Yesterday the Internet went out again and I listened as Masankho patiently went through the whole rigamarole with tech support for the umpteenth time without any sign of impatience in his voice or manner towards the employee on the other end of the line. I was impressed. He gives trainings in non-violence--a sexy topic, when you're talking about international relations, Israelis and Palestinians et al.
But someone who can stay non-violent and gentle in bad traffic or when their Internet connection goes out for the sixteenth time in a week has my undying respect.
More and more scenes, songs, scraps of dialogue for the musical keep coming through me, at odd hours; I write them down and email C, Elizabeth, Theron, and my family. Over the weekend, C was asking questions about the ending of the play. I don't know because I haven't written my way there yet. Some balance has to be struck, some bargain made, some cosmic see-saw swung. That's all I know so far.
A few more specific details begin to emerge in the writing: one of the boys' mothers is a nurse and an activist. She also has a prior relationship with the Devil. The other boys' mother is a bit shadowy still. The young men themselves are only sketches as of yet. And the father was in the military himself, only during peacetime, like G...
While I work on these pieces, I try not to think too much about revising the play I wrote last year, or about the personal essays waiting their turn, or the next poetry manuscript to be compiled. Creativity is a fire. I keep shovelling on wood until it's time to stick my head under the shower, wet hair and glue down frizz with gel, throw on a bra and a short-sleeved shirt that will cover my armpits, and show up at school and teach. Only two more days of poetry at the high school! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! I can smell freedom. It smells like cinnamon.