The Secret Life of the Proletariat

Courtesy of Academia.edu, I learned that

Someone from Nigeria found “I Was a Teenage Alcoholic;…” on Google with the keyword: “I still love my husband and want to be with him, but he is trying to file a divorce letter for us to be apart but I can’t live without him. Maybe you could help me on my love issues.“

If that isn’t scary enough, bear in mind that if you google that exact phrase, you won’t come across my Academia.edu page until page twenty-something of the resulting “matches.”

Dear Nigerian woman who still loves her husband,

I hope you will feel better soon.  I’d love to think that reading my thesis collection of short stories and poems “I Was a Teenage Alcoholic: Then I Turned Twenty” was some kind of comfort to you, but you were probably more intent on finding something to restore your broken marriage.

Awhile back, someone from Uganda found “Cemetery Row” on Google with the keyword: “ryan rivers messages that left girls literally dripping wet”

I don’t even know how to begin to parse that one.

Because you really want to know about my day-to-day struggles – as a PhD student, as a teacher, as a writer, as a lover of cats and dogs and other furry creatures, as a person stuck in Lubbock, TX, while the rest of my family is in Georgia and Illinois, as someone living at or below the poverty level, as a nonreligious gentile fascinated (perhaps obsessed) with Jewish literature and culture, as an aging human being, to sum up: as a basically displaced person – I am baring it all for you, dear, dear reader.

Because today is the first day of the rest of my blog.

Because I actually did my little yoga practice this morning.

Because why not.

So, the semester – in which I was unwisely overloaded, as perhaps I will describe later in more detail – is finally over, which means I am free at last, at least until the summer session starts, to read the many, many books littering my room.  I’ve settled on the following to start:

• Wandering Stars, Sholem Aleichem’s novel about a traveling Yiddish theatre troupe
• To Be a Playwright, Janet Neipris’s book about, well, being a playwright

Read the rest of this entry »

I have been away from this blog so long, and indeed, had barely ever been at the thing at all, that it’s tempting to think I should simply start a new one.

But that seems wasteful. So this constitutes my triumphal return to blogging. Or maybe just my return to blogging. Or, to lower the bar still farther, this constitutes my attempt to return to, or establish for the first time, a practice of blogging.

Huzzah!

Since the last time I posted, I have moved, not once but twice – first to Madison, Wisconsin, where I spent a year at UW in the PhD program in Theatre and Drama Research, and then to Lubbock, Texas, where I am now pursuing a PhD in Theatre Arts at Texas Tech. Madison is a lovely place to live and UW is a great school.

I thought when I first went to UW that I’d be able to study directing and dramaturgy and be able to continue, on some scale, my theatre practice. This wasn’t how it worked out for me, and I was unhappy doing straight research. So I transferred to Texas Tech, where the program is something like 60% academic, 40% practice – and where I’ll be able to continue writing plays and do a creative dissertation.

In my apartment, everything – with the possible exception of human skin – touched by running water turns some shade of rusty brown. This seems to be true whether the surface is porcelain, plastic or whatever.

I am not some kind of housekeeping genius (I can supply testimonials) or neat-freak by any means – actually I could appear on one of those reality hoarding programs – but trying to keep the tub, toilet, sinks, and dishes a color approximating white or at least eggshell is driving me crazy.

The problem might be, in part, the fact that I have to use water – the thing that’s causing the discoloration – to clean the stains. Sort of like putting out a fire by throwing matchbooks at it.

This photo was taken in 2001. I was using a wheelchair, finishing my BA in theatre, and working at this place the state had sent me to – a place where those of us who were disabled could work for a period of time. I sat there, stuffing envelopes, or gluing things together, or packing light objects into boxes.

We had a Christmas party; they took our pictures with Santa. Here I am with Linda (Linda on the left, me on the right), who worked at the table behind me. Linda had some kind of brain injury, I think. She was a very sweet young woman; not a great conversationalist, for she would stutter and repeat, but she was kind.

My friend Kai – coincidentally, also my ex-husband – wrote a blog entry on the subject of “love passes.”

He also posted it on facebook (yes, who could foresee the day, a decade or so ago, that I’d be facebook friends with my ex-husband?), which is where I originally wrote the following response:

I don’t have a spouse, so basically my life is one long “love pass”… I can indulge in trysts with celebrity crushes to my heart’s content. Yes, it’s a veritable love smorgasbord here in Kalamazoo, Michigan, as I pass from one big-name assignation to the next.

My list would be, in no particular order: Richard Buckner, Paul McGann, the Coen Bros. (individually, I think, rather than collectively, and only if they are single – so that would require a divorce or two, I reckon – hey, I’m easy but I’m no homewrecker, especially not the home of the fabulous Frances McDormand), James McAvoy (again, he’ll have to divorce – sorry, Mrs. McAvoy), Jonathan Meiburg (of Shearwater), and Tom Stoppard.

I’m sure I’m leaving many lovely men off the list, but seeing as I’m spouseless anyway, a carved-in-stone list is not a requirement for this endless love-pass existence of mine.

I reserve the right to update the list as new information comes to my attention.

And not that I feel the need to explain or justify the list, but Richard Bucknerhas a voice that just reaches into my guts. In a good, if aching, way.

Very good. I’m very good at solitaire.

Also good at:
taking pictures of my cat
downloading mp3s

Here’s evidence of one of the above:

I have probably spelled the German incorrectly; that’s “ballet of dead women,” which is from Heiner Muller’s Hamletmaschine, and which I used also as the title of a piece which was part of my solo show years ago, “Death or Serious Injury Can Occur.”

I’m currently embarking on the adaptation of a ballet (indeed, a ballet of dead women), Giselle. I am doing a buttload of research; for instance, I’m watching La Sylphide, known as the first Romantic ballet (I guess Giselle is known as the second Romantic ballet – but it’s also the most famous Romantic ballet).

But all’s not fun and games and watching men and women dance on point.

The pressure to come up with a snappy title, not only for the blog but for this its first entry, is overwhelming, and yet, not enough to lead to anything like success.

I’m not sure who, besides myself and people I might randomly trick into it, will read this blog. You’re reading it, apparently. Who are you, and why are you here? More importantly, will you ever make the same mistake again?