THE JOY OF STEALING

I just woke up from a dream about an artist friend of mine. I was listening to him – being wowed by his metaphors and woke up and realizied they were actually mine. But what do they mean?

If you’re any kind of artist, you can’t help but be a bit of a thief. Music, painting, writing… It doesn’t matter; you can’t be good unless you shoplift your surroundings. You immortalize the way someone laughs when they are self-conscious; abduct their drawl, swipe a moment of time that belongs to someone else. Take a third-party narrative and make it a first-person memoir. It’s almost an obsession, and often times I find myself more fixated on actually sewing adjectives and phrases together in my head about a person or event, then really being in the moment.
I’ve gotten into trouble for this.
I have a story coming out this month that I wrote based on an incident my friend told me about a misplaced condom and a broken beer bottle. The character isn’t her (neither are some of the events), but it was her tidbit that inspired the whole piece. It was a fraction of her life that gave birth to my tale.
When she read the story, she immediately said, “This isn’t me. I never said that. I never did that. I’m not THAT promiscuous.” That is what “based on” means… Ultimately, she was okay with it and liked the story, but it is still theft. Except it’s like stealing the buttons off of a blouse instead of the whole shirt.
Right now I am grappling with a fantastic story a friend told me – of course, the vignette can not make up a whole story by itself (they almost never do) – it would serve for some kind of base or jumping off point. Damn, it’s a good one…. I’ve scribbled it down in my journal and we will see. It’s there with my latest entries: What my friend’s mom called Maxi Pads…. What a friend ate for breakfast every morning growing up in Latin America… Contradictions about a boy… and this new ditty.

The two greatest qualities any artist has are observation and interpretation. Being cognizant of your surroundings – watchful – and then giving your own translation. This doesn’t necessarily mean one will be successful at their attempt, but it’s the root for any great project. You might get lucky flying blind once in awhile, but dumb luck only gets you so far. Hence the phrase, “One Hit Wonder…” Not to say anyone who has more than one hit is a true artist --- that’s a whole ‘nother topic – mostly a reflection on our society.

And once again, sliding off of this moral platform… best stopping theorizing about it, and actually do it (or attempt it).
Off to work on my play rewrites and novel… and shake off this newest afternoon dream.

A PRICEY PAIR OF PANTIES
My experience with formal dances is limited.

Freshman year -went to the Tolo (Northwest version of Sadie Hawkins) in a horrifyingly scratchy and periwinkle dress. My date was Jim, the first boy I ever kissed, and the first boy I ever made cry (at another dance, but that an informal one after the football game so it doesn’t count).

Sophomore year - went to an all-girls, boarding school where prom was limited to upperclassmen, so I crashed it with a friend and was eventually kicked out by the nuns. It was next to impossible to hide, dance, eat potato chips and blend in. The dance was held in the TV room where our anorexic typing teacher worked out daily to Jane Fonda. Even she took up a lot of space.

My junior year- back at boarding school, had a date to the prom (local blond heartthrob) but only five other girls did, so it was cancelled due to the junior and senior’s class lack of ability to get a guy in a suit (even with the promise of poorly lit groping).

Senior year went to a new public school (Tolo again) and instead of asking the big jock (who was insanely muscular and reeked of cologne), like everyone wanted me to, I asked an old friend. No pressure; we danced, had a good time and went picture time occurred, I laid him out in my lap and dangled grapes over him.

My senior year, I also ended up going to college at night and graduating early from high school. When my parents suggested I get a job to help cushion the cost of my schooling in Wales, I announced, at the age of seventeen, I was temporarily moving to New York and would be back in four months…. “Uh, we were thinking more a long the lines of Dairy Queen,” my mom said… So I missed my senior prom. And with the exception of seeing “Pretty in Pink,” (sometimes I have nightmares about Molly Ringwald screaming, “What about prom, Blaine?!?”) I am naïve in terms of proper prom experiences. No corsages, stinky tuxes and strapless bras that didn’t fit. On the even brighter side, less photographic evidence of bad hairstyles.

I wouldn’t change the choices I made, but still there is something wanting about missing your school cafeteria being transformed into “Heaven on Earth” with simply balloons and crepe paper. There is this disjointed bonding that I don’t have with other people.

With this little experience, it was my first dance my freshman year that stood out – for many reasons. And it wasn’t because of the boy.

Jim was sweet and a little goofy, but wrote me these horribly boring, incredibly long notes detailing every minute of his existence. Every Monday morning I would open my locker to find a 20-page note stuffed inside. “I just got in from working in the yard with my dad for 47 minutes. I thought of you the whole time… For lunch I had pizza and watched 20 minutes of a Laverne & Shirley rerun. Wish you could be here.” While other girls swooned, I always dreaded getting those notes in 9x12 envelopes.

But, unbeknownst to me, my first dance taught me an important lesson. And it wasn’t sexual politics (interestingly there is a pattern from all the dances I did attend – or did not- I had to ask the boy). And it wasn’t how to sneak in alcohol. And it wasn’t how to avoid getting pounded on my senior girls (call their bluff and they will back off). It was the art of achieving the bubble-math mentality in the middle of a stinking swamp. After spending a ludicrous amount of money on a Jessica Mcclintock dress that I DID NOT want (I looked liked an antebellum prostitute with extremely poor taste) my mom took me to a specialty shop. She decided that since I suddenly had the urge to dress up, I might as go all the way and get a pair of gloves. While my mom stood in line and commiserated with the sales lady on how fast they grow up… I walked through the aisles, somehow ending up in the lingerie section. My mom caught me fingering a pair of gorgeous silk, soft gray, lacy underwear. “Let’s buy them,” she said, impulsively grabbing them. My mouth dropped open. I would have been less shocked if my mother (who was the volunteer accountant at our church) suggested that I steal them. “But they are eleven dollars!” I couldn’t even phantom spending money on a piece of underwear that cost the same amount as our entire family eating at McDonalds. My mom, who literally darned our socks and sewed patches in our pants, just smiled and walked to the counter, “We won’t tell your father.”

All night, it wasn’t my first formal dress, or the first boy I kissed, or the elbow-length gloves that made me feel secretly empowered - it was the knowledge of the price tag of my underwear.

Finally, the urge was too much for me and in a moment of weakness (and perhaps intimacy) I leaned over to Jim and said, “I have a secret.” He asked what, and after mustering my courage up (for this WAS bravado underwear) I told him, “I am wearing eleven-dollar underwear.” Of course, telling any teenage boy the cost of your undergarments is bound to illicit a different response. While I expected him to be awed by my sophistication, he became hell bent on seeing them – and I don’t think it was for just witnessing what eleven-dollar underwear looked like. I spent the rest of the night fighting him off. And no… he never saw them.

For years, the underwear stayed in my drawer and many times I would choose torn up old ones, or bathing suit bottoms over my eleven-dollar pair. The only times my fancy undies came out was if I went to the ballet, or a nice restaurant, or it was my birthday. But as I became older and working for myself, these “special” times became farther and farther apart. While, I always found a way to have fun, it was never the traditional “expensive fun.” It was more the poor, non-traditional, bordering-on-jail fun. Soon I found my eleven-dollar underwear fit just as well under an old pair of jeans, then they did under a silky gown. It was a sad moment when they too became so tattered that I could no longer wear them. But at least I wore them. I least I worked, had sex, rode a bike, cleaned the house, read a book in them. They got used, and it didn’t diminish their power. If you spend your life waiting for special occasions, you spend your life, well… waiting. Life is not a series of formal dances, something I always should have known.

I am reminded of that fabulous Dorothy Parker quote, “Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.” There is something so vital about treating yourself, about finding a balance between responsibility and spontaneity. It’s almost spiritual: occasionally ordering the fancy wine, buying the satin bustier, ordering two appetizers. In general, those things have never been important to me, but it’s fun to splurge and sometimes in times of trauma and distress, it becomes crucial. With everything that has been going on lately, I crave release more than ever. It’s the only way to make those life chores bearable and deal with those circumstances that you just can’t avoid (no matter how hard you protect yourself). Seeking out the luxuries, whether it is buying a new window for the house, expensive dinner with friends, a piece of art, or that lovely pair of silk drawers… is the only way I know to avoid being ground up by the grind.

A few years ago, my friend and I were reminiscing over our summers at camp. I was shocked to realize how perfectly my very bra purchase summed me up. I was twelve and I didn’t want to get one. I wanted to remain a tomboy forever, but after being teased in math class once for not wearing one, I finally relented. I picked out a plain white cotton bra and a silk, leopard-print bra. And my mom bought me both without saying a word.

But of course in typical style, I let my best friend borrow my leopard bra at camp (even though it didn’t fit her – too small) for the daily price of a box of licorice and a soft serve ice cream cone. My practical side (or sweet tooth, however you want to spin it) still existed.

It’s a testament that even surrounded by such luxuries, a leopard never changes its spots, whether it be white cotton, silk, or lace.