Shannon Writes...

Dapple.

When you teach English for a living, people often expect you to: 1) know the correct spelling of all words (I don't, as a cursory glance over this blog will show) 2) correct one's grammar with impunity (I can't because I'm not always sure and grammar's a changeable beast) and 3) have a list of favorite writers and favorite words. After being asked these questions too many times, I settled on Anne Lamott and Thornton Wilder as my favorite writers, and "murmur" and "babble" as my favorite words. (It thus makes me very happy that my friend's theatre company is called Babel.)

Today, sitting in the park, I realized I have another favorite word: dapple. I like everything that dapple makes me think of: trees, the woods, a forest, nature, mountains, a park, sunlight, summer, freedom and ponies. Welcome to my personal favorite word lexicon, dapple. I hope you'll like hanging out with murmur and babble, your alliterative homies.

I won't lie to you, folks. It's been a difficult week. I've been sick. I'm getting a lot - A LOT - of rejection lately. My plays aren't being accepted, I was turned down for a residency I really wanted, and in a less specific way, from people, who probably do not even realize this. There are many changes afoot in my life, from the expected and natural change of the season from Spring towards Summer, which means school is wrapping up, to the changing relationship I have with my girls as they and I get ready to leave Stella. I feel some of my friendships changing. And, on top of all of this, I'm in the interviewing stage for a new job, which is fantastic, but doesn't lead one into a feeling of security.

So, today, I've been thinking about things that make me happy. Here's one of those things:

This is the dessert table at my church's potluck a couple of weeks ago. My church, Saint Peter's, is sophisticated and cultural. We don't do potlucks very often. In fact, I've been a member there for 8 years and only remember one previous potluck, which was principally memorable for some raw Swedish meatballs in a crockpot. But I grew up in Western PA (which is kinda half-the American South, half-the American Midwest and a little bit of Poland and Ireland), and I love and miss church potlucks. So this made me happy, even though I cannot eat one of each dessert as was my custom back in the day.

So does this:

This is my friend Aaron's lunch plate from the potluck. I think the only thing he missed is the perogies. This makes me happy too.

I suppose you could say that it's a grim life when only the memory of someone's lunch plate is pulling you through. And that, of course, would be overlooking the love, friendship and support I feel from so many people in my life. But the memories really help.

Networking

When I was a child (and by child, I mean, up until, say, 25, thank you increased human longevity for allowing us to Westerners to extend our adolescence beyond all reasonable cut-off ages!), I really, really hated making or receiving phone calls. With the exception of a call known to be from my brother, one of my parents or a best friend, I loathed picking up the phone and conversing, even when the person on the line was a beloved aunt or jolly acquaintance, etc. But, still, I'd rather have talked to one of my dad's long-winded, ailing parishioners (and that happened many, many times, which is why I do not really mind when my students go on about boys or nail polish or The Catcher in the Rye, because it's so much nicer than hearing about their colons), then actually make phone calls myself. I really had an extreme dislike for doing so. I suspect some of it was tied into my hearing loss (although I can hear quite well on any phone with a volume control), but some of it was just the unpredictability of it all. Who would answer? What would they say? Would I be clear in my speaking or say something like, "Um, uh, who, you, um, is home?"?

Actually, reading that shows that there's no real logical explanation for my fear. Which I guess is the definition of a phobia. I must have had one -- although I did make the occasional phone call when necessary.

The aversion has carried into my adulthood, but I've gotten better. I do prefer email for almost all of my day to day business, in playwriting and peace work, but that's mostly because I like to be able to refer back to what was "said" and decided. I also prefer texting and emails (which I can read on my Blackberry Pearl, beloved more than life itself, and dubbed "The Girlberry") when I'm out and about, because exterior noise 1) makes it difficult for me to hear, and 2) judging from phone calls I've had with people who out and about themselves, sounds to the person on the other end as though one is calling from the midst of a battle between a marching band parade and a circus. I'm just a texty kind of gal. But I do like a phone call more now.

This week, I've had several nice ones. A long chat with my friend Christine, who is, blessings!, four months pregnant. Another nice, long one with Melissa, who's handling a difficult situation with class and verve. Two shorter chats with my brother, who makes me laugh like absolutely no one else on the planet, and who I miss (he lived with me this fall but now is taking some fancy new job, whatever, fine). A bon voyage call with my parents, who are now in Switzerland (and, I hope, having a fantastic time. I can't wait to learn more about Switzerland than chocolate, watches, cheese and Swiss Army products). the usual quick chats with Andrew. A job interview call, which left me impressed by the passion of educators. And so it goes.

When you live alone, as I do, and spend too much time online, as I do, those phone calls become important. Someone else's voice can really bring me out of whatever dark and dreary mood (too often lately, this mood has been set to Rufus Wainwright singing "Hallelujah" as though I am Shrek, or a character on The O.C. ). I need to hear those voices more often, and make more room for them in my life.

A few months ago, I told a friend of mine that I preferred texting to a phone call, and since then, he usually contacts me by texting. But I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that, because I miss the sound of his voice, vibrant, and definitive, on my cell's voicemail (or in my ear). I've got to tell him that. Perhaps I should trying dialing out more.

What Do I Want for My Birthday?

I turn 34 in 22 days. I really like(d) being 33. I hang out with nice Catholic folk a great deal of the time, and they always say, "Oh, the Christ age!" approvingly when I said I was 33. 33 is how Christ is thought to have been when crucified. It's strange to think that Jesus wasn't ever elderly, although 33 was much older 2,000 years ago than it is now. I wonder if Jesus had any physical problems. I think that having something wrong with one's body is the most human thing possible. I don't know of anyone who doesn't have a bad foot, or a creaky knee, or poor hearing, or so on. So I wonder if Jesus had, say, a heel spur. All that walking. I bet it increased his compassion, if so.

Anyway, my birthday sometimes goes very well and sometimes goes horribly. I guess, with 33 shots at it so far, that's to be expected. I had a number of birthdays as a teenager that were ruined by fighting amongst my friends, or too-high expectations of my part of what kind of boy magic was going to happen at my party. Being able to be happy with what I have and seeing the blessings that are real around me -- not just those that I think I want -- is a skill I'm still working on, and not one that comes naturally to me. But I am working on it.

Last year's birthday was fun! The girls threw me two seperate surprise parties, and I felt very loved. I know they did this because they loved me - and because it got them out of having class for day - and I'm still agog and surprised and blessed that they did this, and so well. The photo is of me at party #1, which involved the traditional (I'm told) swipe of chocolate icing across my cheeks. And, also, apparently, a plastic hat worn at a rakish angle.

What do I want this year? I want to celebrate all the love that is in my life. I want to worry less about whether a boy likes me (and whether any boys will ever like me, like that) and see the tremendous blessings I enjoy every single day, principally, the people the who make their lives with me, and make room in their lives for me. I floated the idea of hiking trip, but I'm afraid it's going to get bogged down in schematics and confusion about who I'd like to have along, after last week's awkwardness. I'd still love to get OUT of the city, be under more than one tree and see the way the sun dapples a forest. I miss mountains and woods so much, right now. But even if that doesn't happen, I want to see or hear from, sometime around my birthday, in no order: my students (esp. my departing Senior girlies), my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my grandmother, Roo, Vic, Duck, Gordon, Teenie, Paul and Avery, Mel, Robert and Susan Faith, Kiri, Aaron, Mara, Dave, Alison, Jared, Brandee, Magda, Chris, Liz, my aunties, Avril, Gretel, Laurence, Brian, Erica, Carole Ann and Sally. Some of them won't be able to be in touch in a traditional way, but I still hope. Just making that list has made me happy. I hope putting this out there, into the universe, makes it so.

Oh, and I want someone to take me to see "Sunday in the Park with George."

update

I'm off to an interview for a teaching post, but I re-read my previous posting, and feel I should update for posterity's sake. The majority of it still holds true, but I underestimated my friend's steadfastness... so instead of waiting to "go back to being friends" as I wrote, we're just still friends. Friends who might be a little wary (and I'm still hurting a bit) but friends. And that's swell!

Photo's from my walk through the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Spring was bustin' out all over. Seriously. I think I got a little Spring on my coat.

Whiplash Life

A couple nights ago, a friend's friend, who is a professional theatre director, had a casual reading of four of my short plays in his apartment. All the readings were good, but one in particular stands out: My friend and another actor read "Horatio & Ismene", the first reading of this (still-not-quite-finished) play. It went so well! They did such a good job! I was so pleased, but had that feeling I have once in awhile when listening to my work read aloud... where I completely seperate from being the person who wrote it and just listen with the eagerness of audience member. I have to try really hard not to let this state be noticed, because I am afraid that people will think I'm incredibly egotistical (or madly deluded) for laughing at my own work! I felt this way especially with H & I because it's written in pseudo-Shakespearean and pseudo-Greek theatre langauge (as appropriate for each character), and I definitely had a couple of seconds of "Where did THAT come from?" when listening. This is a great example of when I see my theatrical training (I have a BFA in Theatre: Acting and Directing from Otterbein College) and my immersion into the classics (I teach both Hamlet and Antigone) pay off.

Yet this memory makes me a sad today. H & I is a love story and it ends happily. But the man who inspired it and I aren't going to end happily. Well, we might someday be able to go back to being friends, but last night, we came to the realization that we've been running our relationship on parallel tracks: his was a track called "I'm so glad I'm getting to be better friends with Shannon" and mine was called "Oh, my goodness, I think we're falling in love."

This sucks.

And so, H & I becomes my second play, after "The Vicar, or, Hesitancy" that ends up portraying what happened to a romance in my life in a far, well, nicer and less painful way than what actually happened. I'm proud of both plays. They're funny and sweet. But they'll also make me a little bit sad for a long time.

Potential

I must begin by saying that I am eager for the hubbub over Martin Scorscese's new movie Shine a Light, a documentary of a Rolling Stones' concert, to die down. "Shine a Light" is my favorite Rolling Stones' song, but I am reeeally tired of having it in my head all the time.

Today I am feeling both tired (since I went to bed when I wasn't tired and thus kept waking up with my mind racing over many topics) and energized. I feel that there is a lot of potential in my life and in the world right now. Life keeps surprising me, throwing new things my way in my writing, in my loving and in my living.

This time of year, when Spring really and truly busts out (it's a cliche, but on Monday there were no cherry blossoms on the trees, and on Tuesday, there were! They busted out!) makes me thankful. The news is not always good - a friend is unfairly attacked at her job, my grandmother's Alzheimer's continues to pick away at her mind - and the world often doesn't seem to be a very good place at all. I suppose it isn't. But there are things to be done - a card to my grandmother, a note to my friend, money to a cause I care about - and small things to be treasured - a daffodil, a day off, nachos with a friend, a slice of cake - and Spring seems to be a time when the small things might overtake the world.

Well, that was quite a leap, from crabbing about Shine a Light to burbling joy over cake. Bless my Geminii nature.

Have a good week!

Easter

Sorry for the long gap in posting. I'm trying to put something up once a week, but my parents descended (if their benign and quiet appearance at Penn Station, looking slightly bewildered but game can be called "descended") on the city on Thursday and we had much to see and do. A cruise! Rockefeller Center! Radio City Music Hall! Times Square! Murray's Bagels! The photo was taken on a trip to the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine on the Upper (upper) West Side. It was Good Friday, so all the paintings and representations of Jesus were covered or closed. Had it been open, this was the triptych that Keith Haring did for the cathedral, of the last days of Jesus's life. It was the last work Haring did before he succumbed to AIDS.

Along with the visiting parents, it was Holy Weekend, or, as my dad called it when he was not a retired pastor, "Hell Weekend." It was pretty churched up for all of us, still, but much less than before. I actually curtailed some of my church events due to a crazy-intense flu/cold thing that really had me knocked out for four or five days. But I got through Good Friday's Passion Play (I played Annas, and if you want to know what Annas' motivation is, it's always "Oh, come ON, Pilate."), walking the labrynth on Saturday afternoon, and the Easter Mass itself, as well as a trip to the Easter Parade and dinner at my friend Corey's restaurant, RoseWater which is spectacular and delicious and deserves your business if you are in the Park Slope area.

Then, after all of that was complete, I went to Pennsylvania for five days, with my folks, where I slept 12 hours a night and spent an inordinate amount of time staring out windows. And, dear readers, Western PA in late March ain't that pretty. I was just so tired.

Feeling much more like myself again. Got lots of writing ideas and some enthusiasm about completing some writing to boot! Always a nice combo -- the will and the way.

Before I forget, I said I would post a link to my story at Women's Media Center, a stellar organization, by the way. Here 'tis. "The Categorical Spitzer."

I'll be back sooner than later, I promise. xo

Spring.

I'm really excited about Spring this year. I'm much more excited than the very mild winter we just had would naturally lead me to be. It's not like I've been shoveling snow or breaking ice (as my poor parents in Johnstown have been) for the last four months. In fact, I don't think I even ever put on my heaviest wool sweaters, even on our coldest days.

But, still, Spring. I'm excited for it. The things I like about Spring (flowers, a preponderance of duckies and chicks afoot, longer days, warmer sun) are much more like to occur than the things I like about Winter (snow), that's for sure. But I think my real excitement is that my life is 1) feeling new and 2) full of exciting new opportunities and 3) I'm not scared out of my gourd. I really feel a sense of happiness that seems to be rooted in healthy change (a new job, new writing opportunities, a newly open heart) and beloved samenesses (family, friends, home and faith).

It's actually the happiest I can remember feeling when not pining for or about some boy. I keep thinking about a Nike ad I saw as a teenager, and loved and cut out, since my teens involved enough time to cut out and display things I liked. Maybe blogs are kind of lockers for over-18's. Anyway. This ad was four pages long and began "You are born." and went on to list things that happen: "You go to school. You have a first kiss. You become a girlfriend. You become an ex-girlfriend." and went on like that for sometime. The next to the last one was "You become a significant other." And then you flipped the page and it read, "You become significant to yourself." That's what I feel is happening right now. I have become significant to myself.

[P.S. A writing update soon, I promise. Two (I hope) articles coming out soon! ]
[[ P.P.S. I took the picture of the crocus on the way to Andrew's house last night.]]

Bittersweet

A very bittersweet week for me.

I told my prinicipal that I would not be coming back to the school next year. She was so gracious and loving, totally without rancor, and gave me a beautiful compliment. That is, of course, how one should leave a job - and how I've done so twice, thankfully - with genuine sadness at one's departure, but best wishes for a new job. It was even harder to tell my students. I have the gift of maturity and an inkling of what will lay ahead - that they'll miss me, but basically recover to the point of barely noticing I'm gone next year - but they do not have those on their sides. So some of them feel abandoned and let down. I don't blame them. I wish I didn't have to go, too. This is more sweet than bitter, because I've had a lovely time at the school and wish them only the best.

I also came to the end of a cantakerous friendship. I've been propping it up with stilts and lifts and pulleys and ever-increasingly elaborate lies to assure myself that this person does really care about me, but I can't jerry-rig it anymore, not now that anger and betrayal has come into the mix. This is more bitter, than sweet, but I hope, in time, to be able to hold onto the many happy moments of our friendship with peace and joy.

Bitter to not have my show yield a million theatrical opportunities. Sweet to have it have happened at all. Bitter to not be called to interview at any schools yet. Sweet to anticipate where might be the right next thing for me. Bitter to lack the time I want to do all I'd like. Sweet to have so much to want to do.

Just that kind of week.

The plant, by the way, is a bunch of bittersweet berries. In the snow. Bitter that we didn't have more snow this year in New York. Sweet that fresh spring is around the corner.

Glow.

I have been thinking about immortality recently. I think it's because quite a few unusual things have happened to me lately, and I've been wondering if they're once-in-a-lifetime events or not. Will I ever go to Paris again? Will I ever have a play read again to such audience joy? I hope that the answer to both is yes (I think the macaroons alone would be enough reason to go back to France...) but I don't know. Such is the nature of life.

I've also been thinking about having children. I don't have any at this point in my life, nor do I have a partner with whom I'd want to have kids. 33's not that old - although I am constantly aware of how old it seems to my students, and how old it was 1,000 years ago - but it's probably a good time to think about what I want to do in that area of my life. The all-consumingness of having children seems terribly frightening to me right now. I love kids, and I am good with them, but I freak out at the thought of giving over so much of my life to them, and I am well aware that doing so as a single parent would mean the essential end of my independent life.

Many people look to their children to give them a sort of immortality -- and it's true that we live on through our descendents. My grandmother's skill with a needle and yarn lives in me. So does my grandfather's gift of words. People who will never meet my mom have seen her smile in mine. But I've also been thinking about artistic immortality... well, not immortality, but longevity. The photo above is of Chartes Cathedral. I didn't take the photo, but found it on flicr.com. The blue in the windows glows, because of a technique that is lost to the ages. The windows are from about the 14th century. Who made them? How did he or she know what to do? What did they think about when they created them? Did they ever get to see them in place? Did their children?

Of the plays written in the 14th century, I think I know, at best, one or two, cycle medieval dramas by anonymous authors. I liked them, but there's a reason why you don't see them on the bill for every major theatre in the U.S. Basically, just a handful of things survive, and most of those without an author... I think immortality is a dream.