Adulthood

Category:  Soul-of-Thought Revival
Journal:  Cup of Kavi
Date:  11-30-2012

She realized, then, that every adult ever was always just a child playing their own idea of what the role of an adult must be.  Coupling and playing ‘house’, fighting when your authority is tested, making money, making love, making babies, making conversation…setting the scene for a three act play called ‘Adulthood’.

In the first act, we walk in blindly…our character making assumptions based on what they’ve seen in their formative years.  Conflict arises.  Character is tested.  Choices are made according to the plot of our story intermingling with other people’s plots and motives…and the story shifts into new territory.  Reality sets in.  Priorities take the place of exploration.  Our super-objectives become clearer to the audience…and, if we’re self-aware enough, to ourselves.

In the second act, the stage transforms from proscenium to thrust and our stories become more intimate and recognizable.  True love may enter the picture, or working class hardship, or a health crisis…something we’ve all seen before from the balcony seat but never truly experienced until then.  We become aware that there is something greater than us running the fly rail, manning the curtains, and giving the cues.  We wonder why this is our story, and if it was truly our own choices that made it a comedy or a drama.  All the while, the action rises.  First act dilemmas come up again and again to deal with and, perhaps, finally address responsibly.  We shift again, still the child but now with some experience on what it means to be an adult.

The final act of this play is stripped down to minimalism…the world is now your stage and your story plays out like theatre-in-the-round.  The audience knows you well by now as you walk amongst them, interacting like old friends…familiar like family.  Your character is set.  You either satisfy your super-objective or not…it doesn’t really matter either way because the end is approaching.  And whether or not your story has a happy ending isn’t for you to decide once the curtain closes.  The audience will form their opinions on your performance, but that doesn’t really matter either.  If you’ve given it your best effort, learned something in the falling action, and shared some moral by example…you’ve played your part as an adult. 

At the curtain call, when all the audience swells with tears, or laughter, or applause…you take your final bow, and only then do they see you as you really are.  You were an actor all along.

Balcony Theatre: In the Plums

While pregnant with Alyrica, and during the first year of her life, we lived at Tudor Heights apartments in Omaha.  Since I had a pretty reclusive existence as a new mother, I spent a lot of time writing outside on the balcony.  Occasionally, I would just write whatever I saw happening below.  I called those writings 'Balcony Theatre' and they mostly centered around the trouble-making children that hung out in the courtyard.  This was the last scene I wrote from my balcony perch, 6 years ago, when I finally learned the real names of the bullies that were often the antagonists of each scene.

Category: Recycled Scenes

Journal:  VOICE (unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought)

Date: 11-11-2006

Balcony Theatre

"In the Plums"

On the ground floor, there is no balcony for protection. The adults that live on that level of danger have become hardened over time and seem to have lost a little something of sanity. Across the way, a thirty-something black man in an over-large t-shirt and mesh shorts, hanging precariously under his boxered butt, opened his screen door and sauntered outside.

“India!” He bellowed toward the group of four girls at the bottom of the hill.

The youngest of them ran up the hill to him. She seemed to be tattling something to him which I could not make out.

“I tol’ you not to be messin’ ‘round with that Jade ‘n’ Elijah!”

“I didn’t!” She replied before going inside.

The guy just stood there, staring off into the distance like a cat in a litter box while he alternately, mindlessly it would seem, scratched his butt and belly.

The three girls, still at the bottom of the hill in front of our balcony, whispered amongst themselves. Each of them were posing their preteen bodies in womanly ways, shifting their weight from leg to leg with arms crossed under the tiny bumps of their breasts or hands on hips.

An old Indian woman passed them on the sidewalk, looking like a walking contradiction that has become so commonplace in this modern age. Swathed in bright-patterned cloths, she was talking in her native tongue on a tiny cell phone.

The long-legged black girl, whom we only know by the name we saw fit for her—Jiggles, started after the woman. “Hey! Can I use that cell phone?” She interrupted obnoxiously.

The Indian woman, out of annoyance or a limited knowledge of English one couldn’t be sure, ignored the girl and continued on as she was. Jiggles, determined, continued to ask anyway and followed the woman out-of-sight.

Coming from the pool at the other end of the courtyard, those notorious bullies, known only as Stick Legs and Old Kid to us, walked past the man still scratching himself carelessly.

“Hey!” The scrawny black girl that we call Skinny shouted up at them. “You cut my finger, Jade!”

She ran up the hill at them, leaving her friend behind to watch, and started squawking obscenities like a mother bird who’s spotted a cat too close to her nest. Her head circled around on her neck while one hand held her hip. She waved her other hand back and forth in their faces holding up her index finger.

“You cut my damn finger, Jade!” She screamed at Stick Legs in a very shrill lilt.

“I din’t do nuthin’ to yo’ finger, psycho! Don’t be yellin’ at me!” He screamed back just as high-pitched. “Let me see it!”

She extended her arm to show him her finger. He realized quickly, “There ain’t no cut—!”

Without warning, she kicked him hard between his skinny legs and he fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Apparently he didn’t realize quickly enough.

Old Kid, who had previously been watching all of this with a smug grin, stepped back in surprise. “You just kicked him in the balls!”

“I tol’ you!” She warned again. Her voice was slightly less menacing this time, probably because she knew she might have seriously injured the kid.

For another moment, which may have seemed like hours to Stick Legs, he writhed and howled as he held his hands between his legs. Old Kid, still standing back for fear of his own jewels being crushed, just watched without bothering to help. The black man, near enough to help the kid, went on scratching and watching the spectacle with hardly a reaction.

Skinny reached out her hand to help Stick Legs to his feet. “I’m sorry, Jade. Here.” She said sweetly.

Stick Legs took his hands away from his sore spot and grabbed her hand. Again, without warning, she kicked him hard between the legs and ran off yelling, “Never mess wit’ my fam’ly again!”

The black man, obviously very itchy and still scratching, watched Skinny take off and then looked back to Stick Legs doubled over on the sidewalk. His wife came out of the screen door.

“What’s going on out here?” She asked him.

He pointed after the girl and explained, “That one,” then turned and pointed at the boy howling, “kicked that one in the plums.”

The Prolonged Pregnancy of a Procrastinating Perfectionist

Category:  Soul-of-Thought Revival

Journal:  Blue Moon Sea Change

Date:  2-22-2004, 7-24-2007, and 11-2-2012

Michael and I discussed something last night brought up by one of his co-workers...and it made me understand something clearer that I have put off pin-pointing about myself for some time.  In some cases (certainly not all, as there have been studies to show otherwise), procrastination is a side-effect of perfectionism...especially when it is a very important project that has no clear deadline.  The thought spawned the memory of me at age 8, after much praise from my teacher, Mrs. Dorothy Lane, about my writing ability.  I set it in my head, then, that I would 'one day' write a book.  From that day forward, I was always writing...whether it was poetry, prose, plays, or papers...it became my most fluid craft and my most preferred avenue of communication.  It became my voice.  Much different than my speaking voice...I could always find the precise words and phrases and evoke the images on the page that were nearly exact to what my head was conjuring.  As a young girl, I would often start writing what I thought would be my first novel.  I began by cutting photos out of my teen magazines and making a character list that would help me to flesh out the people and the plot that would bring their story from introduction to conclusion.  But I never really got past the first few chapters because once I stopped writing, it was nearly impossible to continue with the same flow once I came back to it.  It wasn't something I could just force myself to do.  So, my closet was often littered with these beginnings-without-endings...my own version of 'skeletons in the closet'.  But I sure did write a lot of poetry, and I still do.  It does give me a sense of accomplishment to condense a big idea into a poem, because my mind lets me finish it in one sitting.  But a poem is not a book...so it's not necessarily linked to my childhood expectations.  And now (22 years later), while I have many ideas began and waiting to see if they will be what that first book should be...the only things I seem to finish are blogs and blips about current astrological happenings.  I can finish them because each transit has a deadline...and if I don't write it by or near that deadline, then it's old news and doesn't apply.  And, I realize I need those deadlines to spur me into creative action and productivity.  But, I've tried giving myself deadlines for the bigger ideas...the ones that should be books...and since I'm the boss where that is concerned, I sabotage my own efforts and undermine my own authority with procrastination and paralysis...all excuses to delay the quality of work my inner child expects of me.  Anyway...all of this reminded me of this story I wrote many years ago to explain my brain and its strange quirks.  Here is a blast from the past, entitled 'My Head'.

This short story was first written when I was 21.  I wrote it with an appropriate cast of characters for that time in my life.  Later, when I was 25, I re-wrote it and changed up most of the characters to reflect the change I had made between those years.  My reason for the re-write was because I needed to write a bio for a writer's group I was attending that year.  I thought a bio in story form would be more appropriate for such a thing.  If I edited it again, for how I am now...perhaps many of the characters would change again...but I think I'll keep it as is, because it's certainly close enough (especially the pregnant lady).

My Head

By Felina Lune Kavi

Pondering my bio, I was poised to explain.  I grasped my head for concentration and asked politely if my brain could work.  After a pause, my head cracked open and my brain jumped to my lap.  Not a good place for it, I thought, so I put it on a plate.

I poked it for a while to see what it could do, but mostly it just sat there…slimy and sublime.  So I got out a steak knife to see what was inside when, all at once, a million tiny people started popping out…screaming, leaping, and running over each other.  Then I put the knife away and assured them I had no malicious intent.  I just wanted to know how the damn thing worked.

Relieved, the strange assemblage settled down for a harmless chat.

"How may we help you?” asked the pregnant woman wearing pajama pants.

"I have a pregnant lady in my head?" I blurted.

"Not to mention a raving lunatic." Mentioned the raving lunatic, pointing at himself, and then becoming altogether paranoid about everyone looking at him.

"We’re kind of a motley crowd" said the hippie girl doing yoga, "but the flyer said you were an equal opportunity host."

"Who was handing out flyers advertising my head?!"

"Why, The Omniscient Observer, of course." the little mismatched girl said, and the others snickered.

"God?"  I asked.

“More or less.”  The little girl shrugged.

I paused. "So what exactly is YOUR purpose?" I directed the question to the dirty old hobo wearing rainbow suspenders.

He scratched his belly as he took a swig from a paper bag and smiled smugly, "I'm your sense of humor."

“Right.  I suppose.  Well, are you aware that your zipper is down?”  I asked him, noticing he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Why, yes I am aware.”  He said.  I blinked.  “I broke the zipper off myself.  Swallowed it years ago.”  He added, finally.

"Oh, I see...so then what about the crazy guy?  What does he do?"

"Well." said the nerdy guy in the back, "He's your thought processor."

"Explains a lot, right?" the pregnant lady laughed.  Everyone else joined in, even the lunatic.

"How far along are you?" I asked.

"Oh, about 18 years." She patted the bulge below her breasts. "I’m carrying your life’s work."

“What?  Well, who’s the father?” I asked incredulously.

“Fathers.”  She corrected me.  “That would be them.”

She pointed to the three chimps typing away feverishly on typewriters.  One of them was smoking a large cigar that had “It’s a boy!” crossed out and replaced by “It’s not Hamlet!”

“Wow.”  I said.  “What are they doing?”

“Harry’s your script writer, Cephus records your memories, and Bugsy cranks out your ideas.  They’re working overtime.” She suddenly glared at me menacingly.  “They’re ALWAYS working overtime.”

I laughed nervously.  “So, uh, when’s the due date for…uh, junior there?”

“Any day now.”  She said with a pained look on her face.

"Thank God."

"Thanks God!" they all shouted in unison.

The mother came a bit closer and motioned for me to lean in.  I put my ear by her tiny mouth and she roared, “GET THIS THING OUTTA ME!”

“Yikes!”  I yelped, jumping back with my ears still ringing.  “Take it easy!”

The raving lunatic clapped his hands and jumped, repeating “Get this thing outta me!”

"So, hippie chick, lemme guess...you're my spirituality?"

"Not exactly. That's the gypsy lady’s area." She said, which cued the gypsy to pull out her tarot cards and show me ‘The Hermit’. Then the hippie got in downward facing dog position and looked at me through her legs and explained, "I'm your sex drive."

"You look pretty tame to be in charge of my libido.  I guess I would’ve expected that dominatrix lady over there or something."  I admitted.

"You're a little more flexible than bondage and ball-gags would allow, wouldn't you agree?" She folded herself up into a prayer posture, then winked. "Besides, I'm an animal in the sack."

"Here, here!" They all cheered.

The nerdy guy in the back stood up and squeaked, "I wouldn't know. I'm a virgin."

Everyone pointed and laughed.

"Laugh if you want, but I'm the only purity in your head." He snorted and adjusted his glasses.

"And what are you, my conscience?"

"He's the bastard that makes you love.  I’m your conscience." Said the lady in latex, holding a leash attached to a scrawny guy who was gagged and kneeling at her feet.

"And who is he?"

"This little bitch is your impulses." she said, and he impulsively pinched her latexed butt cheek.  She cracked her whip at him. “Down boy!”

"I see. So is there any way that we can redistribute the job situation?"

A resounding 'NO' from the crowd.

"Why not?"

"The Observer gave us these jobs. She works in mysterious ways.  And we each had to sign a contract." said the little mismatched girl.

"Who are you supposed to be? The voice of God?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm the voice of confusion." She smiled brightly, exposing only two teeth.

"Well. God's crazy." I told her.

"Here, here!" they cheered.

"So you've all met this so-called Observer then?"

They nodded.

"Well, who is it?"

Just then, the toddler with a slobbery chin and disheveled hair started slapping the floor and carrying on like a monkey, and everyone started wedging themselves back into my brain in a single file line. When everyone was in, she kicked the brain back into my head. Then the toddler did a little dance and gave a brief bow before she leaped back into my skull.

I took that as a sign from God that I should reseal my head. So I did. Then I washed the brain juice off the plate and made myself a sandwich.