Who died and made this crook
the Quote of the Day?
I woke up with Red Peppers on the brain. Not the kind suitable for eating, dear Readers; the play.
I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)
Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.
There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.
Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.
I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)
Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.
There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.
Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.
To this day I have but one regret: I have never seen my mother perform. She was instructing and directing by the time that I came along. She has recited lines for me (such as the Red Peppers moment) and I always found myself to be dumbfounded by her knack of getting quickly into character, to step into a role that she had not embraced in over “a million” years. I was immeasurably proud of her during those moments.
Accents. “A Southern accent is infectious and can ruin an entire show.” It is sage advice from a woman who understands her craft better than most people know their own navels. My mother ran through a few lines (by memory) using a flawless Cockney (or East Ender) accent. The script begs for it. I was duly impressed as I stood in her library.
This is the point where I would insert a bit of dialog in order to give you a peek into Red Peppers. I would like to. I can’t find the lines anywhere.
Pickabook offers: Thisitem is not a usual stock item, but we can try to source it. Our price includes a finder's fee of £2.00 per copy. The usual dispatch time is 4-6 weeks.
No shit, Sherlock. I spent a good hour Googling in hopes of finding a snippet of lines from the script. Class and wit have been replaced by talking vaginas and cuckold men (my apologies to my NOW friends and family.)
Samuel French did have a copy and a short synopsis of the play.
One of the "Tonight At 8:30" series produced in London and New York. Doing a song and dance act in a vaudeville theatre are George Pepper and his wife, Lily. They also have a genius for picking quarrels and insulting co workers. When the house musical director, Bert, comes to the dressing room to bum a cigarette and a beer, they chide him for accompanying them in the wrong tempo, call him a drunk, and oust him. Mr. Edwards, house manager, comes to defend Bert, and he is insulted. At the following show Bert had his revenge when he plays the accompaniment so fast the Peppers get frantic and finally fall down. Lily stalks off the stage after heaving her hat at Bert. Also published in Tonight at8:30.
FEE: $35 per performance. Sheet Music (2 songs), $1.25 each.
La te da, Samuel French. (It's located in Key West. No, not Samuel French. La Te Da.)
I'd like to know some of the lines. I'd like to touch upon a memory. There is only one thing for it: Call Mum.
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice. It’s noon
here and I am actually out of bed. Did the house catch fire? Am I in the hospital dying from typhoid? Did we win the lottery?Detour moment:
I never call her early in the day. I always manage to call her towards the end of the day, as if she were nothing but an afterthought to my busy (NOT) day. This is not the case, dear Readers. My mother is not an afterthought. She is writing a book and I do not wish to disturb her. Also, Better Half drives me nucking futs during the day and I seem unable to string two words together without him shouting at some animal or another.
“Nutmeg! NUT meg! NUTMEG! Get DOWN. Down. DOWN. DOWWWWNNNNNN!”
Jebus Crisp, Better Half! “Better HALF! BETTER HALF. Shush! SHUSH! SSSHHHUSH, I’m on the damned phone”. Thus go my days.
I have a sweet friend who also is cursed with oft-impish fur children. He will politely say, “Simba, get down. Mummy’s on the phone.” So elegant. I sometimes dread calling Michael for fear that Better Half will spontaneously explode from the sound of his own voice.
“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”
I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.
Back to my mother:
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”
“Yes”
“Wasn’t there a song in there?”
“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.
I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?
She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.
“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)
I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.
“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”
I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.
Back to my mother:
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”
“Yes”
“Wasn’t there a song in there?”
“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.
I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?
She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.
“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)
I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.
I cast my mind about for lines from any productions that I’ve been in, reaching far back into my thirty-seven year old memory cache. It’s not impressive compared to Mum’s cache. (I have a hard time remembering what I ate for breakfast, where I left the dog and my own age.)
Lines? I have the ability to remember those. Perhaps it is a gift from Mum.
My first thought is The Decision. I remember the entire script, and I do mean the entire script. Every line. It’s a three-act play. Three hours of lines. I was in every scene; my father initially played the role.
This trial is one of great decision on your part. The accused is not present at this hearing. I have been assured by his counselor that the defendant will be watching these entire proceedings.
I am prepared to present to you many witnesses to prove the accused is guilty of having misled and confused millions of innocent people. In actuality, it is not so much the defendant who is on trial here, but rather it is his lunatic ideals that his followers have plagued mankind with…
I remember things from high school and earlier – first grade at St. Rose of Lima Elementary, we did a production called The Five Stones. I played the part of Martha. I think my husband was Zack. I can recall grabbing that young actor’s arm and delivering an irritated, “Come on, Zachary!” before dragging him stage right. Is this just some sort of floating dream? I reminiscence about a scrapbook and of an old photograph published in our local paper. It depicts that exact scene. Therefore, I can assume that either my memory is foggy or that I am actually remembering the lines.
Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.
Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.
My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.
Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.
My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.
Many people misconstrue Buddhism as a mystical practice best undertaken in the quiet hush of a white or red Zen-themed loft crammed with ash-caked incense burners and Asian idols. Prayers are offered to monkey gods, fish gods, Starbucks gods and small crouton- or plumb-shaped demigods. The practitioner must be bald or at the very least “one of those demonic yoga people” and they must at all times remember that their Buddha god (the fat or thin one) is in control of their happiness.
I haven’t a clue what all the various Buddhist branches, practitioners and organizations teach. I have encountered only a few groups and my memories of them don’t hold much water. This is not to say that I find them deficient; I am confident that millions of people profit from their spiritually strong Buddhist walks. I personally do not believe in praying to a god in order to change things that cannot or should not be changed. To devote all of one’s energy into demanding the world change to fit our needs is to stand on top of the world itself and rebuke the sun, if not the entire universe, for failing to revolve around the Earth. Why should we strive to go against God’s or the gods’ will?
I can spend hours filling pages of what I do know about Buddhism from an historical or philosophical point of view. I chose to refrain from doing that here. I will say this: to obtain enlightenment is to be a Buddha. The word itself is Sanskrit for “the enlightened One” and usually refers to Gautama Buddha; it has become a commonplace word used to describe those people who strive to reach their center and then to go beyond it, to transcend.
I belonged to an organization known know as Soka Gakkai International (SGI - USA division) in the late 1980s. It was Nichiren Shoshu of America (NSA) during my time. The 1990s split (NSA to SGI-International) was anticipated for quite a while. What remained afterward became, in my opinion, a lost puppy with good intentions. Yes, we can bring about world peace. Yes, by chanting we find our focus. Yes, we can be instruments of change. No, we should not have given the teachers (Buddhist priests) the boot. No, the Gohonzon (scroll, to simplify) is not worthless if handwritten by a priest. (Old Gohonzons were replaced with newer ones. They were just as pretty but did not have the same deep meaning for many people.) SGI broke down into a pissing contest between the old and the new. I left when it started to pick up a religious fervor (prior to the beginning of constant Gongyo revisions.)
Gongyo is integral to NSA/SGI. The word is Japanese and means “studious practice” and Gongyo itself is the chanting (recitation, repeating a mantra) of certain parts of the Lotus Sutra. Nichiren Daishonin, a Buddhist monk from thirteenth century Japan, studied this sutra and determined that “it contained the essence of the Buddha’s enlightenment and that it held the key to transforming people’s suffering and enabling society to flourish”. Certain groups state that the Lotus Sutra allows one to find inner peace in order to be more effective in the world at large, a pebble dropped in a pond. Nichiren’s Gohonzon can be seen below.
Gongyo (chanting portions of the sutras) is meant to harmonize our individual existence with the universe(‘s). I found it odd when most of my American friends began to chant for changes in their lives, almost pleading with the Gohonzon as if it were a god. One can not find harmony with the universe if one is begging for changes to take place.
“Chant to the Gohonzon for a boyfriend! Chant for a car. Chant for a new job!”
This practice seemed futile to me.
I am a philosophical Taoist at heart. This is not the same as Buddhism. Taoism emphasizes the Three Jewels of the Tao: compassion, moderation and humility. There is action through inaction. To find inner peace, one must accept life for what life is and move beyond it, becoming one with the universe, as a blade of grass bending in the wind (the blade is still a blade no matter how the wind blows and thus it finds harmony. When the lawn mower comes along, part of it continues to grow while the other part moves beyond to become nourishment and shelter – mulch – for other things, thus it is still accepting of its fate and continues to be in harmony and balanced.)
Example: My laptop sits on my favorite table. I accidentally knock the laptop over. It breaks beyond repair or salvage:
A. I rage. I scream. I wail, lamenting the loss of my tool. I get angry. I blame the dog or invisible things (surely I would never be so carelessWe are humans and often fail to respond as calmly as this (those with anger issues or bipolar disorder have a very hard time with it) but we can endeavor to apply this way of thinking to our daily lives. To do so, we should contemplate our actions and meditate to find our center.
as to knock it over.) I grieve the loss. I become angry again because it will be expensive to replace. I kick my favorite table over, then become more irate over that bit of destruction.
~ or ~
B. I accept that it is broken. I mourn the loss. I vow to replace it and to be less irresponsible next time around. Nothing will bring my laptop back. Accept: allow yourself the dignity of having a response and then move on. Material things are immaterial in the grand scheme of life.
The Taoist philosophy can be applied to any religion. There is a fantastic book out there for Christians who embrace this philosophy: Christ the Eternal Tao.
I digress.
I found the practice of begging a scroll (made somewhere in the world) for life changes absurd in comparison with the sutra being chanted to that scroll. Daimoku (the repetition of nam-(mu)-myoho-renge-kyo) for personal material or relationship gain was also pathetic. I can see where one chants to center one’s self in order to set out to make a difference, however. I have not met many SGI practitioners who do so. Somewhere the practice of sitting in front of the Gohonzon and meditating on the lessons/passages/encouragement become paper worship. The message of Nichiren Daishonin became elevated to more than it was intended. One can not become enlightened if one can not accept that the world is as it is, unless we allow ourselves the ability to let go and move to a higher level of thinking. To ask for material things is to remain grounded to material things, making them more important than inner peace (because, by that misguided logic, one can not obtain happiness until one is granted the material thing that one wishes to have.) You will hear this mantra from me frequently.
Please understand that I hold no ill will towards SGI. I simply do not agree with them. Current SGI President Daisaku Ikeda, on the other hand, is an incredible man who has championed for world peace without pause for breath. I hold him in the same high regard that I give to distinguished pacifists such as Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa. No human is perfect yet each of these people ventured to rise above the din to help others obtain some freedom from their personal hells.
I have included two YouTube vids below. One is of Gongyo (chanted at a normal pace); the second is Gongyo in a format that is easy to understand and follow. You should turn off any musical applications that I have running (it will be a box on the side, under profile. If you do not see it, then I have removed it once again.)
~ Enjoy ~
Gongyo (normal pace) with proper repetitions in place.
I found the practice of begging a scroll (made somewhere in the world) for life changes absurd in comparison with the sutra being chanted to that scroll. Daimoku (the repetition of nam-(mu)-myoho-renge-kyo) for personal material or relationship gain was also pathetic. I can see where one chants to center one’s self in order to set out to make a difference, however. I have not met many SGI practitioners who do so. Somewhere the practice of sitting in front of the Gohonzon and meditating on the lessons/passages/encouragement become paper worship. The message of Nichiren Daishonin became elevated to more than it was intended. One can not become enlightened if one can not accept that the world is as it is, unless we allow ourselves the ability to let go and move to a higher level of thinking. To ask for material things is to remain grounded to material things, making them more important than inner peace (because, by that misguided logic, one can not obtain happiness until one is granted the material thing that one wishes to have.) You will hear this mantra from me frequently.
Please understand that I hold no ill will towards SGI. I simply do not agree with them. Current SGI President Daisaku Ikeda, on the other hand, is an incredible man who has championed for world peace without pause for breath. I hold him in the same high regard that I give to distinguished pacifists such as Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa. No human is perfect yet each of these people ventured to rise above the din to help others obtain some freedom from their personal hells.
I have included two YouTube vids below. One is of Gongyo (chanted at a normal pace); the second is Gongyo in a format that is easy to understand and follow. You should turn off any musical applications that I have running (it will be a box on the side, under profile. If you do not see it, then I have removed it once again.)
~ Enjoy ~
Gongyo (normal pace) with proper repetitions in place.
Gongyo (slow version; text) basic without repetitions. This version is hard to chant if you are accustomed to a much swifter pace (see above); it is like pulling fingernails. The words are broken down from Japanese kana (their letters). Each "word" represents a letter, just as each sound is a "letter" (and vice-versa) in Japanese. My name, in this confusing form, would be Au Trice Del Dra Go. This explanation is intended to be simple.
Links:
SGI-USA: About Nichiren Buddhism
SGI-Canada translation - fairly accurate, if this is were SGI is finally coming to rest in the sutras. Well done, Canadians. The full Lotus sutra can be found online. Please do not assume, "Oh, evil, the writer acts as if he is God. There is great depth to the Lotus Sutra and this small portion of it does not explain the whole of the work; a thorn in my side as it pertains to SGI.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of this life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works ~ Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
She sat quietly in the playground and watched the other girls playing with their Strawberry Shortcake dolls. They laughed and combed the pink plastic hair, pausing to sniff the chemically infused scent of each doll. The boys raced around the blacktop in an impromptu game of tag, sweat making their faces glisten in the California sunshine.
There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.
The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.
None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)
Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.
The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.
I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?
She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.
There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.
The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.
None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)
Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.
The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.
I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?
She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.
The girl would shed silent tears later that day and act as if she were holding one of those envelopes. She would imagine choosing an outfit to wear for the party and then arriving at the party and allowing the girls to pull her over to the piñata or cake. It was all futility. An extremely dreadful knowledge held her heart captive; she was not wanted. It was a bit of emotional baggage that she would carry with her for a very long time.
WARNING: Controversial Material
Pulitzer Prize winning Willa Cather has been regulated to a “Quote of the Day”. Imagine that.I first discovered this writer through her novel, “My Antonia”, which was an assigned reading project in my junior high English literature class. Cather’s writing style and attitude absolutely captivated me. Our school library did not provide other works by this remarkable woman and only the Encyclopedia Britannica offered any (woefully lacking) information. It would be many years before I could read her other works; almost a decade and a half before I could learn about Willa the writer.
Willa, who often referred to herself as William, was transgender in my opinion. Lesbians and women’s rights activists would disagree with me (go right ahead, it’s my damned blog!) She behaved boyishly and often dressed in a masculine fashion during a period of time when women of her social status were the epitome of grace and fluff. This was “just not done” during the Victorian era. She was managing editor of McClure’s Magazine prior to NYC suffragette parade in 1912 before women had the right to vote. It was she who saved McClure’s from financial ruin. “The mind of a man, the creativity of a poet of old”, Willa balked at society and took her place amid other male writers. She did not do this for women’s rights; she did it because she saw herself doing something perfectly normal for her inner gender: she failed to see herself as female.
I do grow weary of pointing this out: transgender people are not “cross-dressers” or “transvestites” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They are people who do not identify with their birth gender. They spend their whole lives feeling that they are in the wrong body. Some have surgeries to assume the gender that they identify with (replete with private parts.) Some are gay: a man that becomes a woman but still is attracted to women would be an example. Some are straight: a woman who becomes a man and is attracted to women would be an example. Before you whack me with your cross and bible, please consider that hermaphrodites (those born with both sex organs) are permitted to choose their gender now. If you are still confused, feel free to e-mail me: autricedeldrago@aol.com subject heading: Transgender.
Willa never put her gender or orientation into writing (or perhaps she did. Willa did fastidiously burn her notes; she was a very private person.) Very few transgender writers have the talent needed to explain the frustrations encountered daily. One sophisticated essay entitled My Life as a Girl comes to mind. I have encountered little else.
What if? What if Willa had been born a century later? She would currently be two years younger than me. Her novels would not have had the same impact. Her accomplishments would have been mundane considering that women’s rights
have allowed all of us the ability to follow our dreams.All that withstanding, what would she have to say about who she is and how she sees herself fitting into the world around her? How would she view the current political war raging between two parties? What would she think about gay marriage? Would her heart quicken upon learning that she could leave her old body behind and physically assume the gender that she identifies with? Would she shed tears over Matthew Shepard? I would like to think that she would use her talents to speak out about such senseless violence and death.
I am stuck. I have a sort of writer’s block for an unscripted story that wanders around inside my head, never having been mapped out properly and never fleshed out completely. It has always been there haunting, tormenting, morphing, an idle flight of the imagination. I have always known that I should write about it but have never been able to pin down a single plotline.
I began a story at Sequoia Junior High with my friend Sandra Irene Martinez (whom I miss terribly.) We were both writing the same story but from different angles; our inspiration stemmed in part from Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time while the rest was a jumble of Robotech and other far-fetched things.
I incorporated certain elements from this “wishful story” into a full-length novel when I was in my late teens/early twenties. The person I was collaborating with turned out to be an alcoholic twit – a genius, but a twit nevertheless. I scrapped it for US publication.
The work has been laid to rest (or so I thought), a bundle of files transferred from typewriter to WordStar, to WordPerfect, to MS Word. It twists and stretches, bereft of any bones. I have over thirty-two “design” files that contain mockups of creature development (there is an entire world and an entirely new civilized if “alien” species replete with social, political and religious nuances.)
There are days that I ask myself a simple question: WTF?
I have no idea why I am drawn to this endeavor. It is as if this book was born of my childhood imagination. I had already had a basic idea of the evolutionary process of these “creatures” by the time I was ten. My junior high experience was the motivation to put things down on paper; tell the story. My early adult years were the refinement. It’s all tucked away in my spongy grey matter and I, in complete frustration, can not figure out where I want to go with it. I have an entire world to play with and to manipulate, and a species to rule. I am a god of sorts and yet I sit at my monitor and I hear the monotone emergency broadcast signal played out, mocking me: “This is a test of your writer’s network. You have no idea how to proceed. Had you been an actual writer, the book that are trying to create would have been done ten years ago. This concludes this test of your writer’s network.”
I am also in the midst of collaborating (read Editing, capital E) with my Mum on her book. I won’t go into details on it except to say that I made several suggestions months back (which she balked at) and now, in a bit of her own inspiration, she calls to say that the gentleman that she spoke with had (the same damned) wonderful suggestions (that I had previously.) I love my parental unit, truly, however my hair did not begin to twinkle into silver tones until I started this project.
Did I mention that I also have another project: turning a three act play into a novel (again, her work. It is extraordinarily potent and I believe that it would impact readers in a very thought-provoking way.)
I have all this. Lovely to-do list, isn’t it? What am I doing to remedy any of it? I’m Blitching (blog bitching) instead of focusing on any of these projects.
