Apr. 29, 2003 - 2:00 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
“Atonement” has been ordered. I am heartened by the fact that “atone” rhymes with “bone”, which is in the title of our first two books. It is my deepest desire that our next book will continue this fine tradition – perhaps you know of a book out there called “The Phone Shop”? Or “The Ragged Tonedeaf Lovely”?
Perhaps as a final comment about “Lovely Bones”, I will agree to disagree with you about the Abigail/Len situation. Your points are all valid and, indeed, if one were to cast probable causes and effects onto each of these two characters, the result could be an ill-conceived tryst. I suppose what I object to is that the reader must cast such probabilities onto Abigail and Len into order to arrive at their twisted fates, whereas the father, Ray, Ruana, Ruth, etc. have their actions and feelings mapped out in a more logical – if ‘human’ - fashion. Abigail strikes me as a twit, and I wind up questioning the smarts that all three of her children possess, especially the dead one; Len a frustrated Colombo with the insight of a bat with a sore throat.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The concept of The Dreamer follows one throughout life, sometimes first-hand, sometimes second-hand. Either way, The Dreamer shows us the brilliance of imagination and infinite scope of desire; from the vastness of hope to the song of the yearning. These people piss me off.
Finding myself in the arts – the last bastion of those too afraid to consider therapy – I have always been surrounded by dreamers. It’s a dreamer’s profession. The only issue I have with dreamers is that they dream; they rarely do anything when it comes to the metaphorical waking state. I was much the same when I departed the two big improvisational schools – Second City and the Annoyance Theater – to concoct my own theater company. My first attempt at producing and directing a show, “Ivan’s Revenge”, a somewhat-sly reference to Ivan Pavlov, was a meandering mess, despite the fair review we received early on. At that point, I dreamed of being a director, so as co-producer, I made myself the director. And I loved being a director, Meghan. The show itself ran eight months, not because of but rather in spite of my self-appointed title. I have found that the less I like being a director – and there are times in the Clowns when I loathe it outright – the better director I am.
I have made a conscious effort to balance my Dreamer with my Doer; to line it up with the 1:2.5 ratio that directs my real life. Like all good know-it-alls who think they are on the right track, however, I am routinely irritated by those who do not follow my path. When confronted with a blank look from a Clown, I get very angry; I always figure that we all want to do well, create something spectacular, and yes, be known. Being regaled with what shows the others are auditioning for is also a source of bitterness for me – not because they might ‘abandon’ me (I was in therapy long enough to be able to discount that theory) but because I see the Clowns as the perfect vehicle for any actor. Write your own stuff, perform with others, work as a team, etc.
Meanwhile, our sketch comedy rivals Schaudenfreude (‘rivals’ should be read as a ‘healthily and creatively competitive rivals’) just started their weekly radio show.
I haven’t spoken much about my new neighborhood, which is radically different than my last one – despite the fact the two are within a 15 minute walk of one another. My new neighborhood is much more residential; you have to look closely to find apartment blocks (my apartment looks very much like a three-story house, and it may have been at one time). Toys and bikes litter the front lawns. The grass is (as you might imagine) nicely groomed. Hopscotch maps and cartoons tattoo the sidewalk. And, as with all good residential neighborhoods, there is a seedy underbelly that makes me think I am taking part in a David Lynch movie. On the side of a garage, the following is posted (misspellings on purpose): “Why would you use my goddamm garbage can. If you own a home, City will give you free. Stop using my garage canes.” In a different alley, there is a structure that would be a garage if it had a garage door; instead, it is an all-brick structure with one metal door facing the alley. One day, while walking through said alley, a drunk guy stumbled out. He rocked, as if on a boat encountering violent waves. Then he wordlessly went back inside.
Next door to me is a gay couple; two doors down from me is a house displaying more American flags than all of the other houses on the block. Recipe for disaster, isn’t it? One night, I heard a woman from the Flag House, drunk beyond drunk, in front of the Gay House, yelling, “Hey you goddamn faggots! I can hear you! You goddamn faggots! Call the police on me again, why don’t you? Do it! Do it! Come out and face me, you faggots! Go to Iraq you punk asshole faggots…” …then silence.
I admire your skill at being able to flop your head arms and head on a picnic table; alas, this is one joyful experience I cannot have. Due to odd placing of the nerves within and around my shoulder area, by doing the Flop, my arms become ‘dead arms’ in a matter of minutes. Not only is there no feeling, but my brain cannot make them move. At all. I recall how I discovered it. I was working at the Shell Gas Station years ago, where I came replete with yellow shirt with red-outlined shell on the pocket. Sometimes brown slacks, too, when I was feeling particularly like a team member (about twice a year). I worked midnights, as I did the college thing during the day. I fell asleep in Flop position, while sitting on a stool, one night around 3am and was woken up by a man hungry for cigarettes (which were all in a plastic shelf slightly above head level). He tapped on the glass of my little kiosk and I sat up quickly. My arms…didn’t. They flopped to my side like two rubber prostheses. Dead. “Can I gedda packa Salems?” I attempted to reach up to get them, only to find I could not move my arms at all. I blinked and looked the man in the eye. “Now?” “What?” “You want them now?” “No, not Now…Salem!” “Oh, so not Now.” “Salem.” “Winston?” “Salem!” By this time, the blood had started moving again, and, as such, so did I.
Which is why I sleep on my back,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
