The Vestibule was a series of short pieces that wound themselves into my first Spoken Word show. They were explorations of the spaces between: physical spaces like Ellis Island (Backlighting) and my parents’ utility room (Read Herring;) transitions in life (settling my daughter into college–Saltwater Tap/Recalibration;) growth and maturity (all the rest.) It opened at Hipbone Studio here in Portland and then toured New Mexico.
ORDER OF PIECES
Backlighting
A View From the Stutthof
Read Herring
Saltwater Tap into
Recalibration
Mortality Smacks
Computer Dating into
Who Gives a Fuck
Chart Notes
Where’s the Bitch
Overload, apathy, cynicism–sort of like gutting a fish on the installment plan. And where’s the white knight? Mr. Clean, maybe? or even Mr. Tid-y-Bowl? No one looks too good. I tend to feel out-monied, out power pointed, out Godded.
[W]hen I leave my routines behind for travel or some other demand on my time, I miss them. Routines are like botulinum; they can kill, but just a little bit smooths away the harshness of everyday.
She screams out ”Won’t someone please shoot this dog? Please, if I circle back around the block one more time, will you please have your gun ready and try to shoot the dog? Shoot the damn dog and don’t shoot me? Please.”
It was a hopeful sign of family Sunday mornings to come: mornings filled with many kinds of stinky fish; mornings of love.
Sometimes they weigh me down, the promises duty binds upon me and the gifts I can never repay. Those days, I am haunted by history, especially the dreams stolen from young dreamers.
First, the sandwich bag was all wrong. It could be any plastic bag that found its way into the house, usually cradling my Dad’s stiff shirt or the Tribune. These bags were huge, unwieldy and, by the time they reached the cafeteria, sticky inside and out. The sandwich didn’t float out— often the bag would have to be removed from the sandwich.
Gina’s often late with the rent. She’ll call me to say when she’ll be able to mail it. Sometimes it comes in two chunks—often with passes for the movie theater where she works. I thank her for letting me know. I always emphasize how helpful it is to know. It’s already past the tenth and [...]
She could close every comment, every argument. Last words were her specialty: last words and stage whispers. She could keep a list a mile long. She could drink scotch and laugh with the men. And with the Bitch, I was funny and glib. With her, I had a context, a ‘tude, a style. With the Bitch boa wrapped around my shoulders, nothing could hurt me. My stride was, sexy, witty, and impermeable.
I traveled thousands of miles to stand here in the snow and the cold where my Grandmother and her younger daughter, Eva, found one another in 1944, after eighteen months of heartbreaking separation, amongst thousands of women penned by barbed wire into two groups, awaiting role call.
It doesn’t happen in a moment, but leaving home is one big jump forward. From my side it’s a recalibration of time, place and manner. On her side, it’s a whole new world. Remember your parents—stage dressing. I spent the summer in retail therapy for the strains of departure—laptops and Ipods and plugs and clocks and phones and cords. I remember I faced motherhood with a similar electronics buy-a-thon.
In the world of self-help, failure-to-dream seems almost unimaginable. But for some of us, this got squeezed out early.