leave it one day.

PAULA

That’s just the problem. It(emph.) will all be there tomorrow. Can’t you take the kids to their activities today so I can work on the taxes?

PIERCE

Paula, come on, when did it get like this? It’s like we wake up to the same broken record every day: ‘Take the garbage out’; ‘Can you go to the store?’; ‘Did you pick up the mail?’ I’m not in this world for mundane bullshit. (Urging) Come on, Paula, we’re in our forties; we aren’t dead. You’ve got to be spontaneous; live a little!

He grabs her and kisses her passionately; she pushes away from the embrace. She has tears in her eyes. She moves to the kitchen, and he follows her.

PAULA

Not now, Pierce. I’m sorry I disappoint you. I have laundry to do and dinner to prep; the kids have their games today. What time is it? (She looks at the time.) Shit, I have to get ready. I don’t have time for this right now, Pierce.

PIERCE

Damn, Paula. You are killing me. I feel like I am suffocating. 

PAULA

I know. I’m sorry. But I have to get the boys ready.

PIERCE comes up behind PAULA, trying to kiss her on the neck while she prepares sandwiches and snacks, putting them into a cooler bag. There’s a heaviness in the air; they love each other, but both feel sad and stuck.

PAULA

(Wiping a tear) Not now, Pierce. I’m sorry. I promise we can put the boys to bed and have a drink together as soon as I’m done with the taxes.

PIERCE

OK, OK, but there’s always something, Paula. You’re lucky to have me.

PAULA

I know. Thanks for understanding. I do love you. (Beat. Calls out) PATTEN! PAXTON!

ENTER PATTEN and PAXTON Stage Left, dressed for soccer.

PATTEN

Hey Mom, what did you pack to eat? 

PAULA

Ham and cheese for you.

PAXTON

(Whining) What about me? I hate cheese.

PAULA

Please don’t say hate. It’s a terrible word. I know you don’t like cheese, don’t worry. Come on, let’s go. Say bye to your dad.

PATTEN

Bye, Dad.

PAXTON

Bye, Daddy.

PAULA

Bye, Pierce. I love you. We’ll be back around 4:00. 

PIERCE

(Subdued) Yeah, have a good day, guys.

EXIT PATTEN, PAXTON, and PAULA Stage Left.

BLACKOUT

Black and white photo of a tattooed man sitting in a leather armchair, lighting a cigar. Text: Finding the Spark, one marriage at a time.Text SPARK to: THE-HOT-NITE. (don't actually text)

Synopsis: An Evening with Phineas delves into the complexities of long-term marriage, desire, and the allure of the unconventional. Pierce and Paula find their relationship stagnating in routine, leading Pierce to enlist the help of Phineas, a charismatic “Marriage Mentor” with unconventional methods. Phineas’s arrival disrupts their complacency, forcing Pierce and Paula to confront buried insecurities and deep-seated desires.

Through sharp dialogue and compelling character dynamics, An Evening with Phineas invites audiences to reflect on the complexities of love, the fragility of trust, and the pursuit of personal fulfillment.