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Punching muffins.

Hi again.

I powered down in mid-May due to some pretty gnarly personal stuff, but I think I’m back online now. Partially. For those of you who happen to reside in NYC or SF, I have a couple newsy things to report. But for the rest of you, nuttin’ but a muffin.

Muffin to see here.

If you wanna know I feel about muffins, click this.

I hate muffins. I don’t know why. Something about the shape. Like they refuse to have one. And the aggressive sweetness. I kinda wanna smash them with my fist. I was gonna say “punch,” but if you punch a muffin it just flies off the table. Which means the muffin has won. Which is unacceptable.

So. NYC! What are you doing next Friday the 13th, besides feeling spooky? I have a reading of my new play SO UM THANK YOU directed by Kip Fagan, but you gotta RSVP because space is limited. We are doing two presentations, one at 12PM (audience will be seated in chairs) and one at 3PM (audience will be taking a yoga class). You can be a total beginner. It’s not a hard class. We’ll be in the Robert Moss Theater at 440 Lafayette St. on the 3rd floor. BYO mat! But we have some too.

And. SF! Or Berkeley, to be precise. My play ELEVADA directed by Susannah Martin will be running from Oct 17 – Nov 17 at Shotgun Players. I just rewrote the whole dang thing top to bottom. It’s a romantic comedy. Kind of.

She has phantom hair! He has phantom antlers! WHAT IS GOING ON?

Hopefully I’ll see you on one of the coasts at one of the gigs. Otherwise I’ll be in a cafe somewhere getting churlish around baked goods for no reason. xo

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For the future.

A friend sent this to me ’cause I needed it. Maybe you do too? (Click to expand.)

Mr. Cogito Meditates on Suffering
by Zbigniew Herbert

All attempts to remove
the so-called cup of bitterness–
by reflection
frenzied actions on behalf of homeless cats
deep breathing
religion–
failed

one must consent
gently bend the head
not wring the hands
make use of the suffering gently moderately
like an artificial limb
without false shame
but also without unnecessary pride

do not brandish the stump
over the heads of others
don’t knock with the white cane
against the windows of the well-fed

drink the essence of bitter herbs
but not to the dregs
leave carefully
a few sips for the future

accept
but simultaneously
isolate within yourself
and if it is possible
create from the matter of suffering
a thing or a person

play
with it
of course
play

entertain it
very cautiously
like a sick child
forcing at last
with silly tricks
a faint
smile

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Checking in.

Hi. How are you?

I was thinking about you the other day. Are you still doing that thing with your mouth/nose/eye/throat/leg? It used to bother me but you’re the only person I know who does it. Ergo, it makes you special.

I like that.

How is your brother/dog/boss/doula/therapist/lower back? Did you have a good time at the game/on the cruise/in the bayou/below the equator? I hope it wasn’t too hot/cold/dry/wet/inconvenient/inconsiderate/inappropriate.

I’m still here. Working on that play/movie/TV show/relationship/habit I told you about. Oh! I built something. A gate. For a friend. I can’t shut the fuck up about it. It’s white and self-closing and has a cute black latch. I made it out of slats of wood I pulled from an unused door that’s been propped against my fence since we moved in. I always hoped I’d find a use for it. It’s a relief, actually. Like I’ve been staring at a crooked picture on the wall for years and years and finally decided to straighten it.

Or maybe the picture was straight and I made it crooked.

Either way. Something is different than it was.

My hands are idle again though. Which means my brain is speeding. I gotta slow it down. Do you have something I could build? What about a bridge made of pencils? I have wood glue. I know how to layer the shafts so they’ll be stable underfoot. I can attach one end to my bedroom window and the other to your mouth. Then I won’t have to ask how you are. I’ll just tumble along in my pajamas one night and land at your lips, right when you’re telling Joey/Shira/Birgit/Morgan/Pete/Kayla/Lei/Omar about that dream you had. The one with the sirens.

Would be weird?

Anyhoo. Let me know.

I miss you.

Love,
-me

It’s a gate.