For Ace 01.23.12 (c) C. Quintana 2012

AKA Tragedy: A One Man Show / Runtime: 207 to Clark Street / Cast: 1M (with audience participation and background)

“Next time play some Lil’ Wayne, then you’ll get a dollar from everybody on here!” An unabashed young man with braids and a leather vest calls out. He says this as a neatly dressed Mexican guitar player finishes his song and timidly floats through the aisle with a hand out to collect coins. “That’s fucked up—they barely gave him 34 cents.” Vest looks to his friends, a woman with an impressive weave and a bulky necklace of gold stars above an anonymous red jersey and a guy with yellow-rimmed plastic hipster aviators, a braided faux-hawk with blonde tips and stars shaved into his fade.  “Shoulda played some Lil’ Wayne. Shoulda played some Lil’ Wayne,” repeats Vest. His friends have now begun to make out violently beside him.

Vest gives the two a bored look and turns his attention outward to a very pale, red-lipsticked and short-overalled woman pursing her lips into a compact. She wears a small, black shower cap and is curled so tightly into her seat that she’s practically in the fetal position. “Hey, can I borrow your mirror for a second?” Nothing. And again he asks, this time from a seat nearer to her and next to me. “She can’t hear me.” Vest gestures to his friends—still occupied—and bobs his head, on a hunt for an audience, to some internalized song. I wonder if it’s Lil’ Wayne. He grips his diamond-emblazoned skull buckle with one hand and catches me scribbling in my steno pad.

Vest flashes me a cocksure smile and asks what I’m writing. “I’m a playwright,” I tell him, and the edge of his smile expands. He asks to see my notebook and pen and I surprise myself with an easy response: “Sure, why not?” As I hand him the paper, my gut suddenly churns at the thought of him reading about himself. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and writes with a self-assured twinkle in his eyes.  He hands back the notebook and pen, winks and returns to his previous seat across the aisle. We could be sitting at opposite heads of a long dinner table, I think to myself as I look to his message:

“I LUV YOU

AKA TRAGEDY

(862) 888-7464

Call me

To nite ”

I laugh out loud as the car shifts to a halt at 125^th Street. The doors open and close without much influx. “Aren’t you going to write me a note?” He smiles that smart-alecky grin I’m growing accustomed to, despite our status as complete strangers.

“You are hysterical.

Take care of yourself—

CQ”

Vest faux blushes and tips his eyes in a smile. “Hey, you forgot something!”

“I did?” I feign naïveté. I tell him I don’t just give away my number to strangers, but he’ll always have my note. And he will, he assures me as he kisses the folded page and sweetly slips it into his pocket. That is: until he decides to wash his pants or throw it away like he did that beer bottle he conspicuously rolled out of the double doors and across the platform a few stops back.

For Marko 01.06.11 (c) C. Quintana 2012

“I would rather be overly invested than emotionally stunted.” (Keffan Dolly)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how scary it is to get close to someone. People don’t talk about that part when they talk about falling in love. Frankly: because it’s not cute. It falls under the realm of being emotional and needy and all those things none of us wants to be. We’re Americans, goddamnit! Aren’t we supposed to be a bucket of smiles year round?

I recently (as in, sometime in the past year) heard: Emotion exists on a spectrum. All we can hope for, in terms of a healthy existence, is to experience as wide a range of emotions as possible. Think: those paint sample tabs at the Home Depot– I want everything from “Break of Day” to “Deep Umber.” But, let’s face it, “Deep Umber” is a lot scarier than “Break of Day.”

And I get that we have to protect ourselves. I get that we can’t look everyone in the eye on the A train. But why is it that reality TV stars can express all of their fears to millions of viewers, but for-real men and women can’t, in the privacy of their own homes, everyday? Not to say that everyone has to sing Kelly Clarkson and have deep, lengthy talks about their feelings with their neighbors and significant others every night– but what’s wrong with a little emotion? Sometimes life hurts, it’s hard and scary and there’s a lot going on and it should be okay to be a little emotional about it– bring on the black hoodies!

And speaking of black hoodies, let’s talk about the term “emo.” The standard high school classification of the darkly dressed, sorrow-drenched person. Why the negativity, why the bad rep? Yes, there are extremes, but not every Republican is Michelle Bachmann, right?

My theory: everyone is a secret emo. We all want to scream out how badly so-and-so broke our hearts and make a big hissy fit about how pissed off that douche bag made us feel and scream at the top of our lungs how scared we are at feeling so damn much. The thing is, we were programmed this way. We’re supposed to feel all of these things. I believe tears were invented for a reason (which sounds like the title to Dolly Parton’s next big hit.)

And so: in the name of Dolly Parton and all the other country sensations who weren’t afraid to go on and on about their dogs dying and wives cheating: cry at The Lion King and feel good about it, be a little emo. I know you already are. And I promise, I won’t tell anyone.

For Berengere 08.18.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

Coming home, particularly among the classic, “New Orleans: Proud to Call it Home” bumper stickers, makes you think a lot about what the hell “home” means. Not literally. Though, of course, I looked it up.

I found it interesting that the Old English origin,  hām means “village, home.” So a “village” and a “home” are meant to be the same thing? Funny that home can mean “my apartment or my house or my little cardboard box beside the Duane Reade (Duane Reade/cardboard box may also be one in the same)” or it can mean my town, my city, my village.

A good family friend told me the other day that it takes a good seven years to shake off the place where you grew up and move on with your life. Seven years and you’re beyond the pull. I’m not sure if that’ll be the case for me. Then again, I grew up in New Orleans, which is, in my opinion, basically the greatest city on earth. Though, about a year ago, I moved to New York City, which many would argue wins the trophy for “Best City in the World.” But I think there are plenty of those 8 million people in New York City who would say that New York is not their home, despite however long they may have camped there. I’m sure there are loads of individuals everywhere who feel that wherever they live is not really home. A place to live is not necessarily a home, after all.

“Home is about the community.” I’ve heard this about a thousand times. So it is the village. Not the literal village, but the village you build up around yourself, then? Maybe so. But what happens when you’ve built a fantastic village in more than one place? Then what’s home? Is home then the place where your mail gets sent? What if you’ve got a P.O. Box? Well then, that’s a another thing entirely!

Lately a lot of people I know and love have been taking these life-leaps and moving across the country with a significant other– well, maybe that’s all it takes. Home must be a lot like love and we English-speakers are at a loss because we’ve only got one word to describe something that has so many facets and definitions.

Growing up, whenever my family would go on a vacation or evacuate for a storm, I always found myself calling the hotel, “home,” even though, obviously, the hotel wasn’t home. Though it was a base, a place to sleep in a warm bed with family. Or, in college, I would often get tongue-tied between calling the place where I grew up versus the place where I was living “home.” Maybe homes are like friends and we’re always bound to have many– some that we feel closer to at different points in our lives, some that we lose touch with and some that will forever hold a piece of us.

For Neal 08.10.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

Once I was on a short road trip with my then girlfriend and a favorite 80s song rolled out of the speakers. I instinctively raised the volume and began singing at the top of my lungs—a favorite pastime of mine. She looked at me with her lips cocked in a half-smile and said, “You really don’t need anyone else, do you?”

Her statement struck me in a number of ways at the time. Firstly, I felt great about it: Yeah, I don’t! I don’t need anybody else! Then, just below the surface, I was slightly more offended: Wait, a minute! What does she mean by that?

Well, what she probably meant was that I could (and can) find amusement in a collection of lint. Anything, really. This is true. But that’s beside the point. I’ve thought a lot about what she said that day—probably because I lovingly over think everything, as you’ve come to learn—and Aristophanes raises his hand the highest in my mind.  

Aristophanes presented a story about soul mates in The Symposium by Plato. It states that humans originally consisted of four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces, but Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spend their lives searching for the other half to complete them.

Does this explain coupling off? Is this why we so desperately throw ourselves into the shark tank of a dating pool awkward date after rejection after failed relationship? Because yes, I don’t need anyone. Of course it’s 2011 and I’m a self-sufficient woman and all that other feminist spiel (which is plenty important, yes). But I have a sneaking suspicion that somewhere beneath the guise of “self-sufficient” is an amount of loneliness. Of course, I can only speak for myself…

Yesterday I discovered an article about a 98-year old woman who recently became the first woman ever to earn Judo’s highest-degree black belt, one of sixteen to ever receive the honor (http://shine.yahoo.com/event/vitality/98-year-old-woman-becomes-first-woman-ever-to-earn-judos-highest-degree-black-belt-2523297). Now that’s pretty badass, if you ask me. No one’s going to deny that. Also, I’m sure she’s proud of herself and what she’s accomplished, but it’s gotta be lonely at the top. At the end of the day, who does she share her highest-degree black belt with?

Yes, I don’t need anybody. I’m doing just fine. But if I’m the second woman (and seventeenth ever) to earn Judo’s highest-degree black belt, I certainly want someone to gobble some victory pancakes with! And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

There was a great quote I came across a week or so ago, “Relationships never work until one does.” A friend reminded me that it’s a Dan Savage adage. (Dan Savage adage is very fun to say, by the way.) Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m very much looking forward to the one that does.

For Destany 08.01.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

Chemistry is, to me, the most mind-boggling thing in the world. Now, I’m not referring to the high school science class– though, that was pretty mind-boggling to me too–but that unspoken thing that happens between two people who really dig each other (in purely scientific terms). This isn’t even purely on a romantic level. I’m sure we’re all well-acquainted with the “bromance” and whatever the female equivalent of that would be (cycle buddies?).

What I really love about chemistry is that fact that it’s so inexplicable– it has no rhyme or reason.  You might be on a date with the most visually pleasing man or woman in the world and not feel a thing.  How many times have we heard or said, “There just wasn’t any chemistry.” OR “There was something missing.” OR “No sparks.”And it’s not scientific at all. It’s just a feeling. A knowing. An idea that, nope, this one isn’t it. In this control group of a world we’ve created for ourselves, there’s still so much we can’t grasp.

There is a theory that the word “chemistry” derives from a Greek word meaning, “cast together.” To me, the definition connotes  a mix of fate and feeling. Chemistry does cast people together, doesn’t it? I always think it’s interesting to see  if you can pinpoint the moment when you became friends with someone– or when you knew you would be friends. My friend Sadora and I have been the best of friends for nearly a decade and a half now and we cannot for the life of us remember the moment we became friends, but for whatever reason, the universe threw us together and we’ve been practically family since.

Maybe I also like the term, “cast together,” because of its theatrical nature. It makes sense, though, right? We cast our lives to an extent– we choose our partners and friends, though the villains and supporting cast may not enter the scene by choice.  So much of our lives seems to be coming to terms with our choices and what is thrust upon us. And then what about rent? What a balancing act.

How much of the challenge is simply learning to trust ourselves and the gut feelings we have? Don’t they say that, statistically speaking, your first choice is usually the right one?

For JFitz 06.15.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

The Dragon Box.
Christina Quintana

Originally performed on June 11, 2011 in La Plaza Cultural Community Garden as part of The Movement Theatre Company’s GO GREEN festival, directed by Jonathan McCrory, featuring Ashley Grombol as Aurora and Alan Tyson as Xavier.

CHARACTERS
Aurora, 21
Xavier, 21

SETTING
La Plaza Cultural Community Garden Sandbox
Lower East Side, New York City
June 11, 2011
Evening.

NOTE:
The slashes (/) indicate when a line should be cut off and the next person begins speaking.

(Aurora sits in the sandbox, surrounded by scattered holes. It’s a big day. Suddenly, she grabs a plastic shovel, or uses her hands or both, and digs deep into the sand. She unearths a simple wooden box with a dragon decoration on the cover.  She can’t believe it.  She looks around, realizes there’s no one nearby. She debates to herself then moves to lift the lid when–)

XAVIER
(Calls out )
So you’re gonna open it without me?

(Aurora is startled. Xavier approaches her.)

AURORA
Trip?! Is that you?! Oh my God!

(She rises in the sandbox. They go to each other and hug–it’s long and wonderful.)

AURORA CONT’D
I didn’t think–wow–

XAVIER
What? You didn’t think I’d remember? June 11, 2011.

AURORA
Well, I mean– we were ten. And you moved away!

(Xavier looks to the various holes throughout the sandbox.)
XAVIER
You remembered.

AURORA
Well, yeah, but, you know, I was just in the neighborhood…

XAVIER
You’re still here?

AURORA
Sort of, yeah– my folks moved Uptown years ago, but. I mean, my fi–my apartment’s not too far / off.

XAVIER
Your what?

AURORA
My apartment?

XAVIER
No. You said: your “fi.” What’s a “fi”?

AURORA
(Trying hard to be casual)
Oh, my fiance– my boyfriend. Same / thing!

XAVIER
Whoa– you’re getting married!?

(Aurora laughs– a little nervously.)

AURORA
Yeah–yeah I am.

XAVIER
Well, well, well. 21 and engaged.

AURORA
God, you make it sound like a criminal offense.

XAVIER
No. I mean, that’s great.  Really! Congratulations.  It’s just–it’s a big deal… Aren’t you kind of…

AURORA
What?

XAVIER
Nah. Nothing. It’s gre/at.

AURORA
What? Young? Is that what you were gonna say?

(A beat. He smiles.)

AURORA CONT’D
Why wait if we know what we want?

XAVIER
(Nods)
Sure.

AURORA CONT’D
Oh my God. Scary. The way you just nodded– you’re totally the same. Without those chubby cheeks, but the same.

XAVIER
(Checking her out)
Well, I have to say, you– you look– a lot different. But–uh–in a good way!

(They both smile.)

AURORA
So you’re back in New York for good?

XAVIER
Well, I’ve got this internship and then I start at Fordham in the fall, so we’ll see…

AURORA
Law school, right?

(He nods.)

AURORA
Facebook.

XAVIER
Obviously you keep up better than I do.

(She laughs. He laughs. It’s a little uncomfortable.)

AURORA
So we gonna do this?

XAVIER
Do you even remember what we put in there?

AURORA
I have no idea. I can’t even believe it’s still here.

XAVIER
Me neither.

(They crouch down into the sand. Xavier picks up the box to open it– she grabs his hand to stop him.

AURORA
I’m moving.

XAVIER
Scared you away that fast, huh?

AURORA
Blake and I– he got an engineering job down in Florida. And it’s where all his family lives, so…

(Xavier sets the box down.)

XAVIER
So, that’s what you want?

AURORA
What are you talking about? Of course it’s what I want.

XAVIER
(Genuine)
Okay / then.

AURORA
I mean, of course I love New York, but I’ve been here forever– my whole life– it’s time to move on, right?

XAVIER
Sure. If you actually want to.

AURORA
Well, I do. I do. I’m ready to go.

(Xavier puts his hands up in faux surrender.)

XAVIER
Okay, okay!

AURORA
Plus I can find work for a newspaper anywhere, you know? And he has this really specific opportunity.

XAVIER
Uh huh.

AURORA
And I’ve never really been a career person anyway, you know? Family’s more important.

XAVIER
Which is why you’re leaving yours to move to Florida?

AURORA
He’s really a good guy.

XAVIER
(To himself)
Good guy with his own dreams.

AURORA
Come on. That is not fair. You don’t even know him! You don’t even know me. I haven’t even seen you since–since the freakin’ fourth grade.

XAVIER
You’re right.

AURORA
I know. I know I’m right.

(They look at each other a long time. Suddenly she grabs and kisses him.)

XAVIER
Wha–what was that?

AURORA
(Looks around)
Uh– that didn’t happen okay? Yeah. That did not happen. Now let’s just open the bo/x and…

XAVIER
The dragon box?

AURORA
Dragon box. Whatever.

XAVIER
Remember we called it that because both of our favorite animal was a dragon, even though Ms. Robert said dragons were technically…

AURORA
(Completes his thought)
“Mythical creatures, not animals.”

(He laughs. She does too.)

XAVIER
Yeah.

(Beat.)

XAVIER CONT’D
You know what? I don’t think we should open it.

AURORA
What do you mean? We said we would– June 11, 20–

XAVIER
(Completes her thought)
11. But if we open it, that’s it. It’s over.

AURORA
Hm. I guess so.

(Xavier starts to dig a hole in the sand to re-bury the box.)

AURORA CONT’D
Why not just open it? We’re both here, aren’t we? Who knows the next time we’re going to be here together.

XAVIER
Ten years?

(She smiles at him.)

AURORA
That sounds about right. (Beat) Together then?

(Xavier nods.)

XAVIER
On the count of three. 1-2-

XAVIER & AURORA
3.

(Together they open the box. We don’t see what they see. They look at each other and smile.)

END OF PLAY.

All material copyright C. Quintana 2011.

For Hannah T. 06.07.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

 ”Hope proves man deathless. It is the struggle of the soul, breaking loose from what is perishable, and attesting her eternity.” – Henry Melvill

Do you ever look at a word and suddenly it seems funny or all wrong? A word that you’ve written, typed, read or seen thousands of times, yet for some reason, there’s suddenly something strange about it.  Sometimes the simplest of words confront me. Whenever this happens I go to the root of the matter (literally).

I was both intrigued and disappointed to discover that the origins of the word “hope” are largely unknown.  It’s from “Low German”– whatever that might mean–and may derive from the term “hop,” as in “leaping in expectation.”  For some reason, this feels forced.  As in, it has to come from somewhere, so let’s just pin it on this possible association! But maybe that’s a harsh criticism on linguists. After all, I’m not searching through piles of “Low German” texts searching for answers. In fact, I’ve only gone as far as a Google search.

To  be honest, my confrontation with “hope” doesn’t really have anything to do with where the term comes from.  Maybe it’s purely something to do with overwrought Christian virtues that sends me into a tizzy.  According to both religious and secular definitions (as I’m sure you’re aware), hope has something to do with desire and expectation– the promise of something.  Why is it that the smallest words have such big footprints? I think my beef with the word “hope” is that it just doesn’t seem like enough to encompass everything that it is: from minimized verb to grand poetic and, thanks to Obama, political gesture. Granted, everyone else in the world seems okay with the word and it’s sufficed for centuries upon centuries, but– Think about the words that ”hope”  rhymes with: dope, mope, cope… all decidedly uninteresting, or at least melancholic, words!

My strange feelings toward the word may also have something to do with the roadblocks that meet hope along its way.  So many incredible individuals I know have faced so many personal, professional and creative trials and tribulations. And here we all are, standing on the sidelines, rallying for hope regardless.  When Obama ran his campaign on “Hope” people joined in hand with the promise of change. I think we all have to believe that things can and will get better– even in the worst of situations– in order to survive.

So then, is hope merely a coping mechanism or an actual tool of survival? In Anne Bogart’s Collaboration course last spring, she mentioned something about the phenomena of people needing something so much, so badly that they could actually will it into existence.  The first thought that came to my mind was the New Orleans Saints’ astonishing Super Bowl victory in 2010.  Not that Drew Brees and the rest of the team don’t deserve due credit, but I honestly believe that the Saints won that game because the city needed it.  After all the post-Katrina mess and 40 years of losses, there was no way New Orleans was going to let those Saints leave the stadium without that trophy.  That season, that game, in particular, turned people who’d never watched a sports game in their lives into believers.  To me, that’s some kind of powerful hope.

So maybe Henry Melvill was a little dramatic to say that, “hope proves man deathless,” but not only do I kind of love it, I don’t think he was too far off.  Hope just proves how unwilling we are to surrender to even the worst of circumstances. Granted, we may have our moments, days, weeks, even months, when we wallow in bed or curse the universe and become convinced that the world is against us and we’re just not the lucky ones– BUT, there’s an ounce of hope. Maybe it’s buried deep. But it’s there– even the tiniest molecule that says, hey, it may take us 40 years (ugh) to win the Superbowl, but goddamnit, we’ll get there.

For Liz 06.04.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

When I lived in London I became obsessed with the London Paper’s “Missed Connections.” For those who don’t know, “Missed Connections” (under various aliases everywhere), is a column in various publications, mostly daily newspapers, and now, websites, that allows people to attempt to re-connect with someone they passed on the street, shared a look, laugh or a smile with, etc.  What I find particularly intriguing about these is that they usually don’t work. As a matter of fact, statistically speaking, it’s exceedingly rare that someone actually re-connects with the person in question. But that certainly doesn’t stop people from trying.  As a matter of fact,  craigslist actually started a “Missed Connections” section of its website when administrators noticed that “I saw you” ads were repeatedly popping up in the personals section.

What’s that quote about insanity I love so much? Albert Einstein said, “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” We’re all insane– in the best way possible! How awesome that despite the fact that the odds are against us, we say damn it, it’s worth a shot! I love that about people. We’re stubborn beings. And why not? Who’s to say it won’t work after the 49th or 57th time?

I’ve never actually posted a missed connection ad in my life, despite my love of the concept, but I am working on a new play that involves the idea and I’ve been doing my research.  Sometimes the “missed connections” are recent and sometimes, not so recent.  I found one that involved someone who’s been searching for a woman for six years. You’d think after six years they would have run into each other again, but this is New York City and there’s what, 8 million of us?  Apparently the two decided to meet up in the same location the next night and he stood her up– hmm. So maybe it’s some kind of epic karma at work here?

In any case, the first scene of the play involves a series of silhouettes and the voices of several “missed connections.” I’ve lovingly tweaked some of my favorites that I’ve found in various places– you’ll notice the “six year” one I referred to in the previous paragraph.

(We see the silhouettes of  a man and a woman, one after another, each a different person.)

MAN
Look, you were wearing a green shirt and you were kind of cool, at least that’s what I got from your face– which I also thought was alright. I was the hipster kid reading on the train this morning. I bet you know exactly who I am.

WOMAN
You: brown uniform, cute handwriting, kept stealing glances at me. French braid, short, big eyes. Me: short hair, black hoodie. I had a falafel for dinner. I wish I had spoken to you.

MAN
Ann-Charlotte, you came into Fossil. I helped you, then told you I would look you up on Facebook. Unfortunately, I was not thinking and there are hundreds of Ann-Charlottes from all over Europe… All I need is your last name. Or your phone number.

WOMAN
I really appreciated your help and kindness during the cab ride frenzy this morning! You were heading downtown– wish we could have shared the ride.

MAN
We’ve worked in same building for years, but the only time we make eye contact or talk is in the elevator. Haven’t seen you in months, and before that, even longer. Drink?

WOMAN
You’re caucasian with dark hair. We walked past each other on my street, I had big headphones, a black coat and a backpack, we did three double takes but neither of us stopped. I didn’t know I had such cute neighbors.

MAN
Michael Tilson Thomas was conducting and you bought a ticket I was selling and you sat next to me. We had a conversation and you said to meet you there the next night and I didn’t take you up on it. Been looking for you for six years…

I keep thinking about the words of those various ads that turned up on craigslist: “I saw you.” In this city of many, what does it mean for someone to really “see you”?  In any city, in any context, what does it mean for someone to see you? One of my favorite moments in Charles Baxter’s The Feast of Love is when the character Kathryn chastises her husband Bradley for not “seeing her.” I wish that I could recall the quote off the top of my head, but alas, I am mortal.  There’s something beautiful–and so important– about being noticed in the day-to-day. We all deserve it. We deserve to feel special, for lack of a better word. So even if 90 percent of the other halves of those missed connections never see their messages, it’s been put out into the universe. For all we know, there’s at least one “missed connection” out there for each and every one of us.

infatuation noun. – origin 16C: from L. infatuat-, infatuare ‘make foolish’

“You have become an indentured servant to your own yearnings.” -Committed, Elizabeth Gilbert

Limerence is a term coined c. 1977 by the psychologist Dorothy Tennov, a neologism used to describe an involuntary state of mind which seems to result from a romantic attraction for another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one’s feelings reciprocated. (Wikipedia)

Why is it that what we can’t have is so damn attractive? And then, if you’re anything like me, when you can’t have it, you work harder. I swear the minute I came out of the closet I automatically became 10 times more appealing to men (though, that may have been for a whole other set of reasons!)

A close guy friend of mine once confessed that he thought he was attracted to unavailable women mostly because of fear. It was easier, he admitted, to know that it couldn’t go anywhere from the start than to face all the buildup, rejection and/or messy follow through.  Luckily this wasn’t a permanent fixation and he’s started seeing someone since then, but his sentiments certainly aren’t foreign to me.

My problem is: I’m obsessive about basically everything I’m passionate about.  I do think it makes me a stronger artist because I’m constantly pushing myself to do more and to do better, but it can also be dangerous. When I become fixed on a project or piece or person, I get a little nuts. Just ask any one of my close friends if you don’t–God bless you if you don’t–believe me!

I think the real bugger here for me is instinct.  For whatever reason, I have this hell of an instinct– also something my best of friends will vouch for me.  While it’s a pain in the ass to be fixated on somthing you know isn’t “right” or will “pass,” it’s not so easy when you’ve got this unnameable gut feeling that you’ve got to power on despite rejection left and right.  I guess this is why I’m a playwright. I could receive a rejection from every theater in the country (I’m at least half-way there) and keep pushing–and I will!  A wise person once said, “If you don’t believe at the bottom of your heart that you’ll make it, you never will.” Oh, I know I will. It’s just a matter of time.

So I guess infatuation does ”make foolish,” as the etymology suggests, but I think there’s also a sense of knowing behind it, don’t you? Whether we want to admit it or not, we usually know if something is just a crush or a trend versus something that we’ll be able to look back on and say, in the faithful words of my mother, ”I told you so!”  Call me a cock-eyed optimist (South Pacific, anyone?), but I like to think that where my life is concerned I’ll be able to say, “I told you so.” Don’t worry, I won’t be an asshole about it– I’ll say it quietly to myself.

One of my favorite mini-stories is one that a lovely woman I worked for told me about the love of her life, a man she was with for nearly thirty years who passed away several years ago.  The two were friends for a very long time before they got together and he would always say to her, “You’re going to fall in love with me someday. You just don’t know it yet.” She said she would always laugh, brush it off or call him crazy. But he was right– she did fall in love with him.  Hard. Arguably she’ll never love anyone else the way she loved him. Oh, to have that patience! It reminds me of one of my favorite passages from the I-Ching, “Waiting is not mere empty hoping, it has inner certainty of reaching the goal.”

I guess the question then is: what to do with all this pent-up eagerness? Well, my friends, I’ve got an idea! I was in two fairly incredible workshops with playwright Leslie Ayvasian this past spring and her writing exercises always involved some sort of prompt. At first she gave us lists of prompts, but then she had us come up with our own.  Since those workshops, whenever I’m feeilng blocked creatively, I come up with a prompt and follow it.  One of my favorites (call me a narcissist) was one that I made called: “Reasons You Should Date Me.”  I must say, this one in particular was quite the self-esteem boost and I’d highly recommend it–especially if you’ve got a certain nagging limerence.  It’s funny how letting thoughts escape from your noggin onto a sheet of paper can be so freeing. (Although, as a footnote bonus special: in the words of the Dad in Juno, “Find a person who loves you for exactly who you are. Good mood, bad mood. Ugly, pretty, handsome. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out of your ass. That’s the kind of person that’s worth sticking with.”)

–And… I think that’s enough of that! Now it’s time for yours.

So with that: best of luck, my friends. It’s only a matter of time.

For Zach (2) 05.29.11 (c) C. Quintana 2011

In a way, this is an addendum to my “Solitudey” post.  Remember that comment I made about not wanting to walk into a lesbian bar alone because it seemed lame and desperate and drinking should be done in the company of friends? Well, world, I walked into a lesbian bar alone yesterday.  Truth be told, I’ve done this before. Granted, said bar was in New Orleans and probably the worst “lesbian” bar in the history of lesbian bars.  To give you an idea, at 10 on a Thursday night it was me and the bartender.  We had a great conversation about she and her Australian partner of 10 years and their amazing apartment with an unbelievable rent on Bourbon, so it wasn’t a complete bust.  But that’s another story for another day.  And, truth be told, not a very long one. So I’ll save us all the time and energy: and then I found five dollars! (But not really.)

So: A friend and I decided a couple of weeks back that we would venture to the lady bars together since most of our friends are straight, and while many of my straight friends all say they’re more than willing to join me, I know they’re just being nice. And I appreciate them for being nice. But I also realize that most lady bars aren’t so accepting of straight men and I also appreciate that most of my straight women friends have no interest in dating women and it’s a little unfair to them and interested parties at the bar.  And as for my lovely gays, well, I’m probably enough plaid for you to take.

So Friday night, after a pit stop at a fairly empty, though cool-looking Brooklyn spot called Ginger’s and adventures in MTA wonderland, we landed at the Cubbyhole.  The name itself is enough to scare anyone.  I’d been there once before in the fall with a new acquaintance.  We were both ploughing through emotional turmoil over recent exes (what lesbians do best) and we thought it’d be great to team up and check out some of the lesbian bars in town.  Based on reviews online, Cubbyhole seemed like a relaxed enough place– none of that “Real L Word” nonsense.  Well, it was– interesting.  My friend got hit on by a strange Nordic man and the decor was something like a Party City threw up on the ceiling.  So, after that, we both made the decision that we probably wouldn’t ever be returning.

Obviously I was wrong (though, as far as I know, my acquaintance has never returned).  As we walked in the place, my friend whispered to me, “That cougar in the corner just looked you up and down. This is going to be a night!” So we navigated our way through the Cubbyhole, so named for a reason.  It was packed. With quite the variety too– and even a sprinkling of gay men! Gay men, I might add, who decided my friend was “the cutest couple ever” with every woman she had a conversation with.  I enjoyed that.  Within thirty minutes, I was propositioned by a an overzealous girl we met at the bar.  Within the hour, my friend was given a phone number and I struck up a conversation with a French woman who was visiting New York on her own– after having saved for three years to do so! I must say, this trip to the Cubbyhole turned out to be much more successful than the last.  After a really wonderful night of conversation and way over-priced PBR, we all exchanged information.  My new French friend was only in the city for one more night and we decided to meet up the next day.

I landed in the Village early and she let me know that she was running a little late. So, I decided, I would just drop in the bar on my own a little early. It couldn’t hurt, right? She was going to be coming to meet me in a short while, so it wouldn’t be too weird…

So I found it.  There was a leggy, attractive woman standing outside smoking a cigarette. She looked me straight in the eye as I walked toward her. I smiled, probably blushed fairly hard, and said, “Hi. How are you?”

She smiled back. “I’m great. How are you?” You get the gist. And then I just kept walking. Wow, I thought to myself. I am the BIGGEST coward. I couldn’t even walk in! It was a little early, though, and I didn’t want to risk being alone in the bar drowning without a life vest. I know: excuses, excuses. Well, I did go in! About 20 minutes or so before my French friend was supposed to meet me, I walked into the bar. The leggy woman greeted me when I walked in, but she seemed fairly preoccupied with a beautiful crop-haired African-American woman.  I proceeded to the other end of the bar and ordered a beer. There was a baseball-capped girl with a big smile bantering with the bartender and near her, a buzz-cut middle-aged Puerto Rican woman.  I liked the atmosphere already.

I struck up a conversation with the middle-aged woman who, as it turns out, was ex-military. She served for over 20 years. I tipped my invisible hat to her (yes, for those of you who know me, for once I wasn’t wearing one).  She served for over 20 years under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.  She told me stories about the secret parties the lesbian military would throw off base that would often get busted by moles.  Apparently the moles would suddenly turn on all the lights and the women would “scatter like roaches.”  She said that after all of those years, and an investigation, she just couldn’t take it anymore. So she left and became a cop. Pretty incredible lady. And I never would have met her or heard her story if I hadn’t walked into the bar on my own.

When my French friend joined me at the bar I confessed this was my first time walking into a lesbian bar alone in New York City. She couldn’t believe it.  She said to me, in her marvelous Parisian accent, “but when you’re alone is the time when you meet the most people.”  And she was right.  Of course, I realize it’s not always the smartest decision to go to a bar by yourself– particularly if you’re a small woman and the bar isn’t a ladies-only situation– but, you get my gist.

The night proceeded to be one of the best I’ve had in the city and it all started because I bucked up and walked in.