words are words

Taking a break from a marathon playwriting binge, my lower back is getting sore sitting in Argo's wooden chairs. I am sitting with a view out the window, which has been surprisingly unproblematic. I used to peoplewatch. I guess I still do but maybe with less intrigue...hunger? I don't get distracted by them as they walk by anymore, and I'm not sure that is something to be proud of. Have I finally shaken off whatever tendencies that encouraged some random neighbor to suggest to my mom that she put me on ritalin when I was 3, which my mother promptly, and smartly, rejected. Or have I just lost interest? Has cynicism taken over?

Or do I people watch differently? I watch out the window and I see bodies -- some attractive, some less so -- and clothing. I adore our era of clothes, at least in my neighborhood. There is this hodgepodge rebellion against the trendiness of whatever label is big right now. People wear what they want and wear what looks good on them. An eclecticism of colors and styles and fits.
And then there is the blogosphere. This is the first time I have ever used this word: blogosphere. An atmosphere created by electronically reserved ideas. It's funny that my blog spellcheck doesn't even acknowledge it's a word. Now we people watch from the perspective of the people we watch.

rushed

I feel the decaffinated starbucks surging through my veins like a bobsledder on acid. That is how desperate I am for time: coffee at 8pm on a work night. I will fall asleep maybe around 3 if at all. Decaffinated starbucks is, for a tea drinker, like plugging your heart to a car battery.

But I need the time. A project that was proposed a month ago was reproposed three days ago as a larger project with a sooner deadline...namely the same deadline as the other commission I have been working on. Namely this sunday. 45 to 60 minute play in 6 days. Go!

And quickly it becomes clear that plays are like children. And you don't want to have a favorite, but you kind of do...or maybe it is just that the younger one has so much promise and possibility and needs more nurturing and love and is just, frankly, a whole lot cuter than the older grungier child with her problems and hidden tatoos that you don't even want to think about. She won't change and she doesn't care what you think because she is her own independent preteen. So getting her to put on a dress to go to the theatre: an exercise in manipulation, coddling, and bribery.

I have this shirt that barely has any thread left; fits like cobweb. It was my dad's old Wilson baseball tee. She finally got me to stop wearing it because it really wasn't a shirt anymore. But it took her like three years. And I only have three days to make my preteen play presentable.