A Glimpse

I should visit Byrne's more often. For a pub, situated next to one of my favorite pizza shops, it has the wonderful side effect of stimulating creativity. But then we all have haunts now don't we? Places where we feel a skosh more at peace than other places, more in tune with the self, and more likely to produce something original from a creative standpoint. I suppose if you're not the imaginative type, then places like this serve simply to give you a place to be yourself and free to speak your peace.

I've been up since about 8:30. ish. Awoken by an Irish jig on my cell phone that signals a call from my best friend. Breakfast and some writing were on the menu this fine October day as he's down from school for a short weekend. We managed breakfast, taking Zubov along for the feast. The diner we ventured to sits in a decent, yet declining area of the suburbs. It was crowded today, maybe the post church crowd from the early services. A room, where the scent of breakfast hung thick in the air, a room full of strangers, and yet if I listened enough I would have learned a bit about each of them. The waitresses know us all by name. And they remember what was happening in our lives the last time we stopped by. And like "Cheers", they shout their greetings across the restaurant when you enter, and you already know their tip will be high because you already feel good before even sitting down.

She asks Keaton about grad school and today finds out that he's recently had a run-in with the dentist and will have trouble today with ice and straws. There's a joke in there about sucking and we chuckle that she could hold her own if we ever had a contest of wit and sarcasm. And then, a middle-aged couple that look younger than they are strolls in fresh off a bike ride. From a glance, the man looks like Lance Armstrong. It's the biking suit I reckon. Both of them where one of those spandex suits that clings to them. I am thankful that they're both in shape and can pull off that look in public; but even still, their level of fitness helps to curb my appetite and opt not to eat the hashbrowns that I nixed off my order but received anyhow. I don't mind. Our waitress is great and I'm sure I mumbled the last minute potato removal. The amount of senior citizens who have hunkered down to break bread together pleases me. I glance across the table as Zubov cracks a joke that creases the corner of Keaton's eyes with amusement, and I imagine the trio of us sharing coffee four decades from now, still laughing at some antic that only we find funny.

It's a pleasant thought. I make sure to hold onto it.

We're home again. I am supposed to be writing. That was the plan. So this post is my way of warming up. Apollo distracts me, but I don't mind. He seems to want to lounge, but he keeps moving after a brief stop to get his ear scratched. He moves on... restless. I know the feeling.

Working on a new show and trying to revise an old one. Both have moments of clarity just sitting in my brain. Scenes I can see as clear as if I'd watched the show already. But both have blurred areas... they're out of focus and my eyes water a bit trying to see through the haze.

And then last night while I was sitting at Byrne's --

Apollo interrupts the flow. We play catch and soccer (as much as a human and a cat can play catch and soccer) with a torn-up foam basketball. I throw, he chases. From time to time he paws it back to me from down the hall. In moments like this I think maybe I can train him to always knock it back my way with the right combo of treats and positive reinforcement. But for today, I take the role of the big cat in the house and we take turns being the hunter and the hunted throughout the first floor. I haven't been home much these past few days and we needed some time to connect. He's my cat, and I'm his human. He's been with me for coming up on two years now. And even today he still surprises me. And now he's a little spent, and hopefully pleasantly surprised himself by our playtime.

Where was I? Ah yes... last night. I was sitting at Byrne's, and it was sometime after midnight. Football had been watched, pizza put away, and Knot Fibb'n was once again playing the reels of the emerald isle. The music ranged from haunting beauty to invigorating power to simple old Irish drinking songs (or that "diddle-dee-dee shit" as the band jokingly calls it). Knot Fibb'n had fun with a small and intimate audience. Fans, regulars, and some new faces populated the establishment. And I'm sitting there with a good friend. Me on my fourth glass of Coke (which followed my first venture into Oberon territory). Her finishing off an amaretto sour. It's nice. She and I haven't really hung out much one on one. And it's nice. And this group of eight college kids strolls in makes their encampment for the final hour of the show. One of them politely asks if we can still see since they pulled two tables together right in front of us. We can, no worries, and appreciate her thoughtfulness.

And I watch them. The college students. Not in that creepy older guy way. But in an anthropological way. In a writer's way. I profile them. Four guys. Four girls. Two pairs coupled up, one on their way to marriage, one maybe just enjoying the sex. One pair in the group is clearly on their way to something, even if they don't realize it (wait... she see it, he doesn't). A third wheel that steals too many glances of his buddy's girl for me to like his motives. A young woman who looks bored by the people on her side of the table. In this group of eight, her people are the couple with the third wheel... she being the obvious fourth that has been sidelined to the junior varsity. The seemingly most mature woman among them (from the couple that maybe just likes the sex) quickly reveals her age and mentality with her drunken behavior. It's not embarrassing. Just young. She's having fun and not afraid to show that. Maybe it's not immature, I think. Maybe it's just free-spirited. Her beau seems to enjoy it, but she is most assuredly the aggressor in their physical relationship. He's going to get lucky later, that is certain. But is that tolerating I sense? Yes, he tolerated that kiss. And the next one. She's oblivious to it. I wonder how long they've been, or will be together.

And through this hour-long observation of this octet, as the band builds to their exciting finale, a beautiful cover of U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name" that isn't their best rendition (that they later apologize to me for), I realize who these eight people are. In a weird twist, they are characters in one of my plays long stagnant. Sean, Tes, Alan, Noah, Emmy, Cate, Jamie, and Veronica. One of the original group, Hanna, is mysteriously absent. But they are them. They are characters that still linger with me. Only in college form. Transubstantiation. In a much less religious sense. But then again... Stranger Than Fiction flashes through my thoughts. See them ignited that story in my head again. A story that connects me to a great friend and fellow writer. A story that we never finished. And I wonder... is it trying to make a comeback. Does it have legs? Not enough that it will usurp the shows currently vying for the title of "Next Big Play" (you know, from the reality show happening in my brain). This I can tell.

So this morning, after an adequate breakfast of dippin' eggs and sausage links, I recline on my couch. Zubov takes the other sofa, while Keaton feverishly types away across the room trying to get an update posted online. I'm here, glancing out the window now and then. A jet flies overhead. I don't see it, but I hear that familiar rumbling of its engines. The sky is a gorgeous shade of blue, the kind of blue that makes you smile. No clouds. The air crisp. And yet here I sit. On a couch. In a cave of a house. The 70s were not a great decade for houses. Too much paneling.

A congresswoman. Ahh! There... the glimpse. I don't talk much about my plays before I write them. Well... I do, but not on a blog. No offense. It's just that a wise man (and by wise man, I mean Keaton) once said, if you talk out your play, you won't write it. Makes a sort of sense. So I'm sitting here... been trying since Wednesday to write something down about this character and the others that will stand along side her. Trying to flesh out their story. Plot. Theme. Character. You know, simple stuff.

So, to help me focus, to help me get these words on the page, I am going to try to create accountability. Because a deadline for yourself is so easily moved. So easily missed. Excused. And that's crap. And yes, only hurting myself... but don't we all hurt ourselves? We are a self-destructing species. And it begins within each of us. Optimistic though I may be, I know my faults and I know myself. To avoid this story falling victim to bad excuses and a needlessly busy schedule, I have made commitments to a few of my writing partners and I will make it to you, dear readers, as well. I will have a draft of this play by Thanksgiving. A draft. It will be something, not ready for staging, but that's okay. It will be a draft. Those writing partners will read it. They will critique it. And I will revise from there. But it will be done by Turkey day.

Or what? Well... hmmm... I don't know. Bribes, bets, or any of that, I've never been a fan of. I shouldn't need incentive (good or bad to get me to write). I shouldn't NEED it. So I'll just say it's going to be written. And I will, over the next month or two, occasionally post about my progress. My thrills. My set-backs. Those moments that will be equally hard as they are rewarding.

Need to get started.

I'll keep you posted as to how things are going. And by the end of November, I plan to post a simple statement: "It's done".

That will be my shortest post ever, and I look forward to you reading that one.