I have just finished a blog about my friend Clover and the birth of her daughter, Juniper Maya. She was born nearly 10 days ago, but only now am I at a point where I am able to give words to the experience and my role in it.
I’d been noodling on it for a couple of days and now it is done. I print it out. Set a timer. And read out loud.
Doors open for Story Club in a little more than an hour. I’ve already penciled it in my book – Artist Date 70.
Story Club meets the first Thursday of the month at the Holiday Club – a bar on the north side of Chicago. Three featured writers read essays on a theme. And three audience members, called at random from a sign-up sheet, read their musings for up to eight minutes.
I’ve been called up just once before, a couple of months ago. My gut tells me I will make it onstage tonight…if I can get there.
My piece is too long. I cross out some sections and set the timer again. Still too long. Then I try again, just reading a portion of it. Up to the words, “The miracle emerges.” This could work.
And I hear it. “Slow the fuck down.” I don’t want to. But I do anyway.
I call Clover to tell her the blog is finished and to ask if she would like to read it before I hit “publish.” She says she would.
I do not usually do this. However, this is not just my story. It is her story too.
I have not given her a clever moniker like the Southern Svengali or Mr. 700 Miles. She is not anonymous. And so I offer my words to her first.
I mention I am on my way to Story Club and ask if she would prefer that I use her initials, as opposed to her real name, as she has not yet read the piece. She says “yes” again.
And it hits me – how much gyrating I am doing to “make this happen.”
To get out the door. To get on stage. It feels like a push. An awful lot like “my will.” “If this, then that.”
I recognize that the words are still fresh to me. That, in some ways, I have just re-lived the birth. That I feel tired and vulnerable, and the idea of sitting in a bar, by myself, in hopes of reading onstage feels neither joyous nor fun. It feels like me trying to make good on my word – as if to make up for all the times when my word meant nothing.
I realize I have nothing to prove, and I give myself a pass.
I put down my papers. I pull on my coat, walk a handful of blocks to the Davis Theatre and purchase a ticket for The Grand Budapest Hotel.
I know nothing about this movie other than my friend Matt invited me to see it with him a few weeks ago. I declined, taking myself to the Art Institute for Artist Date 68 instead.
The theater is about a quarter full. I take comfort in seeing the number of people here alone – even though alone is my preferred way to watch movies.
The previews are dreadful. Even the one with Johnny Depp – who I love.
And especially the one for Transformers. Although it makes me giggle a little as I have a date this weekend with a man 12 years my junior, and he recently posted something about the movie on his Facebook page.
But the featured film is a story for storytellers, told by a storyteller. I am enchanted.
By the glory of the Grand Budapest Hotel in its heyday. And by the quirky outpost for eccentrics that it has become.
By the concierge, at once both straight and gay, tending to the elder, insecure, wealthy – and always blonde – female patrons.
By the refugee hotel boy with a penciled-on moustache. By the love affair between him and the girl who decorates pastry and wears braids – whose birthmark covers half of her face.
It is eye candy. Swaths of bright orange and purple. Handsome stars in less-than-handsome roles. Ralph Fiennes. Adrien Brody. Jeff Goldblum.
I am grinning. I am not thinking about what I will write. Even though I am always thinking about what I will write. The world around me a blog waiting to happen.
I am not thinking that this is a story about family. About status. About love.
About corruption. Courage. Change.
I am not thinking about my own experiences – of family, status, and love. Courage and change.
I am caught up in someone else’s story. I am not thinking. It is a joy.