Facebook Said You Were Dead

Facebook Said You Were Dead

by | Dec 22, 2024 | Writing

Facebook Said You Were Dead

I heard a rumor that you were dead. Is that true? Maybe you just moved on from Facebook? I went to your page, and there were all these posts that talked about how they “miss you,” “gone too soon,” and “I remember when.”

Maybe it was a prompt from Facebook: Fill this person’s news feed with dozens of posts with those sentence starters. Do you think it’s a Facebook automation? How do they do it? I really wish I were in one of those meetings with Mark Zuckerberg. He might be a thief, liar, and jerk, but he sure knows how to assemble a great meeting of the minds. I’m wary of his meeting with Trump, though.

So how did they figure it out? I bet they started with a notification ding—”You haven’t posted on so-and-so’s page in a while. Why don’t you start a post with ‘I miss you,'” for example.

So they bombarded Facebook abandoners’ feeds with messages from dozens of friends. So then Facebook sends an email for each message to the abandoner so they get back onto Facebook, even if it’s just to turn off notifications. They’ve got you. They’re back, and you’re engaged, and maybe you’ll click on one of the dozen or so sponsored posts, and Facebook is back to making money on you again. These are the types of things they discuss, plan, and implement in these meetings. I sure wish I lived in Palo Alto. Is that where their headquarters are? If not, I could always go to Stanford University. Even if I sit somewhere on campus near other people, I’m bound to learn something.

I wonder if I should write a post on your page. I would definitely say, “I remember when we put on matching outfits with tutus and rhinestone suspenders and we danced to ‘I Feel Good’ by James Brown. That was my favorite memory of you.” So I hope you aren’t dead and this is just another one of Facebook’s tactics.

I wouldn’t put it past them, but I went through my phone, and I don’t have your contact saved. I’m bummed about that because I really do like you. I just lost track of time, and so I guess your contact didn’t get saved. So if you see this, please respond to me by phone or text at 555-369-2545. Hope to hear from you soon.

Your dancing partner,

Alex

The Escape Closet

The Escape Closet

by | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

The Escape Closet

“If I leave, will it go away?” You’re sitting on your king-size bed with the polka dot duvet set  while I go through your clothes. It’s been raining all morning, the sky is grayed out, and your room is dark, so your bedside light and the floor lamp cast a soft glow. You light a candle on your dresser, and its soft lavender scent gently fills the room. Spotify plays Daily Mix 4, with Saint Motel, The Strokes, and Phantogram. “Dance Yrself Clean,” by LCD Soundsystem, is inspiring us. Your closet is color-blocked by category: every shade of blue tops, blue bottoms, and blue sweaters on the shelf above. I pull out a stack of skirts hanging in fives. Your hands can’t clip them back on the hangers anymore, so we’re moving them to a drawer.

“I hope you can escape. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To start over fresh.”

You lean back against the pillows, grabbing one to hug. Your closet is immaculately organized, but the furniture tops are gathering clutter. Ah, too bad, the first sign, I thought to myself.

 I hold up the first hanger with five skirts. First, the yellow and blue striped one, “No, too big.” The denim skirt with the zipper and button, “No, I can’t do that button; it’s too tight.” The A-line navy blue pleated skirt. “No way, look at all those buttons! Soon, it’ll all be elastic waistbands. But if I ever go out in public with sweatpants, will you shoot me?” You rest your elbows on your thighs and rest your head in the cup of your hands. 

“Hahaha, nice try. What about this teal and black lace one? It has an elastic band waist,” I suggest. The sun poked out behind its cloud and streamed through the window, highlighting your face.

You scrunch your nose, “I haven’t worn that in 10 years. Is lace in or out this year? I stopped keeping track.” 

“You know better than I do. Do you still watch Project Runway?” 

“No, do they still make that show?” 

“I have no idea. No matter. So… is it in or is it out?” I ask in my best Heidi Klum accent, holding up the lace skirt. 

You cast aside your joyful pillow and hug your knees tight.  “I guess I should keep it. After all, I can pull it on and take it off myself.” 

“Yeah, that’s practical,” I say. 

You scrunch up your face. You never wanted to be practical.

You scan the closet; you see puff sleeves, circle skirts, bright patterns, kitschy patterns, polka dots, and stripes. “What will happen when I go away?” You rest your cheek on your knees.

“You aren’t going anywhere. We’re just decluttering your closet, getting rid of the things that don’t serve you anymore. There’s no reason to have these things in your closet if they don’t work or fit.”

“But I don’t want to get rid of it all. That’s so depressing. These clothes are a part of my history.”

“If you really love something, then put it in a storage bin; you can always sort them out later when you’re ready.” I smile at you. There’s no rush.

You stand up, reach for the lace skirt, smile, and say, “Maybe I’ll wear this to my doctor’s appointment on Monday.” You fold it and put it in the drawer. “It won’t wrinkle, will it?”

“Wrinkles are OK, they’re better than struggle, right?” I say, reassuring you as best I can.

“Yeah, no more chaos. I just want ease now.” You walk over to me and hug me. “Thanks for being here, I love you.”

I hug you back, “I love you, too. I always will.”

“Me, too, always.” You rest your head on my shoulder.

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.

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.

Totally Dotty

Totally Dotty

by | Nov 9, 2024 | Playwriting

Totally Dotty

A Ten Minute Play.

CHARACTERS:

DOTTY: impeccably dressed, polka dots

SPLOTCH: a moment in time

MINNIE: Wears a white dress with tiny polka dots and Christian Louboutin-like strappy heels with pom-poms affixed to it (sole could be painted red for signature Louboutin-style)

 

SET: Everything is polka dots and round pillows, etc. It is artistically done.

PROPS: Cupcakes with polka dot sprinkles, polka dot teacups, Bubble machine, food coloring

SCENE ONE:

DOTTY walks on stage and looks around.

DOTTY

Ooh, it looks great in here. Everything has to be perfect. 

(Speaks to the audience now) Today is a VERY special day. It’s not every day that you meet an icon. And she’s coming (emph.)here to have lunch with me. Me! I’m so excited. I grew up watching her show. She’s so classy.

I’ve always lived under the shadow of my big sister, Betty. Everybody loves Betty. Nobody even remembers me. 

But today is MY special day. 

Betty made arrangements for my special visitor. I have a proposal for her, for my special guest, that is. I want to go into the polka dot business with her. We are going to polka dot the world! It’s my obsession. I love polka dots. I mean, look around, they’re so grand and happy. How could you be unhappy in a room full of polka dots? It’s impossible. I’ve tried. I’m happy all the time. 

My name is Dotty by the way. It’s as if my parents knew I would grow up to love polka dots, Dotty? It’s the perfect name, isn’t it? Let’s see, looking around…Everything’s in place! (She motions and picks things up as she mentions them) I’ve got my polka dot dishware, polka dot tea kettle, polka dot teacups, I even have polka dot flatware. The tea sandwiches are all polka dots and circles, too. Ooh, I almost forgot I’ve got a bubble machine! What could be better than 3D polka dots? I hope that my special guest likes me. I mean, she’s so famous and so is my sister, and who am I? A nobody, really, but I do think I have an eye for polka dots. And that polka dotting the world is my special talent.

It all started when I was a little girl. Betty got a horse and I got, well, I got a ball pit. It was an immense pit of colors, so round and perfect. Round is perfect, you know? Kind of like my sister. She looks perfect, acts perfect. That’s why they picked her. I don’t blame them, really.

But today is my day! Nothing is going to stop me! I have been planning this for weeks, maybe months, heck, maybe even my entire life…well, since I first got inspired in that ball pit.

Have you ever really examined the perfection of a colorful ball? It’s so eye-appealing and smooth to the touch.

Well, I couldn’t really invite my special guest to a ball pit. No, no, no. My taste has become very sophisticated. Everything is tastefully done. See? (She gestures around the room). No tackiness here.

So, I bought this bubble maker. (She pours the bubbles in and turns it on.) See? Isn’t it so darling? But wait! I have the piece de resistance! Food coloring! I know! 3D colorful polka dots! They will be so pretty…(pours a bottle into the bubble machine). And voila! Colorful bubbles! Aren’t they so precious?

(At this point, a colorful bubble will land on her dress and leave a SPLOTCH.)

(Horrified) Oh, no! What will I do? My dress is ruined! Look at this horrible SPLOTCH! What will I do? My special guest will never accept me if I am not absolutely perfect.

(She runs over to the sink and starts trying to clean it, but the SPLOTCH gets bigger!)

Oh, no. I can’t cancel; it’s too late. Everything is ruined.

(She lies down in a heap to cry)

ENTER MINNIE

(MINNIE and DOTTY will need to avoid the bubbles until the machine gets turned off.)

MINNIE

Oh, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?

DOTTY

(She looks up, her makeup is smeared)

Minnie Mouse, you’re here! And look at me! I’ve ruined everything. And who am I? And look at you! Wow, look at your shoes, they are so perfect! PomPom Louboutins? They’re like a dream come true. Oh, Minnie, I am your biggest fan!

MINNIE

Wow, look at this place, Dotty, it looks great! Do you know that I love polka dots, too?

DOTTY

Well, I knew that you were a style icon and I’ve seen polka dots on you before, but I wasn’t sure if you loved them as much as me. (Looks at the SPLOTCH on her dress). Look at me, my dress is wrecked.

MINNIE

Don’t fret, Dotty. Splotches happen. When you least expect it! It’s hard to keep perfect in an unperfect world. You have to learn to embrace the imperfections.

DOTTY

Wow, thank you, Minnie. That’s so kind of you. I’m a nobody. Not only have you come to meet me but you’re also saying all the right things. You’re perfect!

MINNIE

Perfection is overrated. And you are NOT a nobody! You have been the steady rock by Betty’s side. I’ve seen you at the studios. You always look so stylish.

DOTTY

Me, stylish? Thank you! I just can’t help it; I love polka dots so much; they make everything easy.

MINNIE

Yes, they do. Do you know that my bedroom is all polka dots? And I have a polka dot dish set!

Say, I’ve been working on my PhD in psychology, and I would love it if you could be the interior designer for my new office.

DOTTY

You’re getting your PhD?

MINNIE

Yes, living in the shadow of Mickey my entire life hasn’t been easy. It’s a way to gain my freedom.

DOTTY

You mean you won’t do films anymore?

MINNIE

No, I’m contractually obligated to do films for the rest of my life. Mickey made sure of that. But I wanted to gain some independence. I don’t like how I’m portrayed, so I need to prove to myself that I am something more than what the scriptwriters make me out to be.

DOTTY

Wow, Minnie, you are such an inspiration. Thanks for coming over today.

MINNIE

My pleasure. Now, let’s turn off that bubble machine and have a bite to eat!

DOTTY

Absolutely! 

(She goes over and turns off the bubble machine as they walk to the table.)

MINNIE

Wow, you really made everything look so great today. Thanks for thinking of me.

DOTTY

You’re welcome. And thanks for thinking of me!

(The lights fade as they sit down and eat their lunch.)

BLACKOUT

END SCENE