I’d like to introduce you to the word “hingent.”
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I have a confession to make. I wasn't all that "sold on" what I wrote yesterday. It didn't, how shall I say this without hurting my feelings, make a whole lot of sense. I've spent most of this morning trying to be OK with it because every day can't be a diamond. Indeed, most of them are just broken pieces of coal. But, but...that, that's OK. The whole point of starting a blog was to give myself room to make writer's mistakes with the option of accountability, depending on how many read the blog and felt the need to comment. I'd fallen into a rut, as a playwright and...
$3 Makers
Three stools down, to my right, is John. He won't drink it if it's not Absolute, he informs me. Next to John is a nameless man, hands stained with paint, who came in with him. He's on the phone apologizing for a septic tank that's backed up. He'd installed it last month. To my left is another John, white and beardless and old and leathered. He's driven a truck the last twelve years. Half the time while drunk, he says, but he's never had a ticket, he says, and that's the trick, he says, but he never says to what. I'm in the middle but not in between, and that's important. They've got the radio on:...
Because hands can do everything but lie.
I don't always know what to do with my hands. You might find that ironic for an actor, even more so for an educator. But, it's still the truth. It wasn't anything I ever really noticed until a few years ago. I began to realize that my Nana was fascinated by the frequency with which I used my hands to animate my conversation. She would look less at me and more at my gesturing. Over time, I became so concerned with how I might physcially be telling my story that I began to grow flustered at the dinner table. I didn't know how...
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