Backstage Writers – Think Hope Do

I had to go back to see the money people at the French unemployment office. It was a balmy spring day, and I found myself waiting outside in a long line of blank-faced chomeurs. The yellow man next to me decided to grace me with his conversation. “What are you here for?” he asked. Read the rest of this entry »

The other day I met a sandwich-maker.

He was waiting for the train one morning, as I was, and his gawking got me looking around. Was I really the youngest, most beautiful woman here?  Yep. All men for the moment. Come on, buddy, knock it off.  I’m not sixteen anymore. An old woman arrived. She seemed to know the gawker, and they spent the entire ride chatting.

We changed trains at Juvisy. The gawker came and sat next to me. We made small talk. I knew no evil masher could have a grandmother for a friend. Still I lied about where I lived, where I was going. Read the rest of this entry »

Colette has taught me to appreciate small things. I’m not talking about rose petals and ladybugs. We all need to slow down and put our senses to use. Get a whiff of that daffodil. Listen to the girl next door struggle with her violin. When you’re 93, you can’t hear the girl next door and you don’t get out into the garden unless someone comes to visit on a nice day.

I’m talking about pleasure in something neither beautiful nor inspirational. Read the rest of this entry »

I got into doing make-up because I knew nothing about it. I’m a process person. I enjoy listening to the faces I dress. I study them from all angles, at nose distance or from the hallway looking into the loge, while rehearsing or in different lighting. If I know the actor’s going to pout at some point, I attenuate here, amplify there. I add a touch of charcoal or burgundy. Amazing what one can do with a dash of burgundy. I’m so full of my own science that they call me an artist.

They don’t have anyone else.

I wonder how many people have ever really looked at Jacques’ nose. Read the rest of this entry »

I respect the US Passport Service. They’ve beefed up security measures and simplified renewal procedures all in one go. Still, somewhere deep in the bowels of this honorable organization, someone issued Fran and Tod passports. The result you can see played out “Center Stage” on the right free-text bar. To read the entire play as it is being written and rewritten, click on Center Stage in the center column under Pages. Feel free to post comments about the Center Stage scenettes  here.

J’ai peur dès que tu montes. Tu me regardes, un peu trop. J’ai peur que tu viennes m’adresser la parole.

Tu me demandes si je comprends le français.

J’ai conscience que tu ne peux pas me faire du mal avec tant de gens autour. Tu ne vas rester que quelques minutes.

Ta prochaine question me surprend. Pourquoi les français sont-ils si malheureux ? Ça vient d’un film, je crois.

Je me lance dans une explication sociologique sincère mais tu ne m’écoutes pas.  Tu me dis que tu es grec. Tu comprends que je suis américaine. Tu parles des Etats Unis avec joie, chaleur et regret.  Tu ajoutes que tu joues de la trompette. Je n’ose pas parler de ma vie musicale.

Quand tu sors tu me dis : « Bonne chance ! »  Je te fais un grand sourire histoire de te dire: Je suis contente que tu sois là, que tu existes quelque part dans ce monde de fous. Courage ! Tout le monde n’est pas si triste. À haute voix, je te dis simplement : « Bonne chance ». Ta réponse me secoue : « Non, pas de chance pour moi ».

We all get nagging urges. Most people don’t act on them. I do.
I sit down next to someone on a train. I hang on to my belts and straps. I try to make myself smaller. Like a good little commuter, I start daydreaming. Then, inevitably, the guy takes out something to read.
It doesn’t matter what it is. I have to peek. I have to read along. If it’s a newspaper, I have to know which one, which article. If it’s a book, which title, which author? Suspense passage? Boring description of a room? I try to be discreet. I shift and twist so my eyes naturally cross his page. Phrase by phrase, I take in the text, and when I can, I linger and enjoy every captured word. I’m watching this man learn. Even better, we’re learning the same things at the same time. It’s like silent choir. Speaking of choir, the other day the man behind me started singing, not humming, singing something catchy with a warm vibrant voice, something I’ve been yearning to sing for years, a campfire tune, the kind you hum all day. Now it’s one thing to read over someone’s shoulder, but you can’t hum along with someone on a train. You just can’t. And this man has a great voice I don’t want to spoil by adding mine. Still that melody, I can’t resist it, I’m drawn to listen, and my whole body starts to sing. My brain reacts last. Read the rest of this entry »

Why would a young man flip off a train full of people? Because he’s just missed that train? I doubt it. He’s walking, not running, and his gesture’s calculated.
I’m staring out the window. I see the man looking directly at me (I’m a long train with many windows at this point.) He’s flipping me the bird. *!* Time stops a half second. We’re locked in, that man, his middle finger, and I. It’s a call to action, but what can I do? The train’s pulling away.
I’m thinking I’d like to rewind the clock for this man, stop this train and whatever it represents, fix whatever‘s gotten muddled up in this poor man’s life, but all I can do is wonder: What could make a person that angry? The car glass people know about all about anger. Anger has commercial value. Take, for example, the guy who gets mad at his girlfriend, goes off fuming down the street, starts feeling overwhelmed and paf! There goes a car window. My car window, thank you. No sympathy for that guy, but I do feel for my bird man. As the train continues in the direction of Saint Lazare, I do the only thing that I can do, and the only thing I usually do on trains, I give that man and his belligerent bird a whole lot of thought. Read the rest of this entry »

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What can be said about time spent second guessing software? It’s somebody else’s idea about what is simple, clear, unmistakeably obvious, and, in the end,  the universal rule: doubt everything and start over prevails. One should also not forget passwords as they are being created. Post-its are useful items and should be used in dire moments like these.

Go out and hug an old person for me please.