Blog Posts

Brace yourself

A couple days ago at the library, Sam was searching for The Road to Serfdom by F.A. Hayek. The book wasn’t in the stacks, so I had to electronically request it.

“It’ll be available in a couple days.” I told him.

“That’s fine,” Sam said as he grabbed a copy of American Marxism by Mark R. Levin. “I think this is written by a conservative,” he said. “I’m kind of curious.”

“Good for you,” I said, secretly bracing myself to allow right-wing propaganda into my house. “Read it.”

This is one of the many things I love about my oldest son. He’ll read anything and he is an outstanding perspective-seeker.

But you know what happens when you live with a 15-year-old seeker of perspectives? They argue about everything.

And win.

So brace yourself.

Brace yourself? I just asked myself. That’s the second time I said that. Where did that come from?

It took me a few seconds to remember the origin of “brace yourself.” It was my dad who taught me this self-help trick when I started editing a small literary journal in 2010 for Rockford Writers’ Guild.

“After you pick up the books from the printer, go home and read the book. You’re going to see mistakes and typos,” he said. “Brace yourself.”

Truer words were never spoken. The first few times you edit something, all you see are your mistakes. It’s a terrible feeling. I went over to his house to talk to him about it. I don’t remember the exact words, but they were something close to this.

Dad, you’re right. I found a million typos.

That’s typical.

Do I apologize before I distribute the books?

No. And he laughed a little. They’ll let you know. And you have to let them. Brace yourself.

He had great advice about editing a small press. None of the challenges I faced ever surprised him and he frequently used the word “typical” to describe situations I found outrageous. Dad, also a perspective-seeker, loved the Guild and everything that came with it.

Me? Well, I loved my father, but I did not love the Guild. I braced for the Guild.

I didn’t realize until I started writing today that I still haven’t removed my “Guild brace.” I’ve been away from the presidency and editorship since 2019! I think I know why I am still wearing the invisible brace. If I take that brace off, that means Dad’s really gone. I still can’t stand it.

I have to get ready for Tuesdays@9 and drive to the city. Glad I have a long commute to and fro Chicago tonight so I can think about my “brace.” Maybe by the time I get back tonight, I’ll have finally removed it.

Or maybe I’ll wear it a little longer.

In any event, thank you for reading. -Connie

If I had to choose

If I had to choose between “no more war” or “own a reliable printer” of course I’d choose “no more war.” I mean, wouldn’t you?

And if I had to choose between having Jesus in my heart or throwing my printer through the window, of course I’d chose Jesus.

Finally, if I had to choose between procrastinating a time-sensitive print job until the last minute or printing my pages several hours if not days in advance of the deadline, of course I’d choose printing my pages several hours if not days in advance of the deadline. That’s what responsible adults do.

Confession. Pre-pandemic Connie used to wait until the last minute to print. Every single time. And pre-pandemic Connie would blow a gasket every single time the paper jammed, the machine ran out of paper, the ink cartridge ran out of ink, the toner was too low, or it stopped printing mid-job “just cuz.” Pre-pandemic Connie’s raw anger was palpable for blocks in her otherwise quiet neighborhood.

“Do you hear…shouting? It sounds like it’s coming from down the street.”

“I hear it. I checked NextDoor.com and a couple neighbors say it’s coming from the 1200 block.”

“Wow, it’s really loud and that one word sounded like a swear word. Maybe we should call the Police.”

In the past. In the mother. fuckin. past. We’re mid-pandemic now!

Mid-pandemic Connie knows to prepare. Mid-pandemic Connie has chill. Mid-pandemic Connie talked to her doctor about anxiety and learned how to meditate.

Inhale. Hold. Picture your printer on a cloud and watch that cloud float away. Exhale as your printer drifts away.

And when that language didn’t work, mid-pandemic Connie learned to make adjustments.

Picture your enemies. Know for a fact that they have to print sometimes too.

Ahhhhhhhh. Instant peace for mid-pandemic Connie.

Another win for mid-pandemic Connie: Old girl started printing her 44 pages when she started writing this blog entry. And when she wasn’t sure what to write, she took a break to collate and staple her pages into four neat stacks.

Couple things I want to say. One, I don’t know why I’m talking about myself in the third person. Two, if you ever wonder, “Should I become a writer?” ask yourself, “Do I have the tools to deal with printing multiple pages? Does my stapler work well? Do I have at least one back-up ream of paper, a tiny box of staples, ink and toner readily available?” If you have those things, you’re set. And if you don’t, you should still become a writer.

We’re back in person for Tuesdays@9 tomorrow. I’ll be sharing the first ten pages of my play Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Southwest China at The Annoyance Theatre. If you’re in Chicago, join us!

Thanks for reading. -Connie

Poster art by Tuesdays@9 creative director Joshua Fardon.

What’s in a signature?

Yesterday I went to the library. I picked out two books for myself: The Harlem Shuffle by Colson Whitehead and The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green.

I noticed on the latter’s cover it had a little round “sticker” on it that said “Signed Edition” and, sure enough, when I cracked it open, Green’s autograph was right there. And it was in green!

I’d never run across a signed book in any library! At bookstores, sure, but never a library. I thought it must be a mistake. I accidentally returned my own book to the library once. Maybe someone else had done the same? But then I noticed he left an “explainer” on the purple page opposite his signature.

“I signed with some kind of Sharpie while sitting on the edge of the couch in my basement,” Green wrote. “This sheet of paper was then bound into your copy…”

Oh! So that’s how they do it.

He said he hopes his readers experience the same joy he feels whenever he comes across a signed book.

That’s nice.

I always thought authors signed their fully intact books. I had no idea they could just sign a large stack of pages, similar to how famous actors autograph their headshots. Green’s way is much more efficient than what I had imagined and I must say it’s smart marketing. When I saw “Signed Edition” on the book, at the library, I immediately grabbed the book.

I like Green’s writing but I’m not sure it was joy I felt when I saw his signature. In fact, his autograph and explainer triggered that nagging feeling I get when I’ve been manipulated. Of course, there are worse forms of manipulation than being nerdily coerced into checking out a library book. And I am hopeful that I will love his essays so much that I don’t mind. We shall see.

I do want to say that I know the “moment” Green is wishing for his readers and I’ve had one that I doubt will ever be topped.

Last year, my son Angelo (then 11 years old) had a doctor appointment. On his way out, the nurse said something like, “Help yourself to a book.” She motioned to a cart filled with used books. He chose a copy of Blubber by Judy Blume. He showed me his treasure when he got home and I was delighted to see he chose a Blume. Then I was shocked to see that Blume herself had signed it! I was in disbelief, but I looked up her signature and it is a perfect match.

My son and I read the book together and the tattered copy is prominently placed in our living room. I look at it nearly every day the same way I look at the Omar Odeh and Alice Klock art we have on our walls — with wonder, introspection and a touch of sadness.

I adored Judy Blume’s writing when I was young and all of my kids have read several of her books. My 15-year-old son Sam just walked by, peeked at what I was writing and said, “Judy Blume? Oh she has some good writing and good characters,” and walked away.

We have a Little Library in our front yard and most of our books go in there when we’re done with them. But not the Blume. I feel selfish about this. I know I should put it back out into the world so someone else can feel the same euphoria that all of us felt when we saw Blume’s autograph. But I can’t let go. What if I have grandchildren someday? One of them might want me to read it aloud to them.

I’m keeping it.

Thanks for reading. -Connie

You have that look!

There are two more books not pictured. Sam and Fern moved them to the dining room.

My kids started their spring break today. Sam, Fern, Angelo and I celebrated by going to the library to stock up on books. Jocelyn celebrated by waking up with a sore throat. She’s still working her way through Stephen King’s The Green Mile so in terms of reading material, she’s set. But I hate that she’s not feeling well.

Anyway, Angelo went upstairs to the children’s section and Fern headed to the teen center. Sam and I went to the stacks to search for a specific book. While we were there, a gentleman came up to me and asked me a question about the library’s 3-D printer.

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I’ve never used it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you worked here. You have that look.”

I’m not sure what “look” he meant. I was (and am) wearing mom jeans, a turtleneck and Chucks. And as someone who has been to the library hundreds of times, I will tell you the librarians at Hart Interim always look professional. There’s a clerk who has worked there as long as we’ve lived here; he always looks dapper in his sweater, tie, pressed pants and tidy shoes.

After the man went away, I focused my attention back to book-finding. Sam and I continued scouring the stacks for The Road to Serfdom. When he told me it was published in the 1970’s, maybe earlier, I had a lightbulb moment.

“It’s too old to be in the stacks,” I told him. “I just assumed you were looking for a newer book.”

I said we had to ask the librarian to call down for it because they keep “old” books downstairs.

“I would,” she said, “but I’m the only librarian here so I can’t go down to the basement.”

“No worries,” I said. “I’ll just order a hold online.”

We have plenty of books to tide us over and I don’t mind ordering Sam’s book online for him. What concerns me is that she was the only librarian on duty. Doesn’t that seem unsafe?

Rockford, population 150,000, isn’t an enormous metropolis, but any building open to the public should have more than one person working in it. I will say there was a security officer there, too, but that still isn’t enough.

And that poor man who wanted to get into the lab? He’s probably still wandering around, asking strangers for help, desperately telling them, “You have that look!”

I’m being silly. He’s probably figured it out and I’m sure the librarian knows how to take care of business.

All in all, I’m glad the library was open and I’m looking forward to digging in.

Thanks for reading! -Connie

Reminder: Under a deadline to finish a play so my blog entries are shorter and less “thought out” than usual. Read at your own risk.

Sea v. SeaWorld

Hundreds of slick fish
are every orca’s wish
alive and gleaming
silver and dreaming
delish delish delish!

Roiling in the pail
can’t tell head from tail 
sickly slithering 
putridly withering 
jail jail jail.

Dolphins must perform 
flies start to swarm 
seals bark 
at the waterpark 
conform conform conform.

Hi there. I’m taking a break from playwriting. This is a poem I wrote today based on an excerpt from the play I am writing. It’s a food poem, I guess. Thanks for reading! -Connie

A hop, skip and a fist-bump

Guilford’s NHS members.

Jocelyn was inducted into the National Honor Society at Guilford High School last night. I couldn’t be there because I had Naked Angels Tuesdays@9. Even though the high school is a hop, skip and jump from our house, I couldn’t risk being late for my 8:30 Zoom call. Thankfully, Jesse was able to attend and he captured the moment on this short video.

When I watched the video the first time from my phone, I thought my daughter was rudely taking things from the people onstage.

What on earth is happening? What has public school done to my daughter? Do my eyes deceive me?

Then I remembered I’m 52 and my eyesight ain’t what it used to be. I put on my glasses, watched the video again and quickly realized she wasn’t being grabby. She was fist-bumping her teachers, principal and NHS student officers.

Phew. Phew, phew, phew!

After my initial relief, I felt shame for doubting her and her public school.

My shame was followed by joy which was followed by curiosity. What must it feel like to fist-bump your principal and teachers?

I went to Catholic school for 12 years and all of my principals were sisters (commonly referred to as “nuns”) as were many of my teachers. The sisters were strict, but also progressive and kind.

I remember my high school principal Sister Anthony hugging a star basketball player at a school assembly. He had performed poorly in an important game and felt like crap about it. He tearfully apologized to the entire school for “losing the game.” Sister Anthony took the microphone from him and said he did no such thing. She said she “spoke for all of us” when she she said we were all thankful for everything he had done for the school.

Then she hugged him.

For a split-second, I was stunned to see such physicality, but then joined my schoolmates in giving the athlete and Sister a standing ovation. Mind you, I disliked high school, thought sports were stupid and actually had thought the kid had gotten a little cocky. But Sister’s compassion made me forget all that. She was great.

I like to think Sister (and at least a few of my former teachers) would have appreciated the joy and respect the fist-bump efficiently conveys.

Many things have changed since I went to high school but one thing remains: It’s heartening to see moments of mutual respect between authority and the student body. I only wish I could have seen Jocelyn walk and fist-bump her way across the stage in person.

Thanks for reading. Sending you a virtual fist-bump! -Connie

Fringe Festival Update

The following organizations have “signed on” to be community partners: Chicago Dramatists, Rockford Area Arts Council, Rockford Writers’ Guild.

Barbara’s PTBD (Post-Traumatic Bath Disorder)

I’m sorry, Barbara. I thought you’d enjoy it.

As I write this, Barbara is getting a professional shampoo, blow-dry and pedicure from a mobile dog grooming service. Their truck is parked outside and I can feel my dog’s panic emanating from the vehicle.

I offered to stay inside and help keep her calm, but the groomer said it’s better if I don’t.

“They like to play their owners,” she said.

The last groomer said the same thing about dogs “playing” their owners but I stayed anyway. My chihuahua was scared and wouldn’t calm down. By the time the ordeal was over, Barbara was sufficiently washed but unhappy. And I was cold, wet and covered in my dog’s flop fur, the canine version of flop sweat. I definitely felt played. And now, as I look out the window, I notice the vehicle is gently rocking from the motion of washing a dog that weighs less than ten pounds. Barbara plays all of us, I think.

***

While I pondered the idea of my dog playing me, and I honestly don’t think she does, they finished up. The groomer said my dog “did great” but I think she looks traumatized. She’s obviously in need of a little comforting (and a treat) so I’ll wrap this up. I appreciate the idea of professional grooming and I’ve heard some dogs enjoy getting pampered, but going forward, I am not sure if this is what’s best for Barbara.

Thanks for reading. -Connie

Will the forest city have a fringe festival?

Jesse surveying Walker Park (formerly Walker Elementary School) for a potential fringe festival.

There is a new initiative in town called “Forward for Fun” where every one of the Rockford’s 14 wards is being allocated several thousands of dollars in grant money for creative projects. I learned about this on Friday and was immediately excited. I talked to Jesse about it and he felt the same way. We have a certain calling for planning and executing public art-based events.

One of the first steps to acquiring a FFF grant is to float your idea past your alderman so yesterday, I pitched a Rockford Fringe Festival to Chad Tuneberg. In an email, I told the Republican it would take place at Walker Park the weekend July 8-11 with July 7 reserved for invite-only rehearsals. The outdoor event would embrace and offer diversity and variety in the form of an exciting lineup of live theatre. Gimme!

Maybe we could connect to this for electricity?

In a nutshell, I’d book several self-produced plays that would run one after the other on an outdoor stage that weekend. A weekend of seeing numerous original plays in one area could be a lot of fun. I invited the alderman to talk in person about this. There are many details to iron out including port-o-potties, electricity sources, fencing, food trucks, stage set-up, etc.. We’ll see what happens.

Last week, I applied for a different grant for a simpler project. It’s a small $500-grant and it would help me organize the 2nd Annual Winter Solstice Poetry Caroling event. Even if I am not awarded the grant, it’s not too soon to ask you to mark off Wednesday, December 21, 2022 for poetry caroling! Save the date!

Of course, I’ll continue to create and organize free, public events until I die but it would be nice to have some city funding and publicity behind them. Right now I solely rely on social media to get the word out. It just isn’t enough and has a desperate feeling to it.

But I’m not desperate; I’m compelled. There’s a difference. At least that’s what I tell myself.

It’s a short blog today, one that’s more of an update than anything. The reason is because Naked Angels Tuesdays@9 is resuming in person on March 22 (hallelujah!) and I’m part of the writer lineup so I need to focus my efforts on playwriting. I don’t want to kick off our live event with bad writing!

Until I get my play written, I’ll be posting very short blogs for the next several days. Until then, thank you for reading! -Connie

Wasting time

Hi Jesse!

It’s a sunny and cold day in Rockford and look who’s home for a few days!

To celebrate, we went to our favorite arthouse and indulged in creamy coffees and a game of lovely chess.

Jesse learned how to play in high school but I am new to it. I “discovered” it last summer when I watched The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix. Like so many, I became completely intrigued by the elegant game. In August, I bought a little chess set, learned how to play and taught my kids along the way.

My oldest kids can take it or leave it, but Fern and Angelo appreciate and respect the game. They even joined the chess team at their middle school. Fern is a shark and usually wins but Angelo seems to be the one who likes it the most. He asked for a magnetic board for Christmas and, in January, asked for another “travel size” game for his birthday. Today, I asked Angelo what he likes about chess.

“It’s fun,” he said. “It’s a good way to waste time.”

Hackles up! Did he just say “waste time” like that’s a good thing? Who would ever want to willingly “waste time?” Surely not a twelve-year-old boy! Surely not my twelve-year-old boy! Correct him and lecture him about language!

Miraculously, for perhaps the first time ever, I ignored my inner monologue! I, Connie, resisted the urge to nag my son. Instead, I decided to think about what “wasting time” means to me.

Turns out, I like wasting time. I am doing it right now! Hi!

I realize most people will argue that “there aren’t enough hours in the day” but I actually feel like there are too many. I know I sound ungrateful, but I have felt this way my whole life. It doesn’t matter if I am super busy or have a fairly relaxed schedule, I do a shit ton of waiting.

Right now I am waiting for 5:59 p.m. because that is when I can eat. I’m currently fasting in solidarity with my Baha’i friends which means I eat one meal once a day at sunset. By the time 6:00 rolls around, believe me: I’m freakin’ hungry.

I’m on day 10 of the 19-day fast. The reason I’m “fasting in solidarity” is because one of my artist-activist heroes Sister Souljah said that it’s a simple way for non-religious people such as myself to show respect for their religious friends.

My Baha’i friends have opened their homes to me (and my family) on numerous occasions and I love them. Fasting is something tangible and spiritual I can do to show respect and love for them. I can say prayers for them.

I’m not sure “fun” is the way to describe my experience thus far, but I am appreciative of the fast. But yes, I get hungry and find ways to “waste time” until sunset. Playing chess and writing in the afternoon are two methods.

I’m so glad I didn’t warn Angelo about the dangers of “wasting time.” How hypocritical that would have been, although it wouldn’t have been the first time.

I think we all should waste more time together whether we’re playing chess or reading or writing or cooking or praying or whatever because even with Daylight Savings Time approaching, there will still be too many hours in the day.

Thank you for reading my blog. I hope it was a good waste of your time. -Connie

But she was Equity!

Driving home yesterday evening, I noticed a fox crossing the street. They’re common in our neighborhood, especially this time of year, but it’s still so exciting to see them. Clearly, the fox didn’t feel the same way because it didn’t acknowledge me or even allow me two seconds to admire it. This was the best picture I could get.

I’ve heard that foxes are sly, but I never see them acting anything other than nonchalant. They traipse through yards and across streets with ease. If anything, they’re brazen and their frightful mating call is anything but sly.

Is anybody “sly” anymore?

The last time I heard someone described as “sly” was in the 1990’s. I was stage managing a production of The Glass Menagerie. My friend came to see the show and, afterwards, we went out for drinks with the cast and crew. We got a big table and the actress who portrayed “Amanda Wingfield” sat on the other side of my friend.

She was well into her fifties. My friend who was in his early twenties leaned toward me and spoke into my ear.

“She’s very handsy,” he said cautiously. I looked at him and noticed he had a strange smile on his face — one I had never seen before.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She won’t keep her hands off of me,” he muttered to me. “She’s grabbing my leg right now.”

I thought he was being ridiculous. She was Equity* for god’s sake!

“She’s sauced!” he whispered exasperatedly.

But then I saw her hand not just on his leg, but on his crotch. Mind you, my friend could have excused himself, but he stayed put.

“I’d like to make a toast to all these wonderful actors!” he announced.

“And I’d like to toast our wonderful audience!” she returned.

They laughed and flirted for another fifteen minutes before I finally left. I had never been so confused in all my life. How could she? How could he? How could they?

I told the director about what I saw and she wasn’t even slightly surprised.

“Oh,” the director chuckled, “she’s a sly fox alright.”

I was immediately jealous. How I longed to be a sly fox! I started trying that night. I practiced drinking too much. I wiggled as I laughed and it made men the opposite of horny. I touched men who were older than me in ways that I can only now describe as elder abuse.

No one has ever accused me of being a sly fox, or sly or a fox. And that strange smile my friend had on his face? I’ve seen thousands of smiles over the years but never one quite like that of a young man about to have sex with a woman who was more than thirty years older than him.

Several years ago, I was surprised and saddened to read the obituary for the Equity actress in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. She was a truly outstanding “Amanda” and an even better “sly fox.” May she rest in peace.

Thanks for reading my blog. -Connie

*Equity refers to actors who are member of Actors’ Equity Association, an American labor union representing those who work in live theatrical performance.