True, we all need a push sometimes, but not doubt, thank you. Most times, I’m comfortable here at home, with and without my friends. I do whatever seems to be most important to me, even the laundry. Shit—that’s pathetic—but I’m getting used to it.

You see, I’m no longer young enough to try everything, but I’m old enough to try anything. I’m probably allergic to knitting, mysteries, gardening and organized fun. I’m too old and too young for some things anymore: too old to pretend I like those things I really don’t; too young to stop trying new things, even if they might not work for me.

It’s a devilment of opposites. I long for structure and I love spontaneity. I’ve no need to be boxed in, but I build boxes faster than I know what to do with them. Anything and nothing goes—me, them, it, elsewhere and likewise. It’s art versus laundry—sure that’s an old and easy battle. But now it’s also art in laundry, and hell, just laundry. It’s my joy, my fantasy, my passion. And when the worm unwinds, it’s my loneliness.

The fretful details—the small steps that build all the Romes—send me running, fearful of cog-dom and futility, threatened by brittleness and loneliness. The details might want hours, days even. They might seize control and swallow up all my time and creative bandwidth. “Tidy up, pay the bills, read the mail.” Some do these things well, with graceful routines that leave time for brandy and laughter. Some avoid them altogether. I desire both and do neither. When I finally turn to the ledger and account them their due, that’s when I notice false, brittle orderliness. Then that corner slips away to avalanche.

Of course it’s all perspective. The very grandest matters are just a series of small tasks that take attention, routine, method. Great thoughts and dreams require accounting and attention to detail. But when this starts to feel like a cog-in-the-works process, I sigh out precursor-despair. Tasks may be delicious, with their well-crossed lists. They may offer a place to hide. But whether I’ve embraced them as a hiding place or as tasks well-done, the insularity of small matters whimpers with interstitial loneliness. “Can’t he kiss away the fearsome details?” Instead, the powder cloud swirls around me and I’m lost in it.

Someday they’ll find me out, those people who never knew to wonder, but suddenly do because they saw the feature expose. They had been busy grilling wienies and tossing softballs, riding their mountain bikes and digging their dahlias. They kayaked, spoke French and made love—or thought they did. They sang “Jesus, Hallelujah” and crocheted potholders, never giving me a thought, I know. But now, they’re a little curious. “Who does that?” they wonder, in that distract-able moment of our collective ADD.

They didn’t understand why I sat at home, quietly minding my own business or why I looked wildly for my own business, again and again, in the comfort and newness of my middle-ages. They didn’t need to ponder why I had dressers with someone else’s crap still in them.

Who will reveal me? The hungry writer, hunting down one of those delicious stories of the weird—I mean everyman–crawling brilliantly through the wormhole of obscurity? Or is it the archeologist coming to rescue me from the avalanche of loneliness in small matters.

And who will cover my ass? Frazzle, you little devil. Finding, minding, listing, insisting. I love you; now why can’t we just get along?

You and your obsessions, compulsions and fears—you keep me working and reworking it to death sometimes, chaining me to the computer screen just so you’ll know I’m hard at it. You’ve got me grinding away, afraid I’ll lose my nerve, my reserve, you fearful, frantic Frazzle.

You think I might just get lost in a sea of chocolate, red wine and New Yorker articles, a lazy day in bed, a gad about town. I bet you worry I’ll polish up my passport and forget to come home. You’re so jealous of all the things I might decide to do, sometimes you won’t even let me put away the dishes. Do you think I’ll be seduced by the dishwasher just to avoid writing? But that’s how it is with you, Frazzle. You control freak.

I know you mean well. You get the bills paid and help me find the desk beneath the rubble. You sort and stack little pots of this and that, all fluffed and alphabetized: get well; happy birthday; be on-time; connect the dots. You’ve got my backseat ready for anything that could arise today and then the next. Sometimes, my calendar jumps a whole week, I’m so damn prepared.
Thanks for your order-from-chaos, the full plate of work, a comprehensible accounting system. I do need you; I am thankful for the tasks you push me through.

And now Frazzle, having accorded you something of your due and thinking kindly on you, could I ask your favor in return? Please, lighten up. Let me slow, slip, tumble and squeak along the normal pleasures of the day, breathing a bit of air. Yes, I will respect you—dare I say expect you—in the morning. You’ll be waiting for me at four a.m.—the anxiety hour. But just now, let’s have us another glass of wine, why don’t we.

Sunshine pulls energy from my fingertips and hair roots like an insistent partner dragging the shy girl out of the shadows. Old kinks fall from my back—new one’s don’t even notice their beginnings as my body twists and turns with the rhythm of the dapples dancing on streaks and patches of light.

Bulky clothes fall away and skin shyly floats to the surface. “Touch me, touch me” it calls to the glorious columns of light—shocked at it’s own boldness. Legs, ribs, skull long for the steam to be released from rain-soaked bones, Away wooly layers, layers due for cleaning, for boxes, for the thrift store and the wooden trunk. It’s time to bare thoughts, limbs and hair and forget gooseflesh. This is the beginning of spring.

You’re filled too, if you paid attention.
Note: Ritter chocolate, Asiatic lilies.
Should we discard streaky windows
or recycle them for a new heart?

I studied which sweater you’d like,
what’s for breakfast, when to ask and not.

Pity the next ones stirring rubble.
I’m tired and despairing of a whole-heart love.
Who would sort my scabs and scars?
Could I open bones filled with secrets?

All that energy scibbered away.
It sprung me: toss it in or let it out?
Maybe I could have spent it better
making something to hold onto…a nice pot.

I studied which sweater you’d like,
what’s for breakfast, when to ask and not.

Opportunity—what about those misses.
Don’t say “each love is a classroom …
You’ll get there when you’re ready.”
Whatever could that look like?

Love—soured, spat out and washed away,
beats safety, footing and progress.
Messy windows, crusty scabs, fossil-habits
stumble broken hearts along.

I studied which sweater you’d like.

I had endeared myself to my father by being willing to eat anything–pickled herring at one month. Either I didn’t mind smelly things and weird textures, or I had a sunny disposition and strong desire to please. Of course I was delighted when my father shook with a belly laugh.

A picky eater wouldn’t have stood a chance in my house. The worst scorn and judgment would have been flung her way. I carefully carved out the two things I really didn’t want to eat that I thought I could get away with–mushrooms and asparagus. I ate everything else I ran into–even scary calamari tentacles. Surprise! my Mother suspended her own quick judgment and helped me out on the mushrooms—“she’s probably allergic to them anyway.” My Father never accepted these small phobias and made each restatement a small terror. “What— you don’t eat mushrooms?”

Girlfriends who asked my Mother what was for lunch or dinner received powerful disapproval. Linda was known for only eating Juniorette noodles. In anticipation of her lunch visit, my Mother, a non-driver, knocked the tail light off the ’59 Imperial. Look at this old boat on-line if you what to see what a disaster this must have been. Those expensive noodles were the punch-line of many a commentary. Juniorettes referred to Linda’s entire family. She was not invited again.

Food was love. And it occurred by my Mother’s rules, tastes and family history. When I came home from college, grad school, life—anything I might once have liked would be trotted out at every opportunity. I realized my home was one continuous meal.

Mostly I came home to blitzes: generous pillows of slightly sweetened ricotta cheese wrapped skillfully in buttery-fried crepes, topped with sour cream and cinnamon sugar. My Mother hasn’t been able to make a blintz for years. But if food is love, blintzes are an orgy—one that paradoxically demands monogamy. Eating frozen blintzes would be a very tacky affaire.

Many of my friends “discovered” real food in their 20s and 30s. I’ve shunned their studied, foody-ness and recipe servitude. I know that baby boomers—despite their uber-remodeled kitchens and gourmet devotionals— were usually raised on canned vegetables. Well-off families ate frozen, but for some reason fresh eluded most tables in this fertile country of truck farms. Fresh and crisp–rarer still. My college roomies were terrified of the pans full of Velveeta free stir-fried veggies I cooked from produce grown not ten miles away.

Eating is a sensual, earthy experience that supports life. Not an effete substitute for interaction, nor an excuse for obsession. Like most things, when it gets precious it becomes a pain in the ass.

Not that there isn’t something to be learned from a recipe. My scorn is part defense—I’ll admit. I can’t really stick to a recipe. I always have a creative addition, a lazy substitution. Most of my cooking is from the hip. It surprises me how much I absorbed from not paying attention to Mom. Marinate…. Marinate… Repetition would often help these little experiments develop into jewels, but it seems too….repetitive. Make it again? But….this time lets try…

It’s hard to truly incorporate foods and pots I didn’t grow up with. I understand Mom’s defaults. I have tackled eggplants. They seduce me in the grocery store, with their luscious purple gowns, but I know they never wandered into my grandmother’s kitchen. Yes I do Tofu. But unstudied, it drifts away from my thoughts. In the last two years I’ve added tempeh. It’s a good vehicle for sauces.

It’s a precious time, these days. But a table full of food is still the easiest way to show love, generosity and welcome.

I can’t get the music out of my head. I’m almost normal, almost normal… I was wowed at how the whole play came together. The story line is descriptive of my age group and one can identify with it all too well. The music, acting, singing is wonderful. You’ve got a hit on your hands! Nancy

“The Only Way Out is Through” is wonderful, funny, touching, not to mention well performed and wonderfully written. Von

I loved your show yesterday…the performance was great – it was very tight. Scott

Thanks again for a memorable evening…you touched cords of pain and strength in us all. Fabulous. Barbara

I so enjoyed your and your co-star. You guys were great together and the music was so good and catchy. Cathy

I thoroughly enjoyed your play! The staging, lighting, music, lyrics were splendid! Carolyn

My husband…said he needed to take notes of your lines regarding “stuff”; I am the pack rat of the whole family so all the “dead peoples stuff” is part of my attic clutter.” Carol Anne

It was funny, poignant, true, and completely enjoyable. My admiration goes to both of you for telling such a real story. Margaret

You hit a chord in every woman at your show….good for you !! Sharon

I could really relate to what you were saying. It was funny, poignant, true, and completely enjoyable. My admiration goes to both of you for telling such a real story. Margaret

I just wanted to tell you how much I loved your show. You are really gifted. Your lyrics, melodies, acting, ideas, all are wonderful. And you and the other actress are quite a team! I am telling all my friends about it. Marjorie

You have a great production there. Joan

While I awaited the music—six to eight weeks–I thought I’d get me a director. I was fortunate to be able to hire Chrisse Roccaro. I was really excited to have someone with her experience and level head as director, not to mention being a female of a certain age….

By this time I’d pretty much decided to put the show into the Fertile Ground festival time slot. This would maximize my woefully inadequate publicity budget. (Yes that glorious grant check continued to shrink radically as I discovered I’d have to rent lights, a board, and come by a sound system. What was I thinking? Oh right—the Sellwood Lodge space was a bargain. But the list of what it didn’t include was growing. Then there were new sexy items like Insurance to think about…)

We held auditions for the other actress and cast Cindy Lyndin in the dual role of Laine/Dr. Dopfelganger (both the visiting friend and Shelley’s Therapist. I am playing the role of Shelley.) I was delighted at the turn-out for auditions; how interesting to be on the other side of the table. I really appreciated what the women who auditioned gave us. I had to chuckle at the surprise of actresses when they arrived to find saw a clump of middle-aged women waiting their turn. Not so many roles out there…

Music shot back at me from my far and oft-flung arranger. Someone else understood my ideas—always gratifying. As a Tech theatre-phobe I suddenly wished I’d paid attention to my many unfulfilling hours of tech work in college. Finally Dug Martell and I agreed upon one another.

An important and sometimes difficult part of production of my own work has always been to kick the writer out of rehearsals. This is a little tricky when she has been the whole shebang for so long. For one show, I had to get a little nasty with her and send her to wait in the car until rehearsal was over. Fortunately, at this point it was a little easier.

By now, a month into rehearsals for The Only Way Out is Through the playwright has been pretty securely dispatched. And once again—I am amazed how different my own writing looks from the standpoint of actress than writer. I have to get used to it, remind myself, discover it again and yes—work hard to memorize it. You’d think it would be easy to get those words into my head since they once came out of it. But, no.

Now, we’re rehearsing on a mostly-full set in my basement with a few twists and turns and of course not the sound we anticipate. We’re getting choreography from Kerris Cockrell—that’s exciting. Every day I think up something else new to do, in addition to learning my part, connecting with everyone in the production, finishing last week’s mess and keeping the rest of my life somewhat afloat. I’m almost getting used to this… Tickets

“Tomorrow you can see Diana’s new piece.” Diana lives next door to my hostess and she’s a Liturgical Choreographer, whatever that means. Delightful—a free dance performance in Manhatten.

On Sunday morning I head off on foot through Central Park to the Church where the performance will start at ten. Ten a.m. seems an odd time for a dance performance.

The wind is especially wicked, whipping my unsuspecting flesh through my gloves and past my lungs. Although I’m in my twenties, I’m gasping and teary-eyed. Mind you, I’m no winter wimp. In college, I walked that evil bridge across the Mississippi many many January Minnesota nights. My Chicago mile-to-school-up-hill-both-ways stories are in mothballs for future grandchildren. Cold weather in Manhattan is different, though—it’s windier and lonelier.

I’m wearing just about everything I brought to New York. The duck-hunter’s ugly down vest is poochyand brown long before either were fashionable. The black wool coat weighs me down and twists around my legs in the wind. I might as well have left my jeans and long underwear at home for all the good they do me.

Central Park is empty. I endure it and don’t see a person until I’m heading south on Park Avenue. He’s a mid fifties sort of guy in a black-diamond mink coat walking a well-dressed Airdale. Steam rises from both of them; I am invisible. That’s ok, I’m relieved to be walking measurable blocks alongside buildings. I can think about my destination rather than Jack London endings.

Oh I noticed that mink coat, all right. And the gracious buildings and classy cars. Sexy ladies from the eighties, hunh? I wonder if this might not be a fancier affair than I contemplated?

It’s Sunday morning, two weeks before Christmas. Am I heading toward a church service? Is this some special sort of day? I bet it is. Suddenly I notice a swarm of limousines at a large building in the next block.

I’d never go to my own religious services dressed anything like this, even if it wasn’t a special holiday season-sort of day. But here I am and it’s too cold to walk away. Besides, it’s all about the dance.

The limos and taxis discharge snow white winter suits, ermine collars, cashmere, sparkling hats, and pearls. The rabble wears mink. What was I thinking?

I get caught in the swirl of entry into the gracious old church building and head toward the front. I haven’t come this far not to see the choreography. I skip the first couple of rows in case there is some special obligation. I get a good view from a third-row seat.

My ermine-trimmed neighbor and I exchange greetings. Everything matches. It’s warm.

Oh to be one of those people who sit wrapped-up in her coat. But in my world it was rude and unwise to stay coated indoors. Too bad, I almost could have passed. The panels of black Forstmann wool are by far the best part of my outfit and my raggy jeaned legs would be mostly hidden. But now that I’ve stopped throwing my body against the wind my cheeks sting hot, hands turn red and I might pass out. The coat comes off and I stuff the vest under a pew.

I am the lost last-decade hippy chick, au too naturelle. Maybe there is something remotely charming in the ragamuffin’s struggle through the cold to worship. And, for all its ermine, a congregation that has half-nude modern dancers and a string quartet on its alter in 1978 must be fairly enlightened.

Enlightened perhaps, but my neighbor is also intent on seeing that I sing my way through the service. Her pointer thrusts into my hymnal for the many follow-on verses of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

“Gratitude.” Yes, I’m grateful for the heat and that there’s no confusing kneeler or footrest. “Collection plate.” If I could have parted with money, I would have taken a cab. But smiles abound and I’ve settled into my role as the Crampet’s older headstrong girl.

Finally it’s time for the dance—my excuse for exposing these lovely people to me. I recall nothing. Some thirty years later, it’s my sense of ignorance and surprise, the warmth of the space and the tolerance of my neighbors—the true spirit of Christmas all around me—that I remember.

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heav’n.

SO FIRST I WROTE A PLAY: Maybe it was a crazy idea—aren’t they all. But I wanted to see more people like me on the stage. After all, there are a lot of us: educated baby boomers. career-women, divorced-Moms who’ve been around a few blocks. We’re reborn into a midlife world that allows us to be ourselves—outside the noisy realm of desire, glitz, war, and TV drama. I know, we’ve been a whiny generation, taking our (huge) share, maybe more, of the music, social movement, news, advertising bucks, and soon, social security and medicare dollars. We’ve subjected everyone to our discoveries, our crises and yes ladies, even our menopause. And as a generation, we haven’t exactly lived up to our promise. But in a small way, in the woman’s way of unheralded everyday life and discovery, we are just getting started. And it can be so good, even stepping through the rubble of the last 50 years and the landmines of now. How do we get that onstage in a fun, watch-able way?

I worked with a friend who was good enough to come over almost every week and read through/talk through whatever I was thinking about. We improvised a little bit, we got goofy, we got personal. I felt obligated to have something ready to share with her each week and a little pressure never hurts.

PRODUCTION MONEY–YOWEE: Within the last couple of years I’ve produced three one-woman shows from my original writings to be performed by me at an inexpensive alternative theatre space. They were consuming and self-funded. It’s been lonely and nerve-wracking (albeit wonderful.) I didn’t want to do that again.

This time I had a two-woman idea and a generous production grant. I felt very fortunate and a little grand. After I deposited the check I admired it in my bank account for a few months. It seemed huge–thrice my previous budgets. I knew I would hire a Director—that’s a must. I’d also hire an Arranger. (I’ve written songs for years and I’ve written two musicals for student-production and I’ve never stuck to Finale (the musical notation program) long enough to eek out a semi-respectable score. Enough of music-in-my-head.)

The first check I wrote was going to be my single biggest expense—arranging the music. This major commitment would get me a highly accredited musician on my side, clever arrangements, a score and recorded tracks for performance. Suddenly, in an EXCEL flash, the whole grant was committed away plus about another 50%. I was the proof of Parkinson’s Second Law–on steroids: Expenditures rise to meet income–and then some.

But nobody likes talking about money. After all, the important part is

THE PLAY: I worked up a good reading and singing of the play with my friend. Based upon the comments we got from our band of trusted, theatre-going friends, I completely rewrote the play, just in time to hand it off to Tod Rainey, the arranger, that week. Stay tuned for Installment 2.