Just Wrought

Recovering playwright, once won a STRANGER Genius Award for theater. Now writing a bloated novel about… G-d help me! Theatre.

Tag: filibuster

  • June 7, 2005

    June 7, 2005

    For obvious reasons, this is my last re-posting from my “daylog filibuster” seven years ago in anticipation of  the arrival of my second child. 

    Happy Birthday, Kiwi!  I can’t think of a seven year stretch I’ve enjoyed more than the one you’ve hosted so far on earth.   I love you SO MUCH!

    Tue Jun 07 2005 at 2:55:00 UTC

    This is the end.

    And I mean it this time. The only way this isn’t the end is if the Birthing Center triage calls us tomorrow and tells us that they’re too crowded to have Heather in to induce labor. In which case we’ll have to wait till Friday, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen. Thus, I repeat, for emphasis and relish . . .

    This is the end.

    I’ve had a lot of fun with this daylog filibuster (in day 17 now, in case you’re wondering); but I’m certainly not sorry to see it come to a close. I began it in the earnest excitement of thinking my wife would be giving birth within days, if not hours. I never had any intention of posting this many daylogs in a row, ever. I’m just not that interested in offering that wide a window into my life, nor am I driven to write so much so often (I’m not iceowl for god’s sakes); but, as many of you now know, I’m more stubborn than reticent, and so I’ve stuck to the promise of 500 words a day until my baby came. And that will be tomorrow, the Credophage willing.

    I’m not saying I’m not going to node or even daylog here any more. I’m certainly going to tell you all, my friends, how things go. It’s just that this day in/day out blather is going to stop. And I know I can’t be the only one here grateful for that.

    Perhaps I’ll take these 500 words a day, which JohnnyGoodYear reminds us that Graham Greene admonished us writers to maintain, and plow them into my playwrighting. I’ve got a completely hare-brained idea to write short plays specifically for high school-aged actors. I want to call one of them Wallace Stevens: Superhero! If I end up doing it, I promise to post it here for your downvoting pleasure. (If you think poetry gets blasted, try posting a play here.)

    Perhaps I spend a little more time trying to get the plays I’ve already written, done. (Some good news on that end: within the last 24 hours we learned we have a firm commitment from the middle best of the three theatre options we’re courting here to produce Slotin.) 

    Perhaps I’ll spend a little time with the baby formerly known as Fishy. (Ya think?)

    Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. . .

    I want to thank each and every one of you that has msg’d support for Heather, Declan, Fishy and me. It’s meant a lot, and that’s no bullshit. One of the things I treasure most about this place is how genuinely good we are to each other, especially in times of loss, or in my case, the greatest gain. This place will change. It may disappear completely, but what we have meant to each other in certain precious moments will not disappear, because it cannot.

    Cheers to you, my friends. I’ll blather at you again soon. But between now and then, there’s somebody I have to meet.

    Posted at 11:55 AM in Writing | Comments (0)

    Tags: birth of son, birthday, daylog, filibuster, Paul Mullin, writing

  • June 5, 2005

    This one strikes me with its description of Declan, pre-Keelan. I recognize his still quite similar personality, but to picture him without the inexorable force that his little brother became in his life is a challenge.

    Sun Jun 05 2005 at 4:49:49 UTC

    The essence of the waiting has transformed now that we know that if the baby doesn’t come in the next three days, then on Tuesday– Friday at the very latest– we’ll go into the hospital and induce labor. Now anticipating Fishy is less like waiting for some indeterminate miracle, and more like anticipating Christmas Morning or the first day of summer vacation.

    And it’s a good thing– I don’t think I need to tell you– that the end is now clearly in sight.

    Heather’s never been one to suffer fools—- i.e. me a good deal of the time—- gladly, but lately she’s been touchier than normal, and getting even touchier daily. It’s hard feeling like I’m just a walking/talking pain in the ass to her. I know this will change, eventually get better, but it’s not likely to do so anytime in the next six months or so, since she plans on breastfeeding and thus taking on the lion’s share of the sleep deprivation.

    I took Declan down to the Seattle Children’s Museum this morning. We got there when it first opened, which in my opinion is the best time, since it’s not as crowded, and the toys not all “played with”. He’s been involving other kids in his play more lately, which I’m glad of since I know it’s only natural as he gets older. It’s an adjustment for me though, since I don’t necessarily like other kids, and I’m sometimes gently tempted to throttle them when they act like punks and bullies to my kid. Still, I almost always stand back, and let him deal with it in his own way. His standard m.o. when faced with a bossy playmate is to just sort of stare at him or her stupidly until the other kid gets bored and moves on, leaving behind whatever toy or playground item Declan wanted to play with in the first place. I sort of marvel at this behavior, actually modeling it in my own endeavors with varying degrees of success. I’m nearly 38 years old, and it’s only been in the last eight or so of them that I’ve learned that it’s not necessary to engage every confrontation one comes across. Declan is like my unwitting post-graduate thesis advisor in this ongoing education.

    After lunch, my favorite time of day: nap time. Heather turned to me and asked if I thought there was anything wrong with the baby.

    “What are you talking about?”

    “Well, maybe there’s something wrong and that’s why it doesn’t want to come out.”

    “There’s nothing wrong. They did all those tests, remember? The baby’s fine in there. Just too comfortable, is all.”

    Then she just started to cry in that horrifying way she does: silently, reluctantly, as if it physically pained her to show such extreme emotion. (I was raised in an environment constantly injected with extreme emotion, like a holding cell regularly blasted with a high-pressure hose, so her reticence always confounds me a bit.)

    I consoled her, somewhat, I think. And then we slept a little. Won’t be long now.

    Posted at 11:55 AM in Writing | Comments (0)

    Tags: birth of son, birthday, daylog, filibuster, Paul Mullin, writing

  • June 3, 2005

    Fri Jun 03 2005 at 17:09:08 UTC

    Could this be lucky thirteen? I’m kind of doubting it, as the day is two hours past half done now.

    I took the morning off from work. I knew I was gonna do it last night, but it confirmed my decision when Heather told me she basically didn’t sleep at all. I know my turn at sleep deprivation is coming soon (though not soon enough it seems) and so I truly feel for her. Of all the challenges of early parenthood, that was always the toughest: that gritty hazy desperation, wondering if you’ll ever feel truly rested or awake again.

    So having this blissfully free morning, I took my six-years bride to breakfast at a new restaurant in Ballard called the Hi-Life, owned and operated by the same team that’s given Seattle the 5 Spot and the Coastal Kitchen, both long time favorites of mine, especially for breakfast and brunch. The new place, while offering no new thrills, didn’t disappoint.

    After breakfast we went for a walk around Green Lake: three miles at very casual pace. It was luxurious to be able to spend so much time alone with Heather.

    I gotta tell ya: I’m getting kinda of sick of this. Not just the waiting for my baby to come out, but writing these daylogs, day in and day out. Today at least it seems like little more than an exercise in stubbornness.

    Yes, it’s true that sticking to my stupid word has forced me to write about things I ordinarily wouldn’t, but it’s also distracted me from actually doing what I like to do most, and what I flatter myself to think I’m best at: wrighting plays.

    Had an over-beers meeting with my producing partner to talk about efforts to produce Slotin here in Seattle, as well as a series of original short horror plays by different local playwrights. The meeting was necessary, and ultimately productive, but we were both at the end of wearying days, and grumpy, and had a hard time seeing each other’s point of views on things. These quasi-artistic/administrative relationships are like celibate romances: hard to maintain the passion over the long haul. We need to garner some actual success out there in theatre world to finally consummate things and cement the liaison.

    Impatience is a bad luck force-multiplier. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my near twenty years as a playwright, it’s this. You get impatient: you get dull, reckless, sloppy. You start striking matches just to see things burn, when it’s light you want not fire and smoke. Then you find yourself walking through the smoking charred ruins of a great idea, thinking: “Why didn’t I just wait till the dawn?”

    Waiting for a baby is like that . . . and isn’t: since there’s nothing you can do to force it . . . until there is.

    It would be great if the baby could come this weekend. Heather’s mom could come over from Spokane and watch Declan, thus taking the child care worries out of the equation, at least for the short term. But babies have nothing to do with convenience. Babies shatter convenience like so much collected antique glass.

    And so we wait . . .

    Posted at 11:55 AM in Writing | Comments (0)

    Tags: birth of son, birthday, daylog, filibuster, Paul Mullin, writing