Sitting Around

I'm sitting here in my living room reading the latest Daniel Silva book. For years I had a crush on Chief Inspector Morse -- a character created by Colin Dexter. Dexter killed him off, and the actor who played him on Masterpiece Theatre, John Thaw, died soon after. I vowed not to fall in love with a guy in a book ever again. However, Silva's character, Gabriel Allon, is even edgier than Morse. He's an Israeli agent who is also an artist working as an art restorer as his cover. Anyway. I'm sitting here and the slowly setting sun has reached that place in its journey where it's shining into the room. Everything is glowing. It's the same room I've had for too many years. Different apartment, but the same room. It wants an inspired change. But the unexpected glow makes me look around: the pictures Jamie took on our trip to Venice; the photo Robert Fay took of me wearing a top hat in the Forest Hills cemetery one rainy January Sunday; the memorabilia on top of the old upright piano; the white wicker rocker I bought so Bonpapa would have a comfortable place to sit. I couldn't fit the rocker in my small Datsun and I had to carry it the two miles home. (Then walk back to the shop to get my car). The glorious doll house Jamie built for me; the glass case filled with my unintentional pear collection. A side board of vinyl records -- 50 years of collecting. And, the silly excuse for a sofa,

a bank of three theatre seats from the old Lucy Larcom Theatre -- at the time when it was a porno house called The Fine Arts Theatre. When it closed, my friend Al (who managed the Fine Arts at the time) brought me the seats as a momento. (I had wanted to rent the theatre for a year and produce plays and musicals and revues. ) My son, Alex, and I recovered the seats. (Right!) None of the furniture is comfortable to sit on. Well, the rocker is okay. But the room feels comfortable all the same. It's friendly. I like it. Bits and pieces of my life. I close my eyes and drift, remembering where I've been.

I'm sitting here in my son's apartment in mid-town Manhattan. I'm working on the blocking for a production of Noel Coward's HAY FEVER that I'm directing for the Concord Players this fall. It's early in the day - a remarkably clear, gorgeous summer day. The city is making it's typical jack hammer noises, a riot of traffic sounds, and the confusion of jazz emanating from my little iPod speaker. I permit distraction and walk around the almost bare apartment. Jamie's in the process of re-conceiving his home space. He's performing with the National Tour of Spamalot in a principal role, and traveling around the USA and in Canada learning so much about our country and about himself. He's come to know who he is and where he is in his life. So I'm alone here for a few days; seeing some good friends, a museum, a show, and walking the city of my youth. The bedroom has some art important to Jamie: sketches his father did of him as a child; art he's collected; books. I curl up on the bed. I close my eyes and drift, searching for where I am.

I'm sitting in my car in a rush hour traffic jam on route 128. Because I'm directing the play in Concord, and since my day job is in Boston, the only real way to get to rehearsal on time is to drive to Boston in the a.m. and from there to Concord after work. Right now I'm not driving anywhere. This great mass of automobiles moves an inch at a time like one metallic body. The cd I'm playing is a recording of HAY FEVER from eons ago with Dame Peggy Ashcroft in the lead. I'm listening for inspiration and for the correct pronunciation of the British language. It all falls away as we creep along, and I wonder if my life has become something of a traffic jam: grid lock and detours. I bless this blog because it's the writing that I'm able to do now. My poetry and my plays seem parked somewhere. I've been working through some health issues and haven't been able to spend the time I'd like to spend with friends. Most of them are retired and I'm working so shared time is hard to find. And even if there's not much readership for this blog, I am hopeful that it is visited from time to time. I can't make the comments option work so there isn't a way to get feedback. If you're out there, my email address is in my profile. Say hi. Ah well. One thing is for certain, I will go on; the traffic will move again. And so will I.
There are people I love as much as my own life, and so much I want to share, and say, and do.
Yesterday little Keira, her mom and I walked the beach with the tide miles out. Keira calls it "the big pool." I fear I'm becoming a sentimental old girl. Becoming is the important word. The traffic is moving again. I'm going to the theatre.