The End (Temporarily) of My Blogging Days

ReinhardRites was a pretty good idea and will probably become a one-Crone play. But this writing purely to give my insight and opinion is strictly self-indulgence and a plea for attention. I have to put all of that into my regular writing. With the endless blizzards, I'm sitting around here thinking at a time when Social Media, at least for the post-40 set, seems to be dying. What did we expect? Yes, I've made some great friendships. At least one of which rocked me to the core of my Life and my Art, but is, as these sort of things go, unsustainable for regular human beings who have to clean the apartment and get the tires rotated. No metaphors there, I only mean the car. I think that Amour Americaine is my masterpiece, but there are piles of plays and little space for performing one that takes 20 characters, 5 sets and other 10 drafts of development. Once you realize what you can and cannot do on Facebook, it becomes a bit of a drag and I don't have Twitter to flip a dozen downloads in every day and I don't have a dozen interesting events in a day. Anyway, Ceci is over Sixty...she's Sixty-one. Had a lot more gas than I thought she did, but not enough. Think of me as a 28 year old sex bomb walking slowly off into the night in my short, spangled dress, wearing a black wig and fishnet stockings and four inch heels. If I come back, it'll be pure Reinhard and it'll have a damned point to make and some interesting blogs.

Been a Long Time Coming

Sorry that I've been away so long, both of you. I've written 4 drafts of a 2 act play. It takes 4 to get it ready to read and at least 6 to get it to a perfect production moment. While waiting for anyone to want the damned thing, I've started a film script of Amour Americaine. I don't look at the play, but just start setting the characters off on new adventures with tons of "Money" and "Casts of Thousands". By not needing dialogue, I discover new things that can go into the play. I love the visual aspect.

Roxy runs into the apartment and throws his supplies in front of his easel. He tears off his leather jacket and arranges the canvas on the easel and stares at it. He crouches down almost like a wild animal and looks at it, then tears through his bag for a brush and a tube of paint. He stands and confronts the canvas. Then makes one delicate stroke.

SIRIANA (V.O.)
How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

Roxy suddenly splashes a wild band of color across the canvas.  He throws down the paintbrush and tears off his shirt. Barechested, he digs into his bag and comes up with tubes of paint he just squeezes onto the canvas.

SIRIANA (V.O.)
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.

Roxy begins to manipulate the paint with brushes, slowly bringing out the awesome form of a tiger coming toward the viewer.

SIRIANA (V.O.)
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

CLOSE ON the eyes of the tiger in the picture. There is almost a touch of fear in them.
CLOSE ON Roxy’s face, working closely on the canvas, his own eyes almost bright with a spark of insanity.

SIRIANA (V.O.)

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

Roxy falls back on the floor, exhausted. It looks as though the tiger is about to jump on him.

Starting a New Play and Facing Truth in Plain View of All

My new play, named "Art: Modern, Love: Eternal", (which really needs a better title, so we'll call it a working title) has forced me to confront something I'm not comfortable with...the Truth. I have to be honest and that includes with my own foolish self. Oh, it's so easy to write other people's shortcomings, especially when they are obvious, but in this play, I have to say out loud to the world, "I'm a total romantic idiot who believes the best even in the face of facts." I am an enabler and a caretaker. I am a fool. Siriana is me. Middle-aged writer with Multiple Sclerosis who thinks she still has it and finds out with a hard crash that she does not. She attempts nobility. She expects no reward and does not receive it. Not at least where she can hear it. Adapting another writer, I am trying to embrace his romanticism, and yet it is 2011. And yet it is me. Stepping back, I look at the situation and I cannot whitewash it. I cannot sugar coat it. Truth. Truth. Truth at any price. Whatever it costs me. I am sure it will not hurt anyone else because the subject will not read the play or see the play or even care if it is written. That's why we write plays. To make ourselves and our lives more interesting to those who are smart enough to care.

What Exactly Is It That I Want Now?

Doubling down to catch up after a long break. What exactly am I expecting life to bring to me at this point? Children are a definite "NO!", but I never wanted children. Romance? No, that doesn't often happen in this country at this time to women my age and could be dangerous to the Bank Account. Sex? I am amused that Retirement Homes have outbreaks of STDs. And while Ceci, my young Avatar, was terrific at sex and enjoyed it more than most, it's really not that big a deal to Sue although she could use a cuddle now and then. Or am I pretending not to care to protect myself from disappointment and embarrassment over my aging body? I do know that I love writing, even though it's never paid off. It would be nice for my words to reach an audience, payment or not, but I still have a lot to learn. People? Definitely, although I still have the social skills of a teenage ox, I'd like to keep getting to know how to just talk to people and laugh with people and care about people. Since I have time on my hands, I should volunteer...although Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady would be far too busy with the kids, the house and the husband to have to do that. I don't have to do it either, I want to. I want to see that I have done some good, made a difference and to Hell with it being done by an Old Maid. It's time to just be a Human Being, for, after all is said and done, that's what we all are.

Fantasy is Death

From the time I was 4 years old and realized that my parents were insane, I turned to Fantasy as an escape. Now that I am watching a dear friend being destroyed by fantasizing (it leaves no time for reality), I am forced to confront myself. I remember my first fantasy was Roy Rogers, as I had seen him on television. I was going to be rescued by the handsome cowboy. I never stopped after that. I daydreamed about Mike Nesmith of the Monkees and John Lennon of the Beatles. After that, I created fantasy heroes of my own and then, I started to meet real men, and after some upsetting experiences such as rape or heartache, I would retreat for hours into my own world. Fortunately, I was able to turn some of these into plays, but in the meantime, I was marrying the wrong men...sleeping with the wrong men...and worst of all, ignoring my education. After the breakup of my common law marriage to a total raving lunatic, and a string of hideous, inadequate and deceitful men, I stopped dating. After being diagnosed with MS, I started to save my money and get my life in order, but never the education. The education is my greatest regret. Recently, I have been dancing around the fantasy world and almost losing. I might have alienated a few friends and family, but my New Year's resolution is to simply stay grounded in reality. In New Jersey. In my poor, old, diseased body that is the only one I have. No one is going to ride in on a horse to rescue me. I guess, just like the modern cliche says, I have to be my own Prince Charming.