Last night was the first night for Mortified in its new location, conveniently located at a theater near me, none other than the historic Hollywood, 88 years old, yesterday. I went alone because I get a free pass for being a previous performer, and because it sold out so quickly my friends and fam didn't have a chance to get a ticket. It was strange to see my giant awkward pic from junior high show up on the pre-screen slideshow and not be able to nudge anyone and laugh, or be nudged and laughed at. I could only give her a nod and say, "hey girl, you haven't changed all that much. But you got yourself to the city of weirdness, so... good job."
I loved the show, as always. So funny. So painful. So tender. The one that touched me the most was the guy, Bill, who was always trying to fit in, be cool and get a date- the classic Mortified theme- but it wasn't until he went off to to nature camp with a bunch of scientists his parents' age, that he was truly seen, accepted, and valued. Kinda got me where I live.
I always have mixed feelings about the Mortified show because I want to do it again, and want to share more of my teen diaries. I've given up trying to understand why. Most people like to listen and laugh, and are horrified at the thought of being up there themselves. But there are enough of us others who long to be up there, "sharing the shame" that there continues to be a show. In fact, it's been more than ten years, in what, ten different cities?
When I published DonnaZine back in the 90's, I always included a diary feature, which satisfied the need to expose myself. What now? Oh yeah! I have a blog! I almost forgot about it. I was thinking I'd start publishing my diary of three years ago, about my move to Portland. It might be a book someday called, "Talk To Me In A Year" because that's what everyone said to me when I gushed on about loving it here. That stuff is too fresh though. It hasn't aged enough. I went roaming through my files and found a random entry from '91 that shows something of what life was life for this mother in love with her daughters, age 11 and 9. Since Serra became a mom, I've been wondering more about those years. Most of my journals are in storage, which is also a weird thing. I'm used to having them nearby.
I did find these entries today, and they remind me of things I've forgotten, that are still precious to me.
So here, because this is a way to keep them alive.
1-21-91, Monday, 8:21 PM
Cherishing
this last week with the girls before school pulls me in again. When Sarah comes
out crying because she feels ignored by Leah and Jessica, then later by Leah
and Justin, I don’t have to make any kind of anxious scene- I just go in and
stand behind her, brush her hair while she reads at her laboratory desk. She
needs attention? I give it to her. Simple. Last night I read to them as usual,
out of “Dogsong” (an Eskimo story) and Russell is preparing to go out on the
ice and become a man. Leah laughed and I told them that’s how it is in some
cultures, that there is a ritual which allows/forces/encourages the child to
become an adult. And just as Russell goes out to find his song, to “be” a song,
I have poems. I “tell” them “Gift,” then Leah’s pumpkin poem, then Sarah’s
Arianne poem. I’m not sure what they think, but there it is.
Tonight
I make a fire and part my hair down the middle so they can each have half my
head. They brush and clip and tie my hair while I read to them of Annie
Dillard’s childhood, of a time when she and some boys threw a snowball at a
passing car and the man pulled over and jumped out and chased them all over
Pittsburgh through the snowy backyards, through hedges, over fences. She loved
it, has seldom been happier. Then Leah read to us out of one of those junk food
teen-lit paperbacks- “Boy-Crazy Stacey” from the Babysitter’s Club series while
Sarah got my whole head of hair to herself.
Finally
did something today that’s been bugging me- that tape for Grandma Otter. Read
to her out of my religious journal, essays, poems, etc. Got the girls on too.
Laundry, lots of ironing and listening to the news. Eight P.O.W’s now, two from Camp Pendleton. It’s sounding
like this could go on awhile.
Stan
gone a lot. Two trips coming up, too, at the same time I start school and take
the girls to the Storymakers retreat. Lots of separate activities and not much
time to talk about it.
10:20
This book of Annie’s brings up so many
memories that suddenly seem important: two songs I memorized as a girl from my
mother’s music: “Strangers in the Night” and “My Cup Runneth Over With Love.”
(from the same era, I hated “The Girl from Ipenema”) The only soap opera I ever
watched? Dark Shadows.
1-28-91, Monday, 5:45 PM
PIPELINES
BOMBED TO HALT SPILL. I gotta get this book back; don’t know what that was all
about last weekend and I’m not sure I liked it. Too much wave and not enough
particle? The girls though, were exquisite; a delightful and necessary
presence.
Today,
a compliment? At the bank, a woman I know from girl scouts said
to me, “I saw those socks and wondered who
would wear those out in public. Then I looked up and saw it was you. I should
have known.” They’re the hot pink ones
swimming with yellow, blue and green angelfish.
2-3-91
Cleaning
day. Sometimes I wonder what I’m passing on to my kids, what they’ll remember
of me, what of mine they will take as their own. Each girl, of course, will
come away with a different story, yet one night, over a bottle of wine, they
will laugh hysterically over the shared memory- “Remember how weird she was
about noise and how she made us put away every little thing, how she’d say, ‘It
just bugs me!’ when the room would start to get out of order, how she threw my
tennis shoes off the deck because I left them under the table!” “Again,” the other sister will add. Or
will they remember “those amazing collages she used to do, the poems she wrote
for us and would recite some nights at bedtime- remember some of her outrageous
costumes- I couldn’t believe the time she picked us up for girl scouts in those
jeans with the knees blown out, black lace stockings underneath.” I hope they
remember it all, just as my mother fantasized I will write her story. Or maybe they
could just remember what I forget.
I
read with a razor blade and pen. Otherwise it’s living without memory- the
ideal, I suppose, for those zen guys, but I’m more interested in the “burrito
theory of time” (from Peggy Sue Got Married) where the edges overlap. “You can
fill it with whatever you want.”
So
about this need for order and cleanliness in my house. My English lit teacher,
Henry Stiehl, discussing “the best novel in the English language in the last
fifty years, Under The Volcano,” said
the structure of the book is beautifully organized yet Malcolm Lowry’s life was
chaos. And R.B. Sweet said the more talent, the more structure is needed. The
wilder the mind, the stronger the fence. The wonderful thing, and I wish I had
an example, is that the horse will eventually jump the fence, so the higher
that fence is, the more surprising, desperate, and beautiful the leap.
Gotta
make lunch and take the girls out selling cookies, but remind me to tell you a
secret about writing every day.
1:15
Helping
Leah make lunch menus but she didn’t like my idea: “The Mind Reader Diner- We
know what you want before you do,” Or, “We made one thing and that’s what
you’re eating.”
2-11-91, Monday, 10:40 PM
Girls off school today; we went to the
zoo. I love them so much. I wanted to see
them today and I can’t seem to do that at home where there is so much to be
done. I gave them each two dollars to spend in the gift shop. They had a tough
time making their decision and their choice reveals much about who they are.
Leah bought a pair of sunglasses. Sarah got a rubber snake. Leah’s quite
interested in growing up. They wrote out Valentines this evening with great
enthusiasm. Leah chose cards with a puppy motif and lots of mushy messages.
Sarah’s cards feature Garfield with lines like, “You’re my Valentine. Got a
problem with that?” Sarah wrote a Valentine for herself too saying, “You’re a
great kid.”
