Procedure

They expect me to sit in the chair in the corner. Human behavior in this room with nothing but a chair and a mirror is that the person will sit in the chair. It's the expectation of a calculated system.

I wait with the door open. My phone is locked up. I count all the objects in the room, including fixtures and outlets and door handles (both sides), and I include myself sitting in the chair. Forty-eight. This number is pleasing because it is divisible by eight. I do some neck stretches. There's the play I'm writing that I could think about, but when I'm away from it all the characters lead other lives, separate from the play, like they have day jobs and my play is a diversion.

Some song by Rod Stewart is playing through the tinny speaker on the ceiling (object #14), and I'm reminded of how much I don't like his voice, but he had that jazz album that wasn't bad. Didn't my friend Danielle sing one of his songs in a high school choral concert? She was on the homecoming court. Maybe the song was part of the event. There's a connection between her and Rod Stewart in my brain.

The blouse I wore here is a size six petite, too big in the waist, too short in the arms. Another Alice in Wonderland item of clothing I thrifted. It has gussets and placket buttons, and cuffs that fold back to reveal my wrists and two inches of my arm. Dan said I looked skinny in it when I left for this appointment, noting the looseness. None of my clothing feels right on my body. I prefer the outlandishness of costumes, where proportions are malleable. 

The carpeting in here is dark shades of greens in a pattern of varied circles that touch each other and remind me of lumps of moss. The hallway has a thinly striped carpeting of lighter shades of green. The patterns do not match. There is no door threshold strip, and some of the weave has come apart, spiraling up like a weed from a sidewalk crack.

I watch the shadow of another woman as she gets dressed in the room across the hall. The shapes and patterns the shadows make are as beautiful as watching leaf patterns on the ground. This thought strikes a low gong in me. All the leaves are falling now, and the leaf shadows will go with them. Bare branch patterns, arterial, will replace them. I wonder about the life of the woman behind the door, the woman in shadow, who nodded to me a grim acknowledgement as she left for her procedure. Why is she here? I hope it's routine.

I kick my feet to the music, tick-tock them, then move them in opposition. I do the same with my shoulders. This has taken some practice for me to do. Getting mocked about it in a theatre class started the practice. How urgent all the younger-than-me students in that class were. I resented their futures, and loved their enthusiasm.

Didn't I have better thoughts when I was in my 40s? Why can't I just be content sitting in this chair in the corner, a half naked human being with an ill-fitting blouse waiting for her? It seems all my friends who are in their 40s now are leading shinier lives than mine but I know this isn't true. My 40s weren't all that great. My mother was in decline. Helen will be in her 40s in ten years, and I will be ...

The math of that thought is a dark corner I avoid by observing the empty chair in the other room across the hall. It is a nicer chair than this one, I decide, because it's lines have an elegant mid-century modern style. It's arms are polished wood. My mother would have commented on that chair.

Now I am uncomfortable enough to stand, unlock the closet, and rifle around my bag to find my phone. The phone, that devil that promises to connect but divides me from the real world. I'll text Dan to see how he's doing. 

The lab tech arrives to walk me to my test. She's probably 42 or so, thick dark hair, big brown eyes. Lovely. "Hello Jennifer," she says. This week I talked to a receptionist who told me my full name was the same as her best friend. Jennifer Hill. 

My astrological chart reminds me that I am not that special, and my karmic lesson is to learn that others lead lives that are different from my own. Even the other people named Jennifer Hill.

Everything for me right now is 8, 16, 24, 32, 40, 48, 56, present, and accounted for, part of the system.

That Emerson Feeling

As a child I was comforted by the crackling reception of my grandfather's Emerson radio which was gifted as a hand-me-down electronic. Whatever my childhood imagination was up to in the moment -- setting up a set for a TV show, creating a beauty parlor in my room, or writing a short story from the back of my closet, fuzzy AM/FM radio programming was my companion and guide. Switching it on and waiting the half a minute for it to "warm up," was part of the magic of my theatre.

As my parents aged, they kept a radio in their kitchen which was on in the morning and evening. It was always tuned to their local PBS affiliate, WITF. When dad read in the evenings at the kitchen table, he listened to classical music and then would complain when John Diliberto came on with his show, "Echoes." That was his signal to stop reading.

Last week I asked Dan if we could get a radio for the kitchen. I felt like it was our turn to start listening to WITF in the morning and evenings. I'm tired of bluetooth connections and algorhythmic listening. I'm getting older, and I am discerning. I prefer print to digital, face-to-face interactions to online, and I'm loathe to admit I find a strange satisfaction in solving jigsaw puzzles now. I want to turn on a radio and have it fill up the room with songs or stories.

The radio we got also has a bluetooth option (of course), along with its ancient AM/FM capabilities. It is now sitting between the coffeepot and the tea kettle. I have learned after a week of listening that WITF is now all talk radio of some sort or another. There's no programming like Echoes, or classical music. 

I think what I wanted from this radio is something it can't give anymore or its funding gets cut. Free thought. The beauty of cellos on an otherwise empty Tuesday afternoon that lift your spirits and carry you through the rest of your workday. 

At this point, our donations keep the radio voices barely breathing. The knee of the administration is on the neck of every outlet that doesn't applaud it.

My addition of a radio in the kitchen was a way for me to keep the memory of my parents alive. When I switch it on, I find myself grateful that they aren't around to hear what is happening in the world.

I'm listening to a sample of Echoes on my computer's tinny speaker now, a track called "That Shore," from a band called "Pineapple Thief."  I can imagine my father closing his book, switching off the radio, and standing up from the ladderback chair. The caned seat squeaks and then he switches the lights off, the last note in the room an echo in the dark. 

Wyrd Bird Always Looking for Seeds

Well, hello. It's In-betweenween! My favorite time of year, when the leaves sing opera, and the crow visits the Hackberry every morning, and the eye of day squints longer at the start and earlier at the end. Reflection requires some darkness, and silence. This time of year provides it, but you have to be willing to slow down to receive it.

Several months ago, when we were in high sun time, Dan and I stopped at an antique shop in New Hampshire. We both saw the giant letters on the porch, but he was the one who spoke up about them. "What do you think they spell?" he asked. That was just what I needed to hear (he knows me), and we were up on that porch rearranging, trying to figure out what they once read. We found enough intriguing anagrams to buy them, and then drive for hours with giant metal letters squeaking in the back of the car until we were home. We rearranged them several times before getting them to be tolerably squeaky. They wanted to talk! Probably excited to have a new home.

For awhile, the letters sat on the ground by the fence, and we had our turns anagramming. 

A couple of weeks ago, Dan built a shelf for them that is slightly tilted, so the letters won't fall off, but we can still play with them. It's genius. My favorite full anagram of these letters is SOOTHSAYER. It's just right for In-betweenween, which is also my season of life. 

*Note visiting trickter raccoon in photo below:

This past week I completed a HarvardX course in Divination practices. It was fascinating, and illuminated a lot of the work I am doing right now creatively. I'm beyond excited to share some of what I've learned, but am not quite there yet as I am building some pieces and parts. (Don't worry, there are no sheep livers involved.) But I'm verified!

The other day my instincts told me I should spend time in my little attic treehouse after work, and I did, digging through old journals trying to find an answer to a question, and also to look for an empty book to use. I found my answer, and an empty notebook, and I was also gifted with an entry in my journal from last year, where I wrote about the origin of the word "weird." It was originally a noun, and spelled wyrd.

noun: wyrd

connected with fate.

noun: weird; plural noun: weirds 

a person's destiny.

The "weird sisters" of Macbeth were not odd, they were the three Fates. Well, they were also odd, so it was doubly good. Shakespeare was like that. A wyrd bird.

The Quiet Work of Showing Up

Last week, I performed The Sensory Circus of Small Wonders at Schreiber Pediatric. I’ve visited there for several years now to perform, but this time was different — a softer, more surprising experience built around sensory play, movement, and imagination. I designed it with accessibility in mind, to welcome people with varied learning styles, as well as anyone who thrives in sensory-friendly, creative spaces.

Together, we explored a world where feathers drifted, scarves floated, and sounds happened gently around you instead of at you. It was one of those rare moments where the world narrows in the best way. Where connection doesn’t need to be loud.

Honestly, I think I designed it for myself, too.
It was a circus of wonder made by everyone in the room.

Meanwhile, the Foolbright Scholars are back at work on a new show. And as one of the scholars with credentials that are certainly enthusiastic if not exactly verifiable, I can say with complete authority that this is Very Very Important Work. I spent time in West Philly over the weekend devising with my pal Chris, soaking in the neighborhood art, admiring the fruit trees neighbors plant to share, and jumping when a rat rustled through some recycling.

Have you ever been to Bindlestiff Books? You should go. And get takeout from Mood Café while you’re at it. 

What about the Little Free Library Storytimes, you ask?
Well. The first one was rained out.
This month, I planned for sun. Walked to the park. Waited.

One adult showed up. He was “walking off a big lunch” when he stumbled upon me, sitting on a bench in bear ears and a birthday party hat. No children. Just the two of us.

And so we went ahead. He wanted to hear the story. I read aloud. Did all the voices. Turned each page like it mattered. Because it did.

There’s something strangely beautiful about offering everything you’ve prepared, even when the “room” isn’t full. Maybe especially then.* He was such a generous audience. So open. 

I’ve been writing poems. And reading them.
Writing them feels like making a map I can't carry.
Reading them feels like finding a map someone else made and wandering through its territory for a while.

The most recent collection I've read is This Costly Season, a crown of sonnets by John Okrent. You can find it at Arrowsmith Press. The collection made me grateful for the moments of connection I've been able to have lately, but also aware that we’re still in a costly season, in so many ways.

That’s my brief update.

None of it is particularly glamorous. Much of it has been quiet.
But there’s movement under the quiet, something forming that says, “Keep going. This matters. Even now. Especially now.” 

--

*  Footnote Memory: After my first book of poems came out, I was scheduled to give a reading at a local bookstore on September 13, 2001. No one showed up. Understandably, given the events of two days earlier.

I waited anyway, with my young daughter beside me. And then a woman came in. She said, “God sent me.” What do you do when someone says that? You read your poems.

You Are A Poem

Poetry is feeling, and you are a poem. “Hold on,” you say, “I don’t like poetry. Poems are confusing and metaphorical and dense. I got a C- on the poetry unit my senior year in high school and I’ve never looked another poem in the eye again.” Poetry refuses rubrics, and you were told you didn’t understand well enough when you did.

You are a bewildering, symbolic, and complex poem because you feel. Poetry has been and always will be inside you. When you show how you feel, you are your singular self. There’s no way to copy paste, Google search, “Buy Now with One Click,” or AI generate the poem of you.

When you know, when you think, when you believe, you are exercising all that has shaped you by way of environment, culture and instruction. We carry that influence everywhere we go in our bindlesticks, briefcases, fanny packs, and pocketbooks for when we need it most. They are the useful tools we need to survive in the world we’ve created. We put on the suit of belonging and walk to the offices of productive citizenry each day. 

The poem of you is in your body, speaking each time you laugh, dance, cry, seek out eye contact with another, stare into the clouds without interruption, trace the invisible air with your fingers, trip on a sidewalk chunk, flail, fail in public. Poetry is a physical act of emotional expressions we were taught not to trust and to hide instead.

I think a lot about how students in public school systems respond when a teacher steps out of teacher mode to share a secret silly skill, or they make an obvious mistake and respond rather than ignore and move on, or they reveal a side of themselves that isn’t a part of the lesson. Those are the moments where the teacher becomes the poem, and the students experience a role model being vulnerable, and the lesson becomes the poetry of humanity. 

When Chris and I go out as Foolbright Scholars into public spaces to sing spontaneous songs, engage in rankling delight and invitation to feeling as we dance with uninflected balloons, we show what it is to feel and to be present with the folly of feeling. We shape an image or story in a short period of time, something brief and real. We know nothing and anything can happen and we are full of feeling. We remind others that feeling is what we are, it makes us living poems, and it is what connects us. We see the audience, and let them in. We are everything and nothing, all of the time.

Steven James

Our oldest cat, Steve, died on Wednesday night. He was fifteen. He marked an era in our lives, one that feels over now that he is gone. The house feels different without his airy, water-loving presence.

Fifteen years ago Helen's coworker said her uncle had some kittens. We were in the market for a cat that could be at our bookstore/arts space with us, so I went over one rainy afternoon to meet the kittens. I recall four or five hissy females on the sofa, and one quiet floof under a glass topped coffee table, peering up at me. When I lifted him up, he leaned into the petting. He was gentle and playful, and we kept him at the house until he grew up enough to be at the bookstore. When he was really small, he wilded energy like an amusement park ride, then would crash out on Dan's lap for a two minute nap and repeat.

At Paper Kite he loved the company that arrived for events, sometimes climbing into coats thrown over chairs to have a nap. He made friends with the mailman who slid mail through the slot in the door. But it was obvious he was too lonely when we weren't there, so we brought him back home with us on Armstrong Street where he lived with other cats who were in and out of our lives at the time -- Edna, Mango, Lucy Bob, and Stella. When I got into circus, and then burlesque, Steve's love of sequins, feather boas, and tulle came out. He was there with me for every costume build. He also loved Christmas and birthdays, because that meant there would be shiny ribbons to play with.

When we moved into an apartment in Lancaster, Steve blossomed. His favorite pastime was sitting in one of the marble bathroom sinks, all curled up like a fluffy sea creature, waiting for one of us to turn on the tap. Because the apartment was small, he had easy access to my costumes. If the wind wasn't blowing too much, he'd sit out on the balcony to watch the chimney swifts. He knew he looked good on the white sofa and chair (contrast, baby!), and sometimes he'd relax on our glass dining table.

We moved from downtown Lancaster to Akron and Dan was away a lot to care for his dad. Steve would sleep right next to my head then. He wasn't too happy with the new rental, and when Mango returned for awhile he destroyed the white sofa in protest. Mom enjoyed seeing Steve when she'd visit, then when she was in a nursing home and not able to get out as much she'd ask, "How's Steve doing?" She never forgot him.

Steve accepted our move to the farm with grace. He kept quiet hours there, ignoring the mice, curling up on beds for long naps, gazing out the windows at ducks and goats. He never complained, but I don't think farm living was quite his style. It was dusty. His fur matted a lot and he needed to get "the Lion Cut" in the summer, which gave him a poodle-y look, but was relief from the heat. He felt like a cloud and looked a little like one, floating through the mouse filled walls of the house. When Helen's new boyfriend Rob brought his dog Percy to the house, Steve let him know who was boss. It was rare to see Steve arch his back and hiss, but a dog in the house was just too much.

When we returned to Lancaster Steve was slower in pace, but still the same cat, seeking sequins and tulle, and finding comfort in my closet by the costumes. He enjoyed the cool water of the tub every morning and evening. He sat on Dan's lap every evening as I got ready for bed. 

The other night as he was actively dying, we kept him as comfortable as we could. How can you know when they can't talk? He slipped away as gently and gentlemanly as he arrived in our lives.

We buried him wrapped in one of Dan's shirts, and accompanied by a string of sequins, some fringe, and a scrap of the tulle he loved to chew. His gravesite will be marked with a peony plant in the fall. Right now it has a very showy display of petunias and other annuals.

Pets see us through so much in our lives. Steve saw us through a bookstore/arts space, a daughter growing up and moving out (and later, getting married). He saw us get married, lose parents, and start various adventures in business. We moved so many times he probably hated seeing boxes appear. 

Fifteen years. A whole era over, marked by a sweet cat who lived and loved with us. Now there's a Steve shaped space everywhere we look. 

Everyone On Howard Ave. Has An Ice Cream Cone

On a walk to the Rite Aid I reached up to touch new ginko leaves, then stopped to admire someone's bloom of cornflower flax. The parking garage exhaled coolness. Some mossy trees tricked me into thinking someone was wearing patchouli, and the bus shelters smelled like vegetable soup and cologne. I got stuck behind a man who was walking while texting or scrolling on his phone, and his pace dwindled to the point where I was grateful when our paths diverged. Rite Aid is going out of business and the shelves are neat and tidy because there's hardly a nail file to buy. I got most of what I needed, and walked home the zigzaggy back way, avoiding rush hour intersections and reveling in my ability to be a pedestrian. I walked up Howard, past the paused ice cream truck, and peeked inside to see a bin of rainbow sprinkles, then the aproned belly of the man who runs the truck as he approached the window. Everyone on Howard Ave. had an ice cream cone. There are evenings I hear the jingle of this truck as it sits on Locust street, tinkling promises of summer nights and fireflies.