I sat down intending to write a play. Because that's how it works you know, you just sit down and say out loud to the animals and the coffee "I am going to write a play now", and then you do it. But you turn on the TV first for background and it's Sunday and the only thing on that can't wreck your psyche is Bones. And you still have Covid. And you switched from first person to second without caring or realizing.
I fuss at theatre kids not to compare themselves to others at auditions, because it's death for performers to compare. Then I show them the best and ask if they can achieve it, inviting comparison. I know I should not compare myself to others because I will depress myself. I have depressed myself. I am depressed.
Which is boring so I want to write a funny play. It won't be as funny as the show The Last Of Us which is hysterical as a reheated dystopian saga. It's a comedy kids, a fungus killed the world? A Fungus. Stephen did it best with Captain Tripps. Zombies were good. Since then we've been struggling. We're out of ideas. The world is ending and everything is metaphor because nobody has answers so...
Fungus.
I was not supposed to laugh when What's Her Name that travels with the guy who's trying to get the girl to the place because she's "The One"--that woman, TESS, her name was TESS---she is already infected anyway when she decides to heroically burn whatever building they're in with her and the Not Yet Cauliflower people, which is apparently how far the fungus goes, so this kid isn't eating cauliflower these days or maybe I will--off topic---so she, Tess, is already infected but gonna be a hero, but her lighter won't catch and one of the pre cauliflower fungus/people gets close enough to her to kiss her, but he's got fungus coming out of his mouth and....I'm supposed to be scared? He's kissing her to kill her. With fungus. The rest of them are screeching and clawing and biting.
I laughed.
And then I got up and made more air fryer food and contemplated a full fungus person turning into cauliflower, but not always, only sometimes. And they click for locations 'cause they're blind. And again, I laughed. Silly show. So I write:
"The play opens on old, broken, angry, washed up" ---can you be washed up if you never accomplished anything? What does it even mean. Looking it up.
deposited by the tide on a shore.
2.
INFORMAL
(of a person) no longer effective or successful.
Great, that was uplifting.
Washed up only applies if you were ever effective. Which I was not. So I can't be washed up.
"The play opens on a 57 year old, angry, ineffective teacher shoving last night's air fryer stuffed jalapenos into her mouth with one hand, while stirring creamer into her coffee with the other. She is talking around the fried leftover in her mouth, speaking to the empty kitchen.
I don't even know how to start, where do you start? I am sorry that I was not a good mom and I didn't prepare you to be a functioning member of this dysfunctional world. I'm sorry we didn't have the money to cushion the whole thing, to buy you a townhouse so at least you could have a place that isn't here, that isn't having to come home because the economy has spun out of control and you are a unique human who wishes to live your life instead of marry Old Man Capitalism.
She takes a sip of coffee, while reaching into the oven for another leftover air fried delight...
And that's what I have so far. I remember playwriting being easier than this. Of course, I also remember never sitting myself down and stating "Immma write a play now", so there's that.
Each blog I attempt is another fractured snack. Yes. That's what I meant.
Did I mention today is Sunday, and I don't have Covid any more, I did when I started writing but I just tested myself - but I did have Covid this week SPRING BREAK thank you, after returning from NYC with students. Second time I've had it in ten months---WTF. Major headache, lotta sneezing, which easily was exacerbated by my relentless need to do All Of The Cleaning in the three days I had left meaning dog beds and cat boxes which contain fantastically airborne fluffies and clay which settles in one's frontal lobe and becomes solid matter. Fun.
Apologizing is my home state. At school I'm hardcore, hardnosed, a theatre amazon, a brick house. Here I know I'm actually a failure at both teaching and parenting. Thus the relentless cleaning, if I stay busy I won't think about the fact that apologizing isn't enough. I have done nothing but fail. Which, from a commitment standpoint is impressive. I do know how to commit to failure. So I got that going for me.
She shoves a second fried treat into her mouth, and then a third. She begins to choke, and laugh as she chokes. With a loud "Huh" she spits the fried chicken, fried jalapenos and coffee pieces out of her mouth, laughing as they fly all over the kitchen. Much to the dogs' delight, as it is an arial feast. They dance and snap and snarf and lick, and she laughs and chokes and cackles, and leans on the counter. She would fall to the floor and join the canine festival, but her knees are shot. So she leans on the counter for support and continues to laugh and choke, simultaneously, as only someone who understands the absurdity of life will do.
Scene.
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