Well, I guess the ice cube/backward pajamas magic worked, because we are getting snow and quite a bit of it. They say the mess that shut down Washington State is headed our way. I can hardly wait! Kids--you can stop flushing your damn ice cubes down the toilet now, and go put your pajamas on the right way. We don't need any more, OK?
The play that I am working on is revealing new depths all the time. There is one major scene that I am having a bit of problems memorizing, and maybe that's a good thing, because I have to keep going back to it. It's actually pretty thought-provoking.
The father has Alzheimer's and he's pretty far gone. He doesn't recognize anyone any more. And it's the same old thing day after day. He keeps asking his wife "who is that strange man in the house?" (Their grown son). When she says, "that's our son, James" he says "no, James is a little boy and this is a man." So, to change things, she says, "it's Edward, your friend from school." Oh, then he lights up and launches into a raunchy story about their randy college days. The son is horrified. "I don't like it when he tells that story," he tells her. She said, "Don't I know about all that, your father, Edward, and their nights of carefree screwing?" "Mother!"
And then she goes into The Speech. The more I read it, the more I love it. Because there is so much wisdom in it. She tells James, "I'm too old, he's too far gone. Did you see what pleasure he got from telling that little story? What else does he have? A little story that stays in the brain. It's not about what you and I are comfortable with. That night, that story, makes him feel like he has a grip on this world. Like he has some power. You have stories like that." No, interrupts the son, I don't. Richard (his brother) had stories like that, I don't. "I'm not talking about the women," she says, "I'm talking about a story, an event, something that you are proud of, something that you will never jumble up. That makes you feel like you are somebody. And someday, not unlike him, it may be the only thing you have left. You never know when it will all slip away."
"It's not about what you and I are comfortable with." I look at some of my friends who have lived wild lives before they turned it all over to the Lord, some of them who are in such flight from their pasts that they have spun themselves a coccoon to keep the world out, friends who would react very much like James--and I wonder, in the end will the world have the last laugh? Will the past, which they are so desperately trying to forget because now they are reborn and are a new creation, end up being all that they have left in their memories?
"I'm talking about a story, an event, something that you are proud of, something you will never jumble up." I have stories like these. No, they are not about sex, but what if they were? Would that really be so bad to remember "nights of carefree screwing" if I had had such a thing? Is it possible to live too carefully, to put a fence around life like Judaism puts a fence around the Torah, that by keeping the little commandments you won't be able to get near the big ones to break them? One of the saddest things I ever read was Pearl S. Buck's summary of her father's life: "And so he died, and never knew he lived." Ben, the husband in this play, may not have all his faculties, but he knows he lived. By God, he knows he lived!
So what are your stories? The things that will be there when all else slips away?
The play that I am working on is revealing new depths all the time. There is one major scene that I am having a bit of problems memorizing, and maybe that's a good thing, because I have to keep going back to it. It's actually pretty thought-provoking.
The father has Alzheimer's and he's pretty far gone. He doesn't recognize anyone any more. And it's the same old thing day after day. He keeps asking his wife "who is that strange man in the house?" (Their grown son). When she says, "that's our son, James" he says "no, James is a little boy and this is a man." So, to change things, she says, "it's Edward, your friend from school." Oh, then he lights up and launches into a raunchy story about their randy college days. The son is horrified. "I don't like it when he tells that story," he tells her. She said, "Don't I know about all that, your father, Edward, and their nights of carefree screwing?" "Mother!"
And then she goes into The Speech. The more I read it, the more I love it. Because there is so much wisdom in it. She tells James, "I'm too old, he's too far gone. Did you see what pleasure he got from telling that little story? What else does he have? A little story that stays in the brain. It's not about what you and I are comfortable with. That night, that story, makes him feel like he has a grip on this world. Like he has some power. You have stories like that." No, interrupts the son, I don't. Richard (his brother) had stories like that, I don't. "I'm not talking about the women," she says, "I'm talking about a story, an event, something that you are proud of, something that you will never jumble up. That makes you feel like you are somebody. And someday, not unlike him, it may be the only thing you have left. You never know when it will all slip away."
"It's not about what you and I are comfortable with." I look at some of my friends who have lived wild lives before they turned it all over to the Lord, some of them who are in such flight from their pasts that they have spun themselves a coccoon to keep the world out, friends who would react very much like James--and I wonder, in the end will the world have the last laugh? Will the past, which they are so desperately trying to forget because now they are reborn and are a new creation, end up being all that they have left in their memories?
"I'm talking about a story, an event, something that you are proud of, something you will never jumble up." I have stories like these. No, they are not about sex, but what if they were? Would that really be so bad to remember "nights of carefree screwing" if I had had such a thing? Is it possible to live too carefully, to put a fence around life like Judaism puts a fence around the Torah, that by keeping the little commandments you won't be able to get near the big ones to break them? One of the saddest things I ever read was Pearl S. Buck's summary of her father's life: "And so he died, and never knew he lived." Ben, the husband in this play, may not have all his faculties, but he knows he lived. By God, he knows he lived!
So what are your stories? The things that will be there when all else slips away?
