More of that one play.

Who knows if this will go anywhere, but here's some more of it.

MAN. No. I just can’t imagine it really working. Two strangers get together, have a big celebration, throw jewelry on, and then mush their entire lives into one? In-laws and husbands’ friends and couples tennis matches and matching armchairs?

WOMAN. Some people take solace in partnership, I’m sure that’s not too hairy a concept for you.

MAN. Define hairy.

WOMAN. Vaudeville voice. You should see my legs. Yakketty shmakketty doo~!

MAN. Partnership and safety are different things. Reality is inherently unsafe.

WOMAN. Really? Pause. Really? Have you been through reality? All of it? Stood at life’s tasting bar and sipped ounce glasses of joy and sorrow? Pain? Ecstasy? Loss? Spit it out and analyze the flavors for yourself?

MAN. So now you’re metaphoring.

WOMAN. You like it? I made it myself.

MAN. Very pretty.

WOMAN. Thanks, I exfoliate. Oh, fuck-- Darts into the kitchen, then speaks from offstage. Actually, that’s not bad--I think it’s a good representation of--Shit! Ahh--fuck!

MAN. You alright?

Pause.

WOMAN. Off. Fucking shit fuck!

MAN. Oh! Man! Hold on--

The man dashes into the kitchen. We hear a freezer door open and a bag of frozen vegetables removed.

MAN. Off. Here, hold this.

WOMAN. Off. God fucking dammit--

MAN. Off. You alright?

WOMAN. Off. No.

MAN. Off. You’ll live.

WOMAN. Off. Fucking handle, for fuck’s sake.

MAN. Off. Hold it. Keep holding it. Pause. Is your metaphor okay?

WOMAN. Off. Fuck you.

We hear a few pans move about, then eggs begin to sizzle audibly.

MAN. Off. Why don’t I take over?

WOMAN. Off. Good, I was going to make you anyway. The woman walks on, clutching a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel in her right hand. Now and again, she looks at it and shakes her head.

MAN. Off. So, tasting bar?

WOMAN. You’re wrong about marriage. It turns all…weird when you talk about it. Then again, everything turns weird when you talk about it.

MAN. Off. Thanks, I exfoliate.

WOMAN. I think you’re more basic than you think. Or maybe you’re afraid you’re more basic than you think.

MAN. Off. Maybe.

WOMAN. You grow up with fantasy, books that tell you to take a chance, kiss a frog. Now we walk around disappointed because there are fewer unicorns than we were promised. I’ve never even ridden a horse.

MAN. Off. Me neither. How do you want these eggs?

WOMAN. Whatever.

MAN. Off. Weren’t you gung-ho about this a minute ago?

WOMAN. Scrambled then.

MAN. Off. I can make them ‘over whatever’ if you want. ‘Whatever side up‘.

WOMAN. Don’t tease me, I’m crippled. When does that change happen, you think?

MAN. Off. What change?

WOMAN. Wonder to disappointment.

MAN. Off. I’ve wondered that myself.

Pause.

WOMAN. Settling is okay, right? It’s a way to do it.

MAN. Off. Like marriage.

WOMAN. Oh, shut up.

MAN. Stepping into the room. We all die single. Marriage doesn’t change our biology. Saying a thing, having a party, eating some cake, wearing some metal--dissect it all and pin it down. They’re breeds of butterflies that we make a pattern out of and call ‘marriage’. It’s all so-- He does the Woman’s earlier gesture for how he was acting. You get that. Right?

WOMAN. I think you’re wrong.

MAN. Well that’s fine.

WOMAN. Oh my God, don’t be smug. I’ve let you be weird, but don’t be smug. Go cook the fucking eggs.

MAN. Will you make the fucking pancakes?

WOMAN. Fuck yeah, I will.

MAN. Al-fucking-right.

The man walks back into the kitchen.

WOMAN. I’m starting to see how the snow globe thing happened.

Feels like Makin' Love

Should yield 2 equal portions--if not, please throw away the product and start the recipe from the beginning.

Ingredients:
2 Cups Tenderness
1 1/2 Cups Desire
1 1/2 Cups Utter Lunacy
1 Cup Distilled Coincidence
6 Tablespoons 'The Right Thing'
3 Tablespoons 'Pure Utter Chaos' (Substitute Chaos Extract for a lighter option)
Salt to Taste

"Fuck..." he said. "I'm out of salt."

Love is weird, man. Are you supposed to fill your cup and keep pouring? Letting the excess run over the edges and into the world? Are you supposed to fill a hip flask and take swigs when nobody's watching? Do you keep it in the top shelf, presenting it for your guests with a flourish so you can all "oooh" and "aaah". "Yes, it's from India. It's very exotic." Do you keep it in super-soaker and let fly at the passing cars, pumping and panting in the inbetween time? I think it behooves to open the spigots on your fingertips and leave everyone you meet sopping wet (and yes, that WAS a double entendre.)

I'm certain of this, there is no right way.

So shit, son. Whatever value it gains in scarcity, it loses in purity. Deep love, like deep thought, is a muscle well worth exercising.

That's all for now, OH GOD 7% BATTERY POWER LEFT.

Love Love Love!

Dakotah

The Fun Factor

Hello fantastic people!

I'm having a freakin' blasty-freak-nasty in Boise (Boyz-Ee or Boisse-Ee...I interchange them.) Everyone is fantastic, as mentioned before, and I've had so many amazing conversations with random people I've met on the street/in restaurants/in coffee shops--I think...I think I'd like to be here for a while. Check me on that in a few months...but for now, that's where I'm at.

Did some writing today, and here's a small sample of what it became:

WOMAN. You were saying. Your life.

MAN. Yeah.

WOMAN. I’m listening.

The man sighs, sits down, stands and begins.

MAN. It’s hard to describe it the right way. It’s a life. It’s a--a whole thing. And really, what does that mean? What is all that? The things I’ve seen. The events I’ve been…hm…privy to. In elementary school, I saw a dog burn to death. I smelled it before I saw it. Hair. Not the burning dead thing smell that you usually get--but just…all that hair.

WOMAN. Jesus.

MAN. My father beat me with an extension cord once for dropping a plate. I gave a homeless woman some leftovers from a restaurant and she wept. I wanted her to stop because it was embarrassing me. I once froze time for a few hours.

WOMAN. Wait…what?

MAN. I kept it midnight for hours. For a girl. A woman.

WOMAN. Ah.

MAN. I feel that bears explanation.

WOMAN. You feel correct, sir.

MAN. Time is relative, right?

WOMAN. Yes, established fact. Factoid.

MAN. Factoid. It’s elastic. It’s malleable, it’s silly putty.

WOMAN. Yes, you can press time against a newspaper and the words appear backwards.

Pause

MAN. That wasn’t a metaphor, was it?

WOMAN. No, go on.

MAN. I guess I shouldn’t say I stopped time. What I did was…elongate it. Seconds, minutes fly by without us noticing. Right? Or--we can notice a minute for so long, that it seems to take weeks. This is factoid. I’ve lived in an instant for two hours.

WOMAN. Sounds romantic.

MAN. It wasn’t.

WOMAN. You said you did it for a woman. What did you do, embrace in the rain? The woman stands up and leans against a countertop.

MAN. No, she threw a snow globe at my head.

WOMAN. Fucking Jesus.

See, watching 'At Home At The Zoo' sparked my interest in writing again. In addition, it made me realize that I have a tendency to censor my writing, trying to make everything very deliberate and clever, instead of just flowing. I wrote for about an hour, just typing whatever came into my head. It was a nice exercise to get the wheels turning again.

ALSO--I'm feeling a whole MESS of loving energy going around right now. February fever of some sort? I haven't had booster shots since fourth grade. Circle circle, dot dot.

Not much to say, it's hard to speak when you're smiling so hard.

Love love love,
Dakotah